Whiskers & Smoke

by Marian Babson

  His cheekbones jutted out from the dark hollows under his eyes; his short-sleeved shirt and trousers had been bought for a larger man; his eyes had a haunted look and his painful smile did not quite reach them.

  We may both be widows soon. Perhaps the thought could be read too easily in my own eyes. Celia caught my arm and drew me to one side.

  “It’s nerves, that’s all,” she said urgently. “Just nerves. The business, is going through a bad patch right now. A lot of businesses are. If we can just last through the summer …”

  Patrick had gone into the living-room while we hung back in the hallway. Now he appeared in the doorway and looked at Celia questioningly.

  “Yes, dear, we’re coming,” Celia said, too brightly. We followed him into the living-room.

  “It’s good to see you again, Rosemary,” he said. He looked around the room with vague dissatisfaction, as though there were someone else he would rather see. I remembered that I was in his cousin Nancy’s house and wondered if he were missing her already. “The kids, too. They sure have grown, haven’t they? What are they now, six and eight?”

  “Time goes on,” I said. “Timothy’s nine and Tessa is seven. Y—” I broke off just in time. You’ve changed, too. If he realized it, he wouldn’t appreciate being reminded of it.

  “We thought we’d drive you around the lake this morning,” Celia said quickly. “We’ll stop at Camp Mohigonquin and collect Luke and his friend Dexter—they’re joining us for lunch. That will give you a chance to see what it’s like and have a word with Greg Carter, he’s the Camp Administrator and Senior Counsellor, about enrolling Tessa and Timothy as day campers.”

  “I’ll have to think that one over,” I said firmly. “It’s much too soon to make any sort of decision. We’ve only just arrived.” With distance and the passing of time, I had almost forgotten Celia’s tendency to arrange every moment of everyone’s life for them. Her success in getting me over here had evidently gone to her head. I would need to keep reasserting my intention—and right—to order my own life and the lives of my children, even though she was more familiar with this strange new country than I was.

  “Oh, all right.” She acknowledged grudgingly that a warning shot had just been fired across her bows. “But you can’t delay too long. The summer people will start flooding in next week and there won’t be any places left. They know a good thing when they see it.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” I reminded her.

  “Let’s get going, then.” Patrick leaped to his feet, jingling his car keys. “We’ve brought the station wagon so that we can fit everyone in. Unless you’d like to try out the Harpers’ car? You could follow us over—”

  “No!” I froze at the thought. I hadn’t driven since John’s accident. I had no wish ever to get behind the wheel of a car again. “No, I’m not used to the idea of driving on the wrong side of the road. Give me some time to get acclimatized.”

  “You ought to get used to a right-hand drive as soon as possible,” Celia put in swiftly, sensing weakness. “It’s a full-time job hereabouts ferrying children to their various destinations.”

  “All the more reason for me not to get caught up in it. This is supposed to be a holiday.”

  “She’s got you there,” Patrick said. “Come on, everybody. All aboard for Camp Mohigonquin.”

  Camp Mohigonquin stood on a hillside on the opposite side of the lake. It would have been about a mile if one were to row across; going by road, curving through woods and past summer cottages, the distance was about six miles. We turned in at the gates and bumped up a rough track.

  At the end of it were half a dozen long low wooden cabins, as many large canvas tents, all clustered around a central clearing with a flagpole from which fluttered the American flag. The camp enclosure was bordered by a tennis court, an archery range and a sports track. The remaining side was clear sweep down to the lakeshore beach; there was also a boathouse and a small dock with several canoes moored to it.

  A mixed doubles match occupied the tennis courts and an informal race was in progress on the sports track. Timothy’s eyes had begun to sparkle as he looked around.

  While we watched, a group of children erupted from one of the tents and war-whooped their way down the slope to pile into the waiting canoes. Tessa gave a little sniff and cradled her arm protectively.

  Timothy might be in his element here, but it didn’t hold much promise for my poor little broken-winged bird.

  “There’s Luke!” Celia spotted her son and led us over to the archery range. “Luke, we’re here!”

