Crestmont

by Holly Weiss

  ****

  “‘…refuse to tax citizens who would not use the bridge in order to pay for those who would motor across to Philadelphia,’ said Camden’s mayor in a statement yesterday. ‘So until Philadelphia agrees to turn the new Delaware River Bridge into a toll bridge, neither Pennsylvania nor New Jersey will be able to use the largest suspension bridge in the world.’” Mrs. Cunningham’s cloudy eyes brightened with interest as Gracie read aloud.

  “I wonder how long they are going to continue this nonsense.” She clicked her tongue twice in reproach. “That beautiful new bridge has stood there unused for six months.” Mrs. Cunningham sipped Postum from the cup she had balanced perfectly on her lap for twenty minutes.

  “Six months?” Gracie asked, refolding the Sullivan County Review.

  “Don’t you read the newspapers?”

  “Well, I guess only on Thursday when I read to you, but I read a news magazine every week.”

  “Grace, it is important to be informed about what is going on in state and local news. A weekly news magazine limits you to national and international concerns. There, dear. I am done.” When Gracie brought the tea tray to her, Mrs. Cunningham felt for an empty space with her left hand and placed her cup gently down at exactly the right spot.

  “Now let’s finish canning the applesauce so you can leave early.”

  ****

  Gracie turned on her heel off Mary Avenue on her way back to the Woodshed, pressing the package close to her chest to shield her from the wind and also to hold the letter tight against her. She wanted to run, but Mrs. Cunningham had tucked a pint jar of applesauce in each of the pockets of the coat Mrs. Woods had loaned her, and she didn’t want them to break.

  The applesauce was going to be the surprise star of tomorrow night’s dinner, so she stashed it in her closet. She set the letter on the dresser and the Sears package on the bed, trying to decide which to open first. Before she could make up her mind, Peg called everyone to dinner.

  “So you got a package today, Gracie.” Eleanor said, passing the rice. “We want to see it.”

  “Just a minute, young lady. We are not done,” said her father sternly. “What did I say about bicycling on the driveway?”

  “I have to pull over to the side if I see or hear a car coming.”

  “In either…”

  “In either direction, Papa. Cars, horses or bicycles. I promise. Gracie, what’s in your package?”

  “Eleanor, Gracie’s mail is her private business,” her mother chastised.

  Gracie smiled happily at all of them. “Actually, I’d love to show you if you have time.”

  “I made Isaiah’s butterscotch pudding. Can’t we eat that first?” Peg pushed her chair back abruptly.

  Eleanor popped out of her chair whistling Isaiah’s pudding song while she stacked empty dinner plates and brought the dessert from the icebox.

  “Dessert is delicious, Peg,” Gracie gushed amidst appreciative murmurs from the family.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mama, please let me do the dishes after Gracie shows us.” Her mother nodded. Eleanor giggled as she dove with anticipation into the caned rocker in front of the fire to wait.

  Running into her room, Gracie tore off her skirt and blouse and ripped open the package. She spread the long sleeved maroon wool dress with the velvet Peter Pan collar on her bed. After smoothing out some wrinkles, she tried on the dress and strode proudly out into the living room.

  “Ooh… all those buttons.” Eleanor squealed, running one finger down the front from collar to hem.

  “Black velvet to match the collar. That’s not all.” Gracie turned around to show them the back of the dress. See the pleat?” She playfully kicked one leg back. “I’m going to call it my maroon slash.”

  Mrs. Woods gave her an impulsive hug. “It does my heart good to see you take delight in something, Gracie.”

  Peg rolled her eyes and pulled her sister into the kitchen to help clean up.

  Gracie excused herself to her room. How kind it was of her borrowed family to want to see her new dress.

  Lily’s letter called to her from the dresser. She sat on the bed, exhaled loudly, and opened it. Lily said she was happy in her new life with George. She was going to have a baby in April. There were some details about how she had decorated their home. She didn’t understand why Gracie had left home, but now that she had, Lily hoped they could at least write. Gracie turned the short letter over twice, astounded at its brevity. There was no mention of her parents asking for her, and Lily hadn’t inquired about Gracie’s life.

