Mum's the Word

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Ben, I see it all now! I must have stuffed them in with the letter when I dropped my bag in the airplane loo and got in such a panic. When I think of how I blamed that innocent oriental gentleman …”

  My love wasn’t listening. He was standing on his seat. Arms waving wildly, he shouted, “Saved! Saved!” Miraculously the wind had died, the rain stopped and the sun burst in blazing splendour through the clouds. And a car was easing to a stop behind us. The couple inside thought Ben was shouting “Help! Help!” What ambassadors of goodwill. Dr. Bernie Wetchler and his wife Jorie from Peoria. They produced a petrol tin, did the honours and waving aside our thanks, sped on their way.

  “Awfully decent of them to come braking to the rescue. I must say, darling, it quite restores my faith in human nature; from this moment forward I am done with all superstitious folly. What’s the matter, do you have something in your eye?”

  “No, sweetheart.” A grin got the better of him. “I hate to burst your bubble but they pulled over because they had reached a madly exciting part in the book the wife was reading aloud.”

  “Don’t tell me … not Monster Mommy! Ben, that horrible book is following us!”

  He drew me to him. “Hush! A while back it was vultures. You’re exhausted, and I’m a thoughtless devil to put you through such a journey in your condition. Let’s shake the dust of this place off our feet. Not another cross word the entire holiday, I swear!”

  My darling was right. We must focus on the road ahead.

  We were back in the mainstream of life. If Ben gave the car its head he might make his Mangé Meeting on time.

  Mud Creek, population four hundred and thirty-six. Its charm lay in the convenience factor. Getting lost here would be difficult. Main Street was backed by fields and faced the muddy Illinois River. Driving past Nelga’s Fashions, with its One Size Fits All print frock in the window, I reflected that this might be the ideal hideout for the compulsive shopper. We drove past The Scissor Cut Hair Salon, the Lucky Strike Bowling Alley, and a corner cafe with a cardboard menu in the window. Approaching a set of traffic lights strung on sagging wire and now level with Jimmy’s Bar, a corrugated brick building with Old West saloon doors. Would a spurred boot kick them open, sending a couple of bodies somersaulting onto the dusty pavement? Would a gun-twirling, tobacco-chewing Bad Guy saunter into the middle of the street and, with the sun as his backdrop, order us to get the hell back to Dodge?

  “Ben, you never told me why the Mangés chose Mud Creek.”

  “Who would suspect them of holding meetings here?”

  “Clever.”

  Time for me to start worrying about the impression I was about to make. Peering in my compact mirror I saw the sun had done a job on my nose, but I didn’t have time to repine. A series of jolting bumps and Ben swung the car into a curve. Were we here? Was this the place? No, unless the Mangé meeting place was a petrol station with antique pumps. Parking beside the rusted fizzy drink machine, Ben announced he would check his directions and, if necessary, ask assistance.

  “Isn’t the house on Main Street?”

  Ben unfolded the Mangé communique and cupped it with his hands. “Sorry, sweetheart! You realize I would be breaking faith if I let you see even the signature.”

  “Am I to be taken there blindfolded?”

  “The house is Mendenhall, named for the first owner. No harm telling you Josiah Mendenhall was a whisky baron who made his fortune from distilled corn. That’s bourbon,” he added kindly.

  “And I thought the smell of the river was what I was imbibing,” I informed Ben’s back. He had leaped out of the saddle—I mean over the side of the car—and made for the glass door of the garage. Soon he was joined by another head and I could see hands pointing.

  Gosh, I was tired. What heaven an hour’s soak in a hot scented bath! Easing back against my seat, eyes half closed, I studied the warehouse style building across the street. Was it the distillery? Had old Josiah used the river for transportation? Through a gap between the garage and a putty-coloured frame house with sagging veranda, I could see a stretch of water and what might be a lighthouse, rising up from a tiny island.

  Aunt Astrid’s warning—that no good comes of superfluous thought—came back to haunt me. I was shaken out of my revery with sufficient violence to throw me against the dashboard. Fast on the heels of fright came the crystal clear realization that I had been rear-ended.