  I caught my breath as the tall gangling blond boy turned and smiled at me with my father’s eyes and my mother’s mouth.

  “Yes, I thought you’d catch that,” Celia said softly. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  I nodded, knowing that we mustn’t mention it in front of him. Nothing annoys children more than having pieces of what they consider their personal anatomy parcelled out and attributed to ancestors they have never known. Tessa always grew twitchy if anyone pointed out that her hair grew in a widow’s peak just like her paternal grandmother’s. After registering the observation the first half-dozen times, she had insisted on wearing a fringe. When she was older, she would appreciate the advantage; right now, it seemed a denial of her own personality when anyone mentioned the source of her dramatic hairline.

  The cousins appraised each other silently while Celia made the introductions. A tall, lean, bronzed man stood by.

  “And this is Gregory Carter—” Celia finished, indicating him. “The Camp Administrator.”

  “Just Greg, please.” He flashed white perfect teeth and captured my hand in a strong firm handshake. “I’ve been hearing about you people. Glad to have you aboard.”

  He shook hands with Timothy, but Tessa shrank back, afraid to trust her remaining good hand to this athletic giant. He hesitated, then reached out and tousled her hair. She didn’t like that, either. She sent me a worried look.

  “We’re not quite aboard,” I said a trifle tartly. “Celia may have given you the wrong impression. We haven’t decided what we’re doing yet.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Celia said under her breath. “Do you have to make an issue of it?”

  “Oh-oh, guess I put my foot in my mouth again.” Greg smiled even more broadly, demonstrating that there was plenty of room for his foot in there despite all those large gleaming teeth. “Look, we weren’t trying to railroad you into anything. Why, you haven’t even seen the place yet. Let me show you around.”

  He wheeled and strode off, not looking to see if we were following. Celia gave me a little push and started me forward. Luke and Timothy were already on Greg’s heels. Patrick seated himself on a tree-stump beside the archery range and appeared to go into a trance.

  “Girls’ dormitory here—” Greg indicated one of the long log cabins. “Boys’ dorm over there. Cookhouse—one cooked meal a day, one salad meal, trained dietician supervising. Day campers usually leave at six, but if you’d like them to stay on for the evening meal so that you don’t have to bother cooking, that can be arranged.”

  “I don’t find cooking any bother,” I said coldly. “I quite enjoy it.”

  “Good, good. I wish all the Moms felt that way.” He glanced at my face and moved on quickly. “Dispensary, with a registered nurse in attendance. She also doubles as a Camp Counsellor, we don’t have much for her to do, otherwise. Barring the occasional cuts or scrapes—” This time he glanced at Tessa. “Accidents will happen.”

  “Show her the tents, Greg,” Celia prompted. “That’s where they do crafts and handiwork,” she told me. “There’s bound to be something for Tessa there.”

  “Sure, there will,” Greg said heartily. “This tent is Woodwork: carving, carpentry, that sort of thing. And this tent is Artwork: clays sculpture, pottery, fingerpainting—” His voice took on a coaxing tone as he displayed a bright hotchpotch of colour. “You could do that okay, Tessa. Most of the kids only use one h
and for fingerpainting, anyway.”

  Tessa retreated behind me in the face of this direct onslaught, but I saw that a gleam of interest had been kindled in her eyes.

  “Then there’s weaving, jewellery-making—” He waved a hand, indicating the other tents. “And over there—” He stopped short, his eyes narrowed.

  “Okay, Dexter, front-and-centre!” he snapped. “What were you doing in there?”

  And enormous boy in shorts and T-shirt sidled to a halt in front of us, Billy Bunter to the life. I had the impression that he had come from the cookhouse. His jaws were working rapidly, then his Adam’s apple bobbed several times and he spoke:

  “Hi, Greg. Hi, Luke, Mrs. Meadows. I was just coming to meet you.” He flourished a gold wristwatch under his nose. “Time for us to be getting along, isn’t it?”

  “Not so fast, fella—” There was still a steely note in Greg’s voice. “I asked you a question.”

