The Spoon Asylum

by Caroline Misner

  “Calm down.” Ted’s voice hardened, offering no consolation. “I didn’t allow anything of the sort. The boys did it of their own accord.”

  “You were warned!”

  “I can’t believe anything that vagrant has to say,” Ted replied. “Besides, one of your girls told them that you have a Jewess and two coloureds over at your camp. So they thought it would be funny if they gave them a little scare.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this!” Eleanor covered both her ears as though trying to smother a deafening boom. The headache had moved upward from her temples and throbbed. “This caused more than just a little scare. My poor cook is half mad with fear and I have thirty girls afraid to leave their cabins. What am I going to do?” “You should have known better in the first place.”

  Eleanor stared at him as though he was a malevolent stranger. This was not the man she had known all her life, the neighbour, the friend, the confidant who had convinced her to establish a sister camp for Camp Hiawatha. Ted had even loaned her the money to buy the land. She had repaid every cent, with interest. She had become a success in her own right, despite the doubts from her own mother and the stares and surreptitious whispers from the ladies at church who regarded her with a mixture of pity and distaste when her husband’s infidelity and eventual abandonment became common knowledge.

  “Oh, come on, Eleanor,” Ted said when he saw her stunned expression. “What were you thinking letting those kinds of people in? For Chrissakes, not even my stable boy is coloured. He may be a bum, but at least he’s white.”

  The slap that struck his unshaven cheek sent him reeling back in his chair. Eleanor leapt across the desk so suddenly, she upturned her chair. It clattered to the floor behind her. Dazed, Ted stared up at her, rubbing his jaw and resisting the urge to strike her back. Eleanor’s dirty braids swung like ragged nooses as she leaned across the desk, her eyes blue flashes.

  “How dare you!” she bellowed into his face.

  Ted offered a bemused smirk.

  “Now, Eleanor, don’t get upset . . . ”

  “I have every reason to be upset!” Eleanor retorted. “Those people I have at my camp are a decent, kind,

  hardworking lot — a damn sight better than these . . . these hooligans you call gentlemen!”

  Eleanor pivoted on her heels and stomped across the floor. She had always been a pacer. Whenever she needed to clear her mind, whenever she needed comfort, whenever she needed to sort through a dilemma, she paced the room. Back and forth, back and forth. It gave her a sense of control and freedom. It was a wonder she had never worn the carpet through to the floor of her mother’s house.

  “What am I going to do?” she muttered. “The parents will never allow their children to return to my camp once they receive word of this. What am I going to tell them? How will I ever explain?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” Eleanor cackled. “Word will get out sooner or later. It always does.”

  Ted heaved himself from the chair. He was as tall as Eleanor. He stepped before her to stop her pacing. She brushed past him and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To town.” Eleanor pulled at the doorknob. “I’m going to inform Constable Seaver exactly what happened last night. I will not allow this to go unpunished. I want those boys arrested.”

  Ted rammed his fist against the door, slamming it shut. He forced his way between Eleanor and the door, puffing out his barrel chest until it bulged against her and he used it to force her back. Eleanor swung her fist at him and he caught her wrist.

  “Let me go!”

  Ted was incredibly strong. He wrung her wrist so hard Eleanor thought the two bones in her arm would twist together into a knot. Pain squeezed up her arm until her knees buckled beneath her. She slapped his chest with her free hand, but the blows were too weak to make Ted do anything but chuckle. He swung her round until her back was pressed against a wall. A beaded wall hanging snapped over her head and brown and turquoise beads dropped like hailstones around her.

  “Go ahead,” Ted snarled. “I’ll deny everything and so will my boys. You have no proof. And no one’s going to believe a bum.”

  He leaned closer until their noses almost touched. His breath smelled of tobacco and strong coffee. His grizzled complexion was pocked from a severe case of acne he had endured as a lad. Eleanor remembered it well; she had been the only person at school to offer him any sympathy. Now she regretted it.

  “Don’t threaten me,” she warned.

