Silver Rain Page 7

  “Nan says marathons should be outlawed,” Elsie said. “That it’s indecent to watch people at the marathons. But she won’t tell me why. How about you interview her instead? That would be research.”

  Scoop smacked his notebook against the wall. “Don’t you get it? If they don’t want us to see a bunch of people dancing, there must be a story. We can’t find out about it by asking your grandmother, you dummy. What does she know! You’ll never make a newspaperman. That’s your funeral. But I’ve got a nose for news, and I’ll be back.”

  He swaggered away from her, his coat flapping. “You coming or what? I’m going to find that dime one way or another, chicken!” he yelled as he marched off.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It didn’t take long for Elsie to catch up with Scoop. But she was so mad at him for calling her a chicken—she who had rescued Dog Bob from the hoboes!—that she ran ahead.

  “Slow down, will ya?” he called. “I’ve been ill, ya know.”

  Elsie leaned against a storefront where Out of Business was scrawled across the window in whitewash. When Scoop finally caught up, beads of sweat sparkled across his forehead. He’d better not faint here, Elsie thought. She’d have to go halfway across town to fetch his mother. “You okay?” Maybe she’d have to find an ambulance!

  He panted for a moment. “Just considering my options. Figuring out what to do.” He panted some more, his hand on his chest. “I’m starving. Where’s your dime?”

  “Why?”

  “We could get a plate of beans at Melvin’s. Maybe he’ll give us credit, and we can get two plates.”

  Elsie’s stomach suddenly felt as hollow as a drum. “Maybe beans and a glass of milk.”

  Scoop was studying his jacket sleeve. “Reckon Gladdy or Belle will fix this for me before Mother sees it?”

  Elsie fingered the ragged tear in the worn corduroy. “Sew it yourself. Nan’ll give you needle and thread.”

  “Newspapermen don’t sew! The only men who sew are sailors.” Scoop grinned. “I’ll race you for those beans. Come on.”

  Even though Elsie gave him a head start, she easily overtook him at the corner. By the time she reached Melvin’s, Scoop was half a block behind, dragging his feet. He’d wear his boots right down to his socks, if he wasn’t careful.

  While she waited, Elsie peered through the café window. It was so smudgy with steam, all she could see were lumpy shapes moving around. When she put her hand on the knob, it was suddenly pulled out of her grasp, and she landed on the sidewalk. The second time today she’d ended up on her backside!

  Melvin stood looking down at her. He was as big as a barrel. His grubby white apron was tied around his thick middle, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his thick red hands. The stained white hat on his craggy head was so crooked, Elsie wondered how he kept it on.

  She pulled her own hat down tight. As she got up, Melvin pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit a match with one hand—a trick Elsie had seen Uncle Dannell do. He took a drag, then blew smoke rings in the air. “You got business here, missy?”

  Elsie brushed herself down. “I’m waiting for my friend. We have a dime for beans.” The rattle of crockery and a rumble of voices and the smell of coffee and hot grease drifted through the doorway. The bell over the door jangled as Melvin closed it on the noise and delicious smells. “Don’t they feed you at home, you need to be wasting your money on my beans?”

  “We can spend it if we want to.” Elsie rooted in her dungarees. Then in her shirt pocket.

  “Beans is fifteen cents. Look, missy. I’ve seen you with Dannell. He’s a buddy of mine. You’re welcome to dine at Melvin’s, but you come with your family, hear?” He dropped his cigarette butt and rubbed it out with his boot. Then he bent down, picked up the stub and popped it behind his ear like Uncle Dannell would have done. “This your friend?”

  Scoop had caught up at last. He was leaning against the lamppost, a wheezy sound coming from his chest.

  “The man says we have to come with our parents,” Elsie told him.

  Scoop’s face was streaky red, and his eyes were glittery bright.

  “What’s the matter with the boy?” asked Melvin.

  “He’s been sick. But he’s better now. Aren’t you?”

  Scoop nodded hard without speaking.

  “Well. My kitchen won’t run itself,” said Melvin. He put his hand on the door. “You go on home. Come back with your mother and father.”