  “We ought to get going,” Luke put in hastily, addressing his mother. “Dad’s getting kinda restless.”

  “Oh!” Celia whirled to look at Patrick. He was pacing round the tree-stump, jingling his car keys. “Oh yes! I’m sorry, Greg, but—” She shrugged helplessly.

  “Sure, I understand.” The teeth were much in evidence again, but he slanted a look at Dexter that boded ill for him in the future.

  “Look, you folks—” He turned back to us, switching on the charm with an almost audible click. “Look, we’re having a cookout tomorrow night. Why don’t you come up and be our guests? About eight o’clock. It happens once a week—you’ll like it.” He met Tessa’s eyes and the coaxing note was back in his voice. “You can hold a hot dog on a stick over the campfire with one hand, can’t you? No problem. We toast marshmallows, too, for dessert. And we have a sing-song. It’s fun. You will come, won’t you?”

  “Well …” Both children were looking at me hopefully. I was outnumbered, not that it mattered. I didn’t care what I did. It would be as good a way of spending an evening as any other. “Thank you, we’ll look forward to that.”

  “Great!” Greg was obviously aching to say something else to Dexter but realized that any further comment might dent the image he wished to project. He turned to Celia. “I hope you and Patrick will come along, too. Luke is staying on for it and we’d love to have you.”

  “Yes … thank you,” Celia said vaguely. “I’ll have to see whether Patrick has anything else planned.” She looked anxiously towards her husband and became more decisive. “We must be going now. We have a one o’clock reservation at Gino’s Place.”

  “Right!” Greg’s teeth flashed again. “These folks can see the rest of the camp tomorrow. And Dexter—” The teeth just missed grinding together as the mask slipped. “Cottage cheese salad for you—right, fella?”

  “Sure, Greg,” Dexter said unconvincingly. “What else?”

  Gino’s Place had been someone else’s place first; an Old Homestead converted into a restaurant, keeping as many homelike touches as possible. Gino himself greeted us at the door and led us to a table on the glassed-in side porch.

  “My cousin will take care of your table,” he told Patrick. “Let me know if everything is all right. I think he is nearly trained now. If he continues to be satisfactory, I will promote him to waiting on the inside tables next week. He sulks because he isn’t there already, but he’s not as good as he thinks he is—not yet.”

  “You knew you were going to have a few problems when you imported him from the Old Country,” Patrick said. “Even though he’s shaping up slowly, at least he’s shaping up—and you needed him. This is a big place to run.”

  “Hah!” Gino laughed shortly, without mirth. “It is not big enough for Rudolfo—that’s the problem. He thought he was coming to be maître d’ of a great fashionable restaurant. An outpost of The Four Seasons, perhaps. He expected celebrities every night, four star cuisine, hundred dollar bills to light cigars with—”

  “The streets paved with gold, eh?” Patrick sighed. “Do they still believe that?”

  “He expected New York,” Gino said flatly. “He got New Hampshire. He must learn to live with it. Still, this is only his first summer here. Probably he will settle down.”

  “Early days yet,” Celia agreed. She glanced at her watch.

  “Rudi—” Gino called to a waiter who had just entered. “The menus for this table, please.” He bowed and left us.

  Celia evidently did not feel it incumbent on her to maintain camp discipline. She allowed Dexter to order pork chops and French fries. A lavish salad, sans cottage cheese, came as a side dish but he ignored it.

  The air-conditioning was frigid, presumably to encourage an appetite for hot meals. The prices seemed quite reasonable to me, but Patrick surveyed them with a twisted grin.

  “I’m not that old,” he said ruefully, “but I can remember when a dollar bought the Blue Plate Special. These days it doesn’t even pay the tip.”

  For dessert, the rest of us ordered ice cream, but Dexter continued on his collision course with the maximum of calories.

  “I’ll have the Crepes Suzette,” he said casually.

  “Will they let you?” Patrick was dubious. “You’re underage and it contains alcohol.”