  That our car had been parked minding its own business and that I had not done the parking did not prevent me from blaming my lack of U. S. driving experience for the accident. A driver was coming around the side of my car. He was a hulk of a man. His seersucker jacket flapped open, his yellowish white locks lifted in the air with the force of his stride. Wildly, I looked toward the glass door for Ben. But the heads had disappeared.

  Nothing to do but assume an assertive smile and remember I was a British subject.

  The man was holding a leaflet. A do-it-yourself summons? “Don’t you go worrying yourself, young lady, not a lick of damage on yours and no more than a scratch on my old jalopy.”

  “That’s nice.” If only Ben would hurry up! There was something about this man I didn’t like: he had failed to comment on my charming English accent. Other than that he was too genial. His smile took up the entire bottom half of his face, revealing higgledy-piggledy teeth of the same yellow as his hair. Mesmerized, I let out a screech when a woman’s face peered over his shoulder. A washed out face with faded auburn hair. She stood two paces behind him, twisting the front of her colourless sweater into a knot.

  “A blessed evening this!” The man lifted his face to the sky, and radiance overtook his features, spoiled, alas, by those teeth.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  The woman risked a smile, then took it back.

  “Try as sinful man may, he cannot destroy all that is good! Is that not so, ma’am?”

  “Very true.”

  “Young lady, I worry that you drive a high-priced car. But I don’t judge you. My hope is you are numbered among those who are mightily concerned about the wickedness that is overtaking the American family.” Lifting a hand to smooth back his hair, he continued to hold it aloft to keep sin at bay.

  “Not really.” I backed away from his smile. “Everyone I have met since coming to this country has been most frightfully kind.”

  “The devil has his sidekicks. Don’t we know that, Laverne?”

  “That’s so, yes it is, Enoch,” the woman said.

  “I really do have to be going,” I stammered.

  His face burrowed through the window as I slid over to the driver’s seat. “Young lady, I must ask the question. Are you saved?”

  Was I morally obliged to tell this Pharisee that I attended service regularly at St. Anselm’s and was working on bringing Jonas back to the fold by insisting he take the altar flowers over himself? “Saved? I felt perfectly safe until you crashed into me.”

  “The workings of Providence.” Enoch bent his head for a moment of silent prayer, before thrusting at me the leaflet he had been clutching. “We pass through this life but once, and in the infinite wisdom of His ways it may be written that we do not meet again. Read and all will be made plain. Young lady, this very evening you go on our regular prayer list. For a donation in that there envelope you can be added to our Blessed Brethren portfolio.”

  When Ben emerged one minute later, the old jalopy was a rumble in the distance and I had voted unanimously not to mention the collision if he did not. I didn’t think I would go to hell for keeping quiet. I looked at the pamphlet, One Hundred and One Deadly Sins, and was aghast to discover that it was the work of the Diethelogians, the very group my mother-in-law had warned about so eloquently in her letter. The Food Haters. Those fanatics who earned extra stars in their halos if they fought the good fight with the archfiends—chefs. Ben must not be allowed to fall prey to the Diethelogians. As eccentrics went, the Mangés might not be so bad.

  “Sweetheart?” Ben loome
d over me much as Enoch had done. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “You didn’t; I squealed to clear my lungs.”

  “Ellie, I was gone so long because I discovered I needed more than directions to the Mangé meeting place.”

  “Really?” Oh, how I did love his teeth, but why didn’t he get back in the car, instead of standing, hands behind his back like the Duke of Edinburgh? Why that haunted look in his eyes, that desperate note in his voice?

  “Ellie, Mendenhall is located on an island in the middle of the river.”

  “Darling, what a kick in … the knee!” A glance at my watch showed twenty minutes past seven. Ten minutes to get to his Mangé Meeting. No wonder he was in a tizz! But surely the Mangés would not refuse to conduct the interviews because he was a trifle late. We must not let panic drag us by the coattails. I offered to drive if he would relay instructions on how to get to the ferry.

  Ben’s face was pale. “There isn’t one.”

  “Can we rent a boat?”

  He opened the car door. “We are wasting precious time! I purchased a boat.”