  “I’m not threatening you,” Ted replied. “I’m just going to tell you what I’m going to do if you dare whisper a word of this to anybody. I’m going to send telegrams to each and every parent of your girls informing them of what happened and warning them never ever to let their precious little angels go to such a dangerous place again.”

  Eleanor fought against his grip, even as he leaned into her as though he was going to plant a kiss on her trembling lips. She clenched her eyes shut and turned her head away. His tongue traced a thin moist line up the side of her neck. Nausea stirred her gut.

  “You’ve ruined me,” she spat.

  “I’m not an ogre, El.” He hadn’t called her that in years.

  “You’re a bastard!”

  A few loose hairs had broken free of her braids. Ted pushed them aside with the tip of his nose. His breath steamed against her neck. Eleanor turned away, refusing to look directly at him. She knew if she did that bitter breath would be hissing into her mouth.

  “That’s a nice piece of land you’ve got there,” Ted continued as though he hadn’t heard. “If Camp Nokomis is closing down, I know someone who is mighty interested in buying it from you at a very fair price.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.” Ted pulled away and smirked down at her, tightening his grip on her arm just in case she tried to break free.

  How dare he, Eleanor kept thinking, and vowed, I will not let him get away with this.

  Haven fell asleep where he sat and didn’t awake until a hand nudged his arm. He jolted and raised his head from the dining room table. His eyelids felt as though they had been sealed together with glue. His back and neck ached from his hunched position; his head throbbed. His jaw crackled when he opened his mouth to yawn, his lips and tongue thick with paste. Thirst torched the back of his throat. He peeled his eyelids apart and squinted against the vivid morning sun that streamed in through the windows. His empty glass lay on its side by his hand.

  “Wake up, Haven!” Madeleine prodded his shoulder.

  The girls of Camp Nokomis stood around him, their expressions sombre. For a brief moment, Haven had forgotten where he was and what had happened. He had slept so deeply it was as though all memories of his life had been wiped clean like chalk from the blackboard where he posted the daily menus. He raised his head. When he saw Mabel standing behind Margaret, panic filled the vacant space in his brain.

  “Are we going to eat?” Mabel demanded. “It’s past nine and no one’s played the reveille or called us to breakfast yet.”

  “What?”Haven found it difficult to speak..

  “Where’s Miss Nokomis?” Madeleine asked.

  The girls stared back at him expectantly. He had never seen them so quiet. He had no idea where Miss Nokomis was.

  “Miss Nokomis gone out to Camp Hiawatha for the morning.” Jude poked his head between the flapping kitchen doors. “She be back soon. We’ll get you some breakfast. Take your seats, ladies.”

  Mabel surveyed the dining room, her nose crinkling with disgust.

  “But the tables haven’t been set,” she complained.

  “Haven will get right to it.” Jude glared at Haven before pulling back into the kitchen.

  “Right,” Haven agreed. Every vertebrae in his back creaked in protest when he heaved himself from the table, lucidity slowly seeping into his consciousness.

  The kitchen was filled with steam and the scent of fresh brewed coffee. Haven filled h
is mug and gulped it down, black and scalding, before pouring himself another. It did little to slake his thirst. Jude stood at the table, ladling porridge into bowls. Bread toasted on the stove; an amber brick of butter sat melting beside it. He worked with his back to Haven, his shoulders rigid, his apron tied too tight around his middle. He didn’t speak as Haven gathered the plates and teacups and loaded the cart with the filled bowls.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Got to get the tea out to the girls,” Jude replied. “They must be getting hungry.”

  Haven wanted to ask Jude if he was in any state of mind to work, but thought better of it; he wouldn’t have given him a straight answer anyway. He pushed the cart into the dining room and began setting the tables as he served the first round of toast and porridge. The girls sat with their hands clasped in their laps, silently eying him. A bleak aura replaced the usual gaiety that accompanied meals.

  “Is this all?” Mabel grumbled as Haven set a platter of buttered toast before her.

  “It’s all we had time for,” Haven explained. He didn’t want to elaborate, since he didn’t know how much the girls had seen the night before. He poured her tea and turned to set another table before he noticed the empty chair beside Margaret.