  “Mother’s in New Westminster,” said Elsie, “and Father’s disappeared.”

  “What’s this ‘disappeared’? Like some carnival trick? Poof! Just like that?” Melvin bent down and looked at Elsie’s face closely. “You don’t mean like that, do you?” His breath smelled of cigarettes and sausages.

  Scoop had rested his bum against the window frame and was bent over, his fists on his knees. He’d got his breath back, but his voice sounded shaky. “Her mother went to New Westminster. To help an old friend on her deathbed. We thought maybe her father was at the shantytown with Reverend Hampton’s hoboes. She went there—all by herself, without me—and they stole her dog, but she got him back. But her father’s not there.”

  “Well, there’s a to-do,” said Melvin, scratching an itch under his hat.

  “We had dandelion and potato stew last night,” Elsie told him. “I had to go to Bryant Park and pick dandelions for our supper. I love beans. We don’t have them at home.”

  “Dandelions. Things have come to that, have they?” Suddenly Melvin grinned. “Well. Lookee who’s here.”

  The Reverend Hampton was reading his Bible as he came down the street. The same way Scoop studied his notebook until he tripped over a baby’s buggy or bumped into a newspaper vendor.

  She was just about to ask him whether he still had the picture of her father in his book when Scoop grabbed Elsie’s arm and tried to drag her away. But she wasn’t fast enough. The Reverend had seen them and was smiling as he walked toward the café.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Why, Elsie. This is a surprise,” said Reverend Hampton.

  “Hello, Reverend. We were just heading home.”

  “What about your beans, then?” asked Melvin. He had tucked his hands through the strings of the apron that ran around his middle. “These two stopped by for a bite,” he told Nan’s friend. “They have a dime to contribute, they tell me.”

  “I thought I’d look in for a cup of coffee. To warm myself up.” The Reverend rubbed his hands together. “Would you children care to join me?”

  Elsie couldn’t think of the last time she’d been allowed coffee. Nan drank chicory these days and said there wasn’t enough to go around. “We can pay. I have a dime,” she told him. “We had planned to use it to get into the da…” When Scoop grabbed at her, Elsie just managed to stop herself. “We thought we had enough for beans,” she said quickly.

  Scoop swiped at a bead of sweat trickling down beside his ear. When he bent down to put his hands on his knees again, he nearly fell over. The Reverend caught him by the elbow. “I think this is the best place for us for the time being. It’s Ernest, isn’t it?”

  Scoop didn’t answer as the Reverend guided him into the steamy restaurant, with Elsie following. “Sweet tea. I think. And beans,” he called to Melvin, who headed for the counter. “With toast for two. And one coffee.”

  A lady with a hat like a saggy flowerpot moved her shopping bag so the Reverend could lead Scoop and Elsie past. They found an empty table at the back, beside a young couple who were leaning so close that it looked like they might bump heads at any minute. Elsie watched them, hoping they’d kiss. But they just whispered so quietly, she couldn’t hear.

  Scoop was slumped back against his chair as if he was asleep. “Do you think he’s all right?” Elsie asked Reverend Hampton.

  The Reverend took his Bible from his pocket and set it on the table. Just as he leaned forward to look closely at her friend, Scoop’s eyes popped open. “I’ve been ill. But I�
��m okay. Really.” He glared at Elsie. “Don’t tell my mother.”

  “What would I tell her?” she asked.

  “Women worry. You know how it is.” Was that really a wink he gave the Reverend?

  Sometimes Scoop did the daftest things!

  Melvin arrived with two plates piled high with beans in tomato sauce. Triangles of toast were propped up like wings at the sides, reminding Elsie of the fairy cake Mother had made her so long ago. “Did you know my mother’s gone away?” she asked the Reverend. She took off her hat and set it on her knees.

  The Reverend pushed a plate toward Scoop and moved the other in front of Elsie. “Your grandmother informed me. And your uncle is away working in the cranberry fields, I understand.”