  “A what?” My mind became a slide show of yachts, motor boats, sail boats, tankers. “You mean you bought a boat sight unseen from the garage attendant?”

  “He was a decent chap, though not at all forthcoming about who owns Mendenhall—the Mangés are apparently borrowing it for the weekend and he had some foolish misgivings about the organization.”

  “Where is this boat docked?”

  “Right here.” Bringing his hands out into the open, he held out an orange package, not much bigger than a plastic raincoat in a zipper bag, along with a pair of over-sized wooden salad stirrers. “Just what you always wanted, Ellie! An inflatable rowing boat.”

  “Didn’t it come in other colours?” I asked.

  Time being of the essence, Ben began blowing up the Nell Gwynn as I drove toward the dock. Thank God for a convertible. The boat grew with frightening speed to unwieldy orange proportions. Ben could control it only by kneeling on his seat, face to the rear. Even so, the thing was like a whale, whapping back and forth. As I swerved close to a shack on the mud track leading to the river, it almost got away. I could picture it soaring out over the water, then with a mighty hiccup plummeting like a gunned-down bird into the briny depths.

  “Will it hold our luggage?” Parking under a scroungy weeping willow, I made a futile grab at the nether end of Nellie.

  Cheeks blown out like baseballs, Ben nodded. Moments later we carried our skiff over a scuffle of pebbles to a stretch of mud the consistency of underdone toffee and reached the river’s edge.

  “Here, let me—before you blow yourself up.” Grabbing the nozzle from him I let out almost as much air as I let in, but the feeling was terrific. At last! Here I was on an even footing with all those other mums-to-be. The ones who prop themselves against their executive desks, dab white-out on the shadows under their eyes, and tirelessly tackle the latest merger … or mop and glow the home front with assorted infants under the age of four clinging to their legs.

  “Hurry!” Ben yelled, causing me to nearly swallow the cap.

  We rushed around in a blur of speed. Suitcases got tossed aboard, and it was time to splash off.

  “Come on, Ellie!” Clambering aboard, Ben held out his hand.

  The time had come for truth. “I can’t! I’ve lied to you about how much weight I’ve gained. My feet will go through the bottom. Ouch!” He landed me like a fish. Crossing to my section was like walking in a net. One of my legs kept getting longer than the other.

  He tossed me a grin along with the oars. “The island is straight ahead. Mind doing the honours, while I wipe the mud off my shoes, darling? Can’t arrive looking thoroughly disreputable, can I?”

  “Heaven forbid!” Strange to tell I was quite the oarswoman. A sport where I got to sit down could not fail to appeal. Meet Ellie Haskell, captain of the St. Roberta’s team. Fondly known as the Skullduggeries. Plunging my salad spoons into the bronze water, I felt good. The air smelled liked sun-baked algae and my love looked rakishly wonderful. His hair expensively disheveled, his tan a twenty-four hour success story. Mendenhall was still too far away for me to make out its features clearly.

  “Deuced jolly, being bumped along in a sofa without springs, right, sweetheart?” Ben took the oars.

  “Still worried about being late?”

  “Not frightfully.” His elegant stroking revealed all was in the wrist. “Blowing up this vessel helped clear my head.” A flick of the oar sent a spray of fishy water my way. “The Mangés’ letter talked tough about no commitment being made, but the petrol chap mentioned several out-of-town cars coming through today, and it hit me. The Society wouldn’t congregate in a place like this—where you couldn’t get fresh figs if your life depended on it—unless they need me.”

  “How did the Mangés get to the house?”

  My informant grudgingly admitted the owner keeps a power boat; he imagined that would be sent out to meet those who arrived at the designated time … Ben’s lips kept moving but the audio part of his statement was lost. Out of the watery wasteland there arose a geyser of spray, and rip-roaring through it came a motor vessel manned by two nauticals, spiffed out in white peaked caps.

  Curling my lip, I trailed a hand overboard. “Aren’t these Americans a bit much with their hobbies, darling? Have to wear the outfit!”

  Ben was not amused … and rightly so. Why did I never think before I sneered? This could well be our host boat.

  “Ellie!” his howl penetrated the tempest, “It’s the Coast Guard!”