  “Where’s Charlotte?”

  Mabel and Margaret exchanged guarded looks before she answered.

  “She’s not coming to breakfast. She’s not hungry.”

  “She has to eat something,” Haven replied. He didn’t have much of an appetite either.

  Mabel picked up her toast and nibbled on the corner.

  “Leave her alone,” she said. “Charlotte’s a silly girl anyway. She was babbling something about going home today.”

  “What?”

  “She wants to go home.” Mabel spoke to him as though he was an imbecile. She fluttered her eyelashes up at him. “Now be a sweetie and go get me some jam.”

  “Does Miss Nokomis know about this?” Haven slammed the last dish on the table, spilling crumbs on the tablecloth.

  “I don’t know.” Mabel shrugged. “Now where is my jam?”

  “Did anyone else talk to her?”

  “She said she wanted to be left alone.” Mabel grinned at Margaret who slowly stirred milk into her tea as though it took all her concentration.

  Haven ran toward the door, tugging at his apron strings.

  “Where are you going?” Mabel called. “I need jam.”

  Haven twirled around to face her. Whatever guarded conversation rippled through the room abruptly ceased. All eyes fell upon him. He longed to tell Mabel exactly what she could do with her jam.

  “Out.”

  The remains of the cross lay scattered across the clearing like the broken bones of a dead body. Jude had done such a thorough job of hacking it to bits it was impossible to tell what it had once been. Enraged, Haven kicked a chunk of charred wood out of his way. It exploded in a flurry of soot and black splinters. He suddenly understood how Jude could have allowed his fury to overtake his senses. There were times when it just felt so good to set the starving tiger free.

  Mabel rushed out of the lodge, calling after him.

  “Haven! Get back in here! We want jam!”

  Her voice was a high-pitched screech, probably the same voice she used on her servants back home when she ordered them around. He ignored her and headed toward Charlotte’s cabin.

  “Haven, I’m talking to you!” Mabel continued. “Don’t you dare take another step. Get back here this instant!”

  Haven stopped short as though a glass partition had suddenly sprung up from the ground and blocked his passage. He turned to face her. Mabel’s round cheeks were flushed and she regarded him like a he was an insolent dog.

  “That’s better.” She pointed to the ground at her feet. “Now get over here right now.”

  Haven stepped toward her, his heart a drumbeat in his ears. He remembered the night of the totem ceremony, how the firelight danced in time to his tom-tom and how he thought Mabel was the most exquisite girl he had ever seen. It seemed like a thousand years had passed since then, though it had been just a little over two months.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “What was me?”

  “You’re the one who told the guys at the dance about Jude and Wetherby . . . and Charlotte.”

  The world seemed to crystallize around him. He felt like a man awaking from a vivid dream; all he held true had turned out to be a delusion.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mabel threw her hands up, huffing and rolling he eyes.

  “Yes you do,” Haven said. “You know exactly what you’ve done.”

  He never realized how simple it was to shift from love to loathing so quickly. He always believed love could only die a slow agonizing death, gasping and fighting for life until all its strength was depleted; loathing, he had thought, was born over time after a drawn out exhausting labour, like the animosity he felt toward his father. He headed toward the cabin.

  “Stop right now, Haven!”

  He continued without looking back at her, her sharp voice chiming in his ears.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m speaking to you!” she bellowed. “No boy has ever walked away from me!”

  Haven swivelled on his heels and faced her. A smirk of satisfaction crinkled her lips as he approached.

  “Maybe that’s why I’m walking away,” he said evenly into her face. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”

  He didn’t wait to see her reaction. He turned and headed down the path to the cabin.

  Haven entered the cabin without knocking. Charlotte didn’t acknowledge him. She was too busy bustling back and forth between the closet and her bunk, stuffing clothes into a suitcase that yawned opened on her bed. Lingerie straps whipped about her hands; dresses and blouses and mismatched socks spilled from the valise and she shoved them back in. Haven leaned against the doorframe and watched, relieved he hadn’t found her doubled over in tears, cringing under the covers like a frightened mouse. He wouldn’t have known how to approach her. She only offered a cursory glance in his direction as she headed back toward the closet and scooped a mound of dresses off the hangers.