  With mixed emotions, she put the letter aside, intending to answer soon. At least the twinge she felt in her chest when George’s face trespassed through her brain was gone, but it hurt that her real family didn’t seem to care much about her.

  ****

  After the Woods left to play bridge on Friday night, Gracie felt very depressed, even though her fried pork chops and Mrs. Cunningham’s applesauce were an obvious hit at the dinner table. She moped in her room, listlessly checking in the mirror to see how much her blonde hair had grown. She ought to have kept up the smart bob she had treated herself to when she first came to the Crestmont. She promised herself to find out more information about Zelda, the hairdresser.

  To console herself, she pulled her red suitcase out from under the bed. She removed her yellow jewelry box and placed it next to her. Her friend, the old paper bag of poems, tempted her. She opened the old bag and drew out the first poem her fingers touched. The end of the poem read:

  “I would hold your heart in my hands,

  But I am not strong enough.

  But in your hands, my Love,

  My heart is secure.”

  She ached for someone to trust her that much. She wondered fleetingly if PT ever thought about her, and then pitched the thought away. Grabbing her book and the Cashmere Bouquet soap she had treated herself to, she went into the bathroom.

  Gracie enjoyed a luxurious bath on Friday night because only she and the girls were at home. Opening the Cashmere Bouquet, she drank in the flowery fragrance from the pink bar. Once she was in the bathtub, she relaxed in the hot water and the scent of her new soap made her feel womanly. It was a contrast to the stark smell of the Ivory soap her family always used.

  Relieved that she and Mrs. Woods had worked out their differences, she hoped all of the craziness about the secret hideout was gone. It seemed that the Woods had their troubles too, but unlike her family, they talked them out.

  She fell asleep, feeling a bit happier. At four in the morning, however, she awoke from an odd dream about PT. He was curled over the piano as usual, but he was playing some kind of classical music, not his usual jazz. She stood silently behind him and when he finished she asked him what he had played. Wordlessly, he turned toward her, his brown eyes tormented. His mouth was wired shut.

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  September 1925

  Dim street lights cast spidery fingers of purple, blue and yellow in the oil spills on the rain-soaked street leading away from the river. The snap of windshield wipers on the cars was occasionally interrupted by orders barked in hushed voices from the approaching boats. Three men, huddled under umbrellas, leaned against the dripping black cars that were backed up close to the dock. The taller man, Morton, clicked his flashlight on and off, signaling the boats in.

  Morton shoved a scrawny, agitated man who kept wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Wait in the car. Yer makin’ me nervous. Besides, Pete and me got business to discuss. And shut that door nice and quiet like.”

  “I hope they squabble about this toll thing a long time,” muttered Morton to his partner. “Imagine building a newfangled suspension bridge over the Delaware River and not usin’ it for months. Perfect for us, huh? While they dicker on how to pay for it, we paddle our boats over from Camden. No one knows; no one cares.”

  Pete pushed his cap back and listened to the oars slapping the water. “Yeah, we sure are makin�
� good dough while it lasts.”

  Morton flicked a toothpick around in his mouth and changed the subject. “We made the right call quittin’ the beer trade, Pete. More buzz per ounce in the hard stuff means we don’t transport as much to make a buck. What’s yer handle on the skinny guy with the two letters instead of a real name? I thought he loaded okay last year, just not sure I trust him yet.”

  “Name’s PT. He’ll do. Didn’t want to unload tonight, though,” Pete said. “Said he’d be better in the spotter car. I said okay, thinkin’ you’d agree.” He grabbed Morton’s flashlight. “How ‘bout you check on him and I’ll signal these guys in.”

  PT’s intestines swam uneasily when he saw Morton approach. He wound the window down and Morton stuck his head in out of the rain.

  “You’re kiddin’, right? Settled so nice and dry in this spotter car. Pete tells me even after we gave you the summer off yer too chicken-ass high and mighty to unload. We got sixty-eight bucks worth in these boats and yer goin’ to unwrap those arms off that steerin’ wheel and move hooch into cars or yer not gettin’ a dime. Chew that one over awhile.”