  Scoop shoveled beans into his mouth as if he were afraid that someone might steal the plate from him. Elsie was hungry too. But she tried to eat slowly, alternating bites between mouthfuls of tea, which was very strong and very sweet. She swallowed and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Will you tell us about the dance marathons?” she asked the Reverend. “What’s wrong with them?”

  Scoop gave her a nasty look and swallowed hard, as if he was about to say something. But instead he took another bite of toast.

  “It’s for research,” she added quickly.

  “Dancing should be for celebrating. Not as a means of exploitation.” Reverend Hampton put down his cup and gave his tea another stir. “These are hard times. So, of course, desperate measures are sometimes called for. But these events are aberrations. Why are you so interested in them?”

  “What’s aberrations? And exploitation?” asked Scoop. He squished the last bean with his fork and popped it in his mouth. He wiped his toast around the plate to get the last streaks of sauce.

  When he looked across the table at Elsie’s plate, she pushed it toward him. “Go on. I’ve had enough.” She turned to the Reverend. “We want to know about them. What happens? Who signs up?” she said. “How can they dance for a month? That’s what the sign says. Thirty days. Nan says…she says that you said that they’re bad. But why? That’s what we want to know.”

  Scoop had already finished Elsie’s beans. “Have you been there?” he asked. “I mean inside, where they are dancing?”

  The Reverend hauled his handkerchief from inside his coat. It unfurled like a limp gray flag. He swiped it across his face and patted his neck. “I have been to one. In Winnipeg, when they first became the fashion. I tended a few poor souls there.” He frowned and shook his head. “People dance for the chance to win money. There’s no pleasure in it. Just desperation.”

  Melvin took their cups and plates away and soon returned with their cups refilled and steaming. The Reverend continued to talk in a low, even voice, his gaze moving from Elsie to Scoop and back again. “These dance marathons take advantage of the weak and allow the strong to exploit them. Poor people dance long past endurance for money. That is all there is to it. And people who are just as poor use their few coins to watch them. Those who do endure, who win? They are often left empty-handed. Cheated. They lose their strength and their dignity, and they end up poorer than when they started. That, children, is an aberration.”

  “But the poster says the winner gets a thousand dollars,” said Elsie. “That’s more than a car costs!” She watched Melvin polishing cutlery with his dirty apron and wondered how clean the cutlery could get. A big tea urn hissed behind the counter. A man in the corner was asleep with his face in his newspaper. Now and again the bell over the door rang as people came in or out.

  “That is the lure,” the Reverend Hampton said. “Greed and despair. That’s what draws people to these events. A fatal combination of human frailties.” He sat back, looking from Scoop to Elsie. “Would you like to go and see what I’m speaking of?” He spoke quietly, as if to himself. “Perhaps it is better to know, than to be in ignorance of the world.”

  “You’ll take us to the dance marathon?” asked Elsie in surprise.

  “First I must persuade your grandmother of the educational nature of the initiative. Let’s get this boy home first, and I can speak with his parents too.” Scoop was snoring, tipped in his seat as if he might fall off any minute. Reverend Hampton stood up, pushed his chair back and then picked up her friend in his arms.

  “He only has his mother,” Elsie told him. “Scoop’s the man of the house now.”

  The Reverend sighed. “So many children without fathers.” His gaze rested on Elsie. “Come. Let’s get him home. You will need to lead the way.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “And about time too,” Nan said when Elsie came in the door. Her face was red and shiny as she stood up from the tub where she’d been bleaching sheets.

  “The Reverend took us for beans at Melvin’s.”

  “Spoiling your supper, no doubt.” Nan stirred the ropy mess of laundry with her wooden tongs. “Now you’re here, be of some use.” She groaned as she eased her back straight and handed the tongs to Elsie. “So where is the Reverend now?”

  “Taking Scoop home. He’s still sick and needs to be in bed. The Reverend stopped to visit with Mrs. Styles. He’ll be here shortly.”

  “Good. I could do with a visit myself. Today of all days.”

  “Why today?”

  “It’s no never mind to you, miss. Give that lot a good stir. Then help me truck that water out to the yard and fill the tub again. Has it stopped raining?”

  Elsie nodded.