  “What are you doing?” Haven asked.

  “I’m leaving.” Charlotte dumped the dresses into the suitcase and pushed them down with her palm so she could close the lid over them.

  “Now?”

  “Now!”

  She reached under her bed and pulled out her clarinet case.

  “I need a ride into town,” she said and tossed the case on the bed.

  “What for?”

  “So I can get on a train out of this goddamn crazy place and go back home!”

  The force of her voice sent Haven reeling back in shock. He had never seen Charlotte’s wrath before. It was so unlike her to lose her temper. Her eyes were wide and wild behind the smudged lenses of her glasses. Chips of fury broiled beneath them. She trembled, though the cabin was stifling, even with the window opened.

  “I can’t even if I wanted to,” Haven explained. “Miss Nokomis took the bus to Camp Hiawatha this morning.”

  “Then I’ll walk.”

  Charlotte hoisted the suitcase from the bed. It was so heavy it crashed to the floor and popped open, spewing wrinkled clothes in all directions. Charlotte sank to her knees, tears springing from her eyes, and gathered her clothes into a pile. Haven kneeled beside her but made no move to help.

  “You’re going to walk all the way to Davisville lugging this thing behind you?”

  “If I have to, I will.”

  Fat tears trickled from her eyes. Charlotte pulled her glasses from her face and pinched them back with the tips of her fingers. She didn’t want Haven to see her cry.

  “Why do you want to leave?” Haven asked gently. He took her hand, cold and moist and fragile as a bird’s wing, and eased her back to her feet.

  “Nobody wants me here.” Charlotte sniffed. When she looke
d up at Haven, all remnants of fury seemed to have dissolved in her tears. It seemed as though tears could melt anything. Even him.

  “I want you here,” he said and meant it with every inch of his heart. He couldn’t imagine his world without her in it.

  “That’s sweet.” She gulped and swept her cheekbone with the back of her hand. “But there’s nothing for me here.”

  “There’s me.”

  “Thank you, Haven.”

  She leaned into him and he folded her in his arms. She felt so fragile, like her bones were made of glass, and he would shatter them if he squeezed too hard. He skimmed his fingers up and down her narrow back, feeling each small bump along her spine. She shuddered under his hand and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face into the curve of his collarbone. Haven glanced down to see if she had stopped crying. She lifted her face and pressed her lips into his.

  The kiss at first was gentle and hesitant. The world blacked out around Haven. There was no cabin, no Camp Nokomis, no remnants of a burnt cross on the ground. There was nothing but sweet blankness and the pressure of Charlotte’s lips against his, cresting higher and higher until he had to pull away to catch his breath. He kissed every crevice of her face, moving his lips down the slope of her cheek, along the rim of her ear; the curve of her neck studded with gooseflesh. He kissed her eyes, where tears still leaked between the bristles of her lashes. He tasted them, revelling in the salty sweetness that was uniquely hers.

  Her blouse was already opened by the time they collapsed on the bed. Her wrinkled bra covered her breasts like loose skin. He pushed it aside and kissed his way down to her belly, following the arc of her breastbone. He slithered out of his pants. Charlotte raked her fingertips through his dusty hair, murmuring his name over and over. He didn’t hear it. Music filled his mind; he heard jazz like he had never heard it before. Trumpets, clarinets, trombones, pianos, guitars all tumbled through his head, strung together by the soft warble of a harmonica and the chatter of spoons. The music was a compilation of all the jazz he had ever heard on phonographs, blending together as seamlessly as his body blended with Charlotte’s. There was softness everywhere: in Charlotte’s hair, in her skin, in the sigh of her breath, in the music that echoed in his head. He could bury himself in that softness forever. This must be jazz, he thought as she kicked her panties aside and curled her legs around his back, her skirt hiked up to her waist. He released a hushed moan as he entered her; Charlotte arched her back and bucked against him. The music boomed through his head. He finally understood. This was jazz. This was love.