  “I can do more for you as a spotter. Right here, ready to lead the cars out quick as they get loaded. Besides, I’m your best bet to give the cops the slip. I know four different ways to get to the warehouse. Walked those streets for weeks trying to find speakeasies to play in.”

  “Yeah,” Morton bit off his cigar tip and spat it onto PT’s lap. “I can see you drivin’ away the minute you see a scout car’s headlights shinin’ in yer eyes, leavin’ the rest of us to get picked up by whatever cops we forgot to pay off. Seems like yer tryin’ to work your way down the ladder, not the other way around, bud.” He closed one eye halfway, considering, held up the cigar, and waited for PT to light it.

  “Won’t let you down,” PT said firmly, flapping out his match.

  Morton drew in a long drag and blew smoke into PT’s face. “Okay, but you cross me and I’ll blackball you in every speakeasy in the Delaware Valley. You won’t be playin’ piano anywhere. Now turn off those damn lights and get in place.”

  “Yes, sir.” He switched off the headlights and carefully backed up until the back bumper was six feet in front of the lead loading car.

  He despised calling a guy like Morton “sir.” Morton didn’t deserve respect anymore than PT’s father had.

  “Don’t you give me any lip, kid,” his drunken father had said once after PT responded “Yup” instead of “Yes, sir.” It took five weeks for PT’s broken rib to heal. He started leaving the house then when his parents fought, and he didn’t grieve a bit when his father’s liver gave out.

  After his father died, his mother let her crude boyfriend move in. PT dropped out of school when he was fifteen, left home for good, and gave his mother a post office box number. He hadn’t heard a word from her since he stopped sending her money ten years ago. After all that time, she finally wrote. Her boyfriend moved out and she needed money. Such gall. But he felt obligated to help her out. Guilt could tug at a guy a long time.

  Although he had been able to support himself working in bowling alleys and an occasional speakeasy gig, now he needed a boost in income. Working with bootleggers Morton and Jack solved the problem. What he hadn’t realized was how it would eat at his conscience. Playing at speakeasies was one thing. Working in the illegal hooch trade was a whole different deal.

  The picture of a pretty eyebrow arching up under blonde curls cut through his history review. He couldn’t believe how innocent she sounded when she sang. Would a girl who went to church every week have any interest in man stuck in the middle of a crime scene? Only a muddleheaded dolt would think such a thing.

  He was jolted back to reality by a tap on the rear windshield from Morton, signaling it was time to head out.

  Woodshed on Crestmont Hill

  Autumn 1925

  I

  “Peg, where is your sister?” asked Margaret.

  “How should I know? I can’t watch her every minute, Mama.”

  “Peg, I know we ask you to look after her during the summer when we are busy, but you know I don’t expect….” She was interrupted by an odd sound coming from outside the front door. Her eyes went to the window and she saw Shadow, pacing back and forth, meowing insistently. Eleanor limped along behind.

  “William, come here!” Margaret reached her wet, shivering daughter first. William scooped Eleanor up in his arms and carried her into the cottage.

  “Gracie, bring a chair,” Margaret ordered as they gingerly sat Eleanor down next to the warm coal stove. “Sweetheart, what happened? Here, let’s get these wet things off.”

  Before Margaret could ask, Gracie handed her a towel and crouched next to Eleanor. Then she ran into the child’s bedroom for her yellow bathrobe as Margaret carefully removed her daughter’s clothes, inspecting for injuries.

  “I’m not hurt, Mama, just w-wet,” she managed, her purplish lips quivering.

  “What happened?” her mother asked, awkwardly wiping her dry with her good arm. “Come on, put this on.”

  Eleanor stretched her arms into her bathrobe. Her mother wrapped an afghan around her shoulders. “I was fishing and I accidentally fell in.”

  “Gracie, heat up some of that lemonade for her. Fishing where?”

  “In the outlet pond.”

  “What?” Both of her parents froze.