  “Let’s get this lot sorted out, then,” said Nan. “Bring that with you.” As she pointed to a bucket hanging on the wall next to a tangle of sock frames and coat hangers, an envelope dropped from her sleeve.

  Elsie reached for it, but Nan got to it first. “Is that from Mother?” asked Elsie. The bucket clanked against the tub as she set it down. “Can I read it? When is she coming home? Has her friend died yet?”

  “Who said she was going to die?” Nan tucked the envelope into her apron pocket and bent down to haul up a hank of wet laundry. “Don’t you be getting aerated. It’s not from your mother.”

  “Is it from Father, then?”

  “Whoever it’s from, it’s none of your business. Mine neither. It’s not addressed to me.”

  “It must be from one of them. Uncle Dannell wouldn’t write. No one else ever sends us letters. I’ve been waiting so long. I need to know when Mother’s coming home. I’m sick of being patient.” Elsie jabbed the laundry tongs at the scummy mess in the tub, and a tear dripped down her cheek. As she stuck out her tongue to catch it, it fell with a tiny splash into the water. “I hate all these secrets!”

  “Let’s have no waterworks,” said Nan. “And hate’s a strong word.” She dragged a sheet from the tub, twisted it into a hank and squeezed it tight. Murky water streamed back down into the tub. “It’s nothing to do with secrets,” she said. “There’s grown-up business. And business children need to know about. And right now there’s no time for either of them.” She picked up the heavy bucket. “Get that door so I can hang this lot outside.”

  As she and Nan fed the wet sheets through the wringer, Elsie kept peeking at Nan’s damp apron and the envelope outlined against her hip. She kept her eye on it as they wrestled the laundry over the line. But she didn’t mention it again. The more you nagged Nan, the more she held out. Elsie decided to wait until her grandmother took off her apron and went into the bedroom to make herself tidy for the Reverend’s visit.

  It took a lot of trips to get the wash hung up and the tub emptied. Elsie helped move the kitchen table and chairs back where they belonged. At last Nan shoved her arm up against her face to push her damp hair back. “I’d better make myself decent for the Reverend. You put the kettle on. And peel those spuds. There’s a piece of gammon we’ll fry up that will do for the three of us.”

  She should never have let Scoop have her leftover beans and toast, thought Elsie. She was already hungry again. Or still hungry. Sometimes she couldn’t tell which. If the Reverend stayed for supper, there would be l
ess gammon for her. Her mouth watered just thinking about its lovely salty taste.

  She watched Nan pull the apron over her head and fold it across the back of the chair. She waited as Nan reached into the cupboard and pulled out a handful of potatoes and dumped them on the table. She jigged her foot as her grandmother rooted in the drawer and took out the little knife with the bone handle. “And get those eyes out too,” she told Elsie. “Last time the spuds were looking at us cross-eyed all through supper.”

  At last Nan turned toward the bedroom. But then, with one hand on the curtain, she turned quickly, reached toward the chair and took the letter out of her apron pocket. Then she disappeared into the room beyond.

  Elsie slumped into a chair. She put her feet on Dog Bob, who was dozing under the table. But even with his familiar warmth against her socks, she was still miserable with all the secrets hanging over her head like soggy laundry.

  “You’re all flushed,” said her grandmother as she came back into the room. She rubbed her balled-up handkerchief against Elsie’s cheek. “You better not be coming down with something again. Beans on your face and no potatoes peeled?” She filled the dipper with water from the tub by the door, poured water into the kettle and put it on the stove. “Get a move on, miss. You sure the Reverend planned to drop by?”

  Elsie nodded and dug the knife into the potato, purposely peeling away more spud than skin. She dropped what was left of it into the pan with a splash. As she attacked another, she tried to sort out where Nan might have put that letter.

  On the dresser against the wall in the old cigar box, with Nan’s old photos? Most were formal studio pictures with unsmiling people standing next to tall palm trees or in front of murals of mountains. One showed her mother as a baby sitting on Nan’s lap, with two serious-faced ladies standing behind. One wore a big hat so fancy it looked like a wedding cake.