  “Oh, cripes!” If I prayed fast, would God grant us a puncture? Captains Glower and Grimace were zooming around us in a tidal wave, their scowls every bit as natty as their uniforms. Would they demand we produce our passports? Would they order us deported?

  “Evening, sirs!” Attempting a salute, Ben almost knocked out his eye with an oar. “Just taking the little lady for a spin.”

  “May we suggest you take her somewhere less hazardous to her safety and that of other traffic.” They spoke in unison in the monotone of a prerecorded message. “You be out of this channel within two minutes, or we’ll have you towed in!”

  “Aye, aye!” I said as they blasted off.

  Grabbing up the oars, Ben smacked them in and out of the water, muttering, “Damned humiliating.”

  “With some people a little uniform goes a long way,” I consoled, my eyes burning holes in the backs of the two nosy parkers. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m sure the Mangés are too busy waiting for you to be gawking out of windows.”

  No answer but the rhythmic displacement of water.

  The island appeared no bigger than a large rock even when the house moved into view. What an incredible monument to bad taste. Picture Josiah Mendenhall, whisky baron, thumping his fist on the table while demanding the best of everything. And everything was what he had got. The roof sprouted four onion domes plus one shaped like a bell. The grimy red brick was embellished with ironwork and lattice galore, and mustn’t miss the moldy green shingles like fish scales, on the bow frontage. Some of the windows were stained glass, some were beveled; and the whole shebang was set down on a giant tea tray of a veranda. “Ben, Mendenhall is an absolute … gothic horror!”

  The words came accompanied by a dizziness such as I had not experienced since my days of morning sickness. Cleaving to the sides of the boat, I clung also to the hope that I was acting peculiar due to my condition. Anything was preferable to the recognizing that fate had made total fools of us.

  “Ben!” Struggling to my knees, I grabbed his arm. “Don’t you remember? Chantal spoke of the house being surrounded by water? We assumed she meant Merlin’s Court because of the moat, and we didn’t take the bit about fire and brimstone literally—but look at those sooty red bricks.”

  His yell of alarm was all I could have wished.

  “Sit down!”

  And so I did—with such a thump that an oar f
lew out of his hand. He made to grab for it, lunged too far, the boat did a spin, and before you could say bobbing for apples, we were both in the drink.

  “Forgive me, darling,” I spluttered. “I know this isn’t how you pictured meeting the Mangés.”

  Belly-flopping back into the boat, my love said conversationally, “You do realize you’ve ruined my life?”

  I didn’t reply. Now was not the time to break the news that the house was Melancholy Mansion.

  “There, darling! You look as good as new!” Not by a quiver of the voice would I reveal the smiting of unwifely jealousy when he poked fingers through his hair and the curl bounced right back. What did it matter if anyone thought I had joined Jonah in the belly of the whale? “Ben, if I spray you with this air freshener, we’ll get rid of that last whiff of eau de river. Then you won’t have to shy away whenever a Mangé gets close.”

  The boat house had proved a port in a storm. We had dragged in the deflated Nell Gwynn, the remaining oar, and our luggage. And by the time we had dragged on dry clothes, this place was home. Overlaying the rowing boats, canoes, lawn furniture, and coiled cobras of rope, was the safe, dry, stored-away smell of varnish. I never wanted to leave here. But two hearts can’t always beat as one.

  Ben wouldn’t stand still for me to spray him. He kept hopping around, trying to put on two socks at once. His attempt at perching on a rowboat had resulted in his falling in. Poor darling! Boats had that effect on him one way or t’other.

  “Ellie, put that stuff away. It’s fly spray.”

  “Dear me!” Returning the tin to the shelf, I stuffed Nell into her little orange bag. “Darling, why don’t you sit on this marble garden seat across from the canoes?”

  “You think I’ve got time for a recess?” Backing up as he spoke, he sat down involuntarily on the seat in question, which skidded out from under, landing him on his rear. The awaited masonry crash was not forthcoming. A pity Ben did not keep equally quiet. But perhaps this wasn’t the time to admonish with, Not in front of the baby. Tossing Nell Gwynn on the floor, I rushed to the rescue.