  “Miss Eleanor, we have repeatedly told you that you are never to fish alone in the lake,” her father reprimanded.

  “Papa, I wasn’t fishing in the lake; I went to the outlet pond. And I wasn’t alone, either. Shadow was with me the whole time.”

  “Oh, this is preposterous.” William threw his arms up and walked away.

  “Well, something went wrong,” Margaret said gently. “How did you get soaking wet?”

  Eleanor honked loudly into the handkerchief her mother held for her, and said, “I had a really good bite. I mean, I think I had a big one, so I gave a good yank on my pole, but I guess I slipped in the mud and fell in.”

  “Where did you get this fishing pole?” her father demanded.

  “I made it. Zeke taught me and gave me a couple of hooks so I could make my own. I can swim, you know, Papa. I’m not five years old anymore.”

  “William, she did get herself home all right and she doesn’t seem to be hurt. Let’s just concentrate on getting her warm.” Margaret gratefully accepted the hot lemon toddy from Gracie and put the cup to Eleanor’s lips. Peg sat on the floor and started to rub warmth back into her sister’s legs.

  “You really did it this time, you little nincompoop,” she whispered to her sister.

  ****

  “Mama never gets a headache,” Eleanor cried.

  “Well, she has one this morning, so let’s be quiet and let her rest. She doesn’t feel well enough to go to church today. You girls go get dressed.” William, who normally came to breakfast perfectly groomed, sat slouched and unshaven, his hair in disarray.

  Eleanor jumped up from the table. “I’m going to go read to her. She reads to me when I am sick and it always makes me feel better.”

  “Whoa.” Peg pulled Eleanor back by the sleeve of her yellow bathrobe. “Be quiet and let her rest. Mama has what is called a ‘melancholy’ and she needs sleep, not pestering.”

  “What’s a melancholy?” Eleanor asked fearfully.

  “Hush” said William. “Your mother is just tired. Gracie, please clear the table.” He dismissed his daughters to Eleanor’s room.

  William sank into the plaid sofa, deliberating over his plans for the Crestmont addition. How he wished his wife was well. Her illness was both disquieting and ill-timed. He needed to confer with her on some details before the contractor came tomorrow. He repeatedly pulled his handkerchief out of the chest pocket of his bathrobe to wipe his hands. It was a very bad time for these vicissitudes.

  “Here’s some paper and a pencil, Mr. Woods. It seemed like you wanted to write something down.” Gracie, looking s
piffy in her new dress, opened the blinds to let the morning light shine on his work.

  “What? Oh, thank you.” His voice was edgy.

  “Sir, I don’t need to go to church today. I can stay home in case Mrs. Woods needs me while you and the girls go to church.”

  “Nonsense. You told me you have a solo today. Everyone will be disappointed if you don’t sing.”

  She sat firmly in the rocker across from him and leaned forward. “I could telephone Rev. Sturdy and explain. He would make them all understand. Besides, Mrs. Woods is more important to me.”

  ****

  But Mr. Woods said no. He wanted to stay home with his wife. Gracie’s solo went well. Rev. Sturdy praised her after the service and she received countless compliments from her church friends.

  She wandered down to the Edgemere dock, enjoying the smell of wood smoke from a nearby chimney. She folded the afghan into a cushion on the wooden bench and settled in for some precious solitude. A cardinal ordered his missus around and scolded Gracie for sitting near their nest.

  The late morning kissed the tops of the golden oaks on the mountainside. Blurry images swam in the lake, a mirror of the vermillion and orange leaves that glistened from last night’s gentle autumn rain and pocketed themselves amidst the emerald of the tall white pine trees. Gracie had never before seen the beauty of autumn in the mountains.

  The imposing Crestmont Inn sat majestically across the lake on the hill. Unlike the lonely sentinel she had seen ten days ago after she moved into the Woodshed, it now seemed like a silent parent, nurturing the lives of people who passed through its doors. How it had changed her life in the few months she had been there. She said a silent prayer that Mrs. Woods would soon be as carefree and refreshed as if she herself were a guest in the inn.