  “The booze will burn off—” Dexter licked his lips—“when they flambé it. Sure, they’ll let me have it. Rudi’s made them for me before—he likes making them.”

  “Well …” Patrick said.

  Rudi had no qualms at all. In fact, he was delighted. He wheeled the serving trolley to our table with a flourish, conscious that everyone was watching. Gino hovered in the doorway, checking on the proceedings.

  Tessa and Timothy had never seen the dish prepared before and were enthralled. As the flickering blue flames danced over the crêpes, they laughed with glee. Smiling at their reaction, I sought Celia’s eyes to share the amusement—and felt a chill that owed nothing to the overemphatic air-conditioning.

  Celia was watching Patrick with a look of unmistakable concern. Patrick was watching the flames with a curious intensity, as though they held him hypnotized.

  I looked away quickly, uneasily, and focused on Dexter. He, too, was staring deep into the miniature blue inferno with more than healthy interest.

  Suddenly I wished that we were back in England.

  Chapter 5

  By the time we got back to Cranberry Lane and Patrick and the boys had carried in the groceries, we were exhausted. I felt as though I had spent the day fighting alternating spells of chills and fever—which I had.

  After lunch, we had gone shopping. The constant transition from the overpowering heat outdoors to the icy blasts of air-conditioned stores would have been enervating even when uncomplicated by jet-lag. Outside, one longed for the cool interiors of the shops; once inside, it instantly became too much of a good thing. By the time we strolled down the frozen food aisles of the supermarket, with the double chill coming from the freezers on both sides, I began to see why so many shoppers carried light cardigans, despite the heat. I would have been glad of a cardigan myself—and a pair of gloves.

  “You’ve turned off the air-conditioning,” Celia said accusingly as we entered the house. “That’s an English habit you’re going to have to lose, or you’ll collapse with heat prostration. If you don’t care about yourself, think of the children!” She switched on the window unit in the living-room.

  “I’ve put it on low,” she said grudgingly. “No, stay there—” she waved me back as I started for the stairs. “I’ll turn it on in the bedroom. I can’t trust you, otherwise—not until you get acclimatized.”

  She darted up the stairs and, after a moment, I heard her footsteps in the master bedroom overhead. I decided not to tell her that I had switched rooms—it would cut out one more argument and make life easier. I’d turn off the air-conditioning up there after she left.

  “Where do you want things to go?” Patrick returned from the kitchen looking helpful but inadequate to the situation. “I’ve
left the bags on the kitchen table.”

  “I’ll see to them.” I reached the kitchen just as Errol climaxed a magnificent leap by landing lightly on the tabletop with his nose unerringly in the bag containing the fresh fish.

  “Down, Errol!” I removed his head from the bag and pushed him towards the edge of the table. He fought me all the way, protesting wildly that I couldn’t expect him to leave when the party had just begun.

  “Down!” Errol was strong and determined; so was I. We had a brief undignified struggle and then Errol hit the floor. Once down there, he changed tactics and twined sinuously around my ankles, purring of devotion and undying affection.

  Nothing is undying, Errol. Nothing … and no one …

  But he had succeeded in making me feel guilty. We had been gone all day and poor Errol had had nothing to eat since the purloined scrambled eggs this morning. Further, I realized that he had been very good. Despite our difference of opinion and the fact that we were practically strangers, he had not even threatened to use his claws. Perhaps Errol was a love, as his absent owners claimed.

  “All right, I’ll get you something,” I said. “Just let me put this stuff in the freezer.”

  We tripped across the floor. I wouldn’t have tripped if it weren’t for Errol. Recognition of our destination brought him out in fresh paroxysms of affection. I stumbled against the refrigerator and fended him off with one foot while I opened the door.

  “Hi, Rosemary—” The note was lurking in the freezer compartment at the top. I looked at it unenthusiastically. This constant unearthing of messages was beginning to make me feel as though I were living with an elbow perpetually sinking into my ribs.

  If you need more space, I’ve cleared a corner of the deep freeze in the garage for you. If you’d like to use any of the food I’ve left in it, please do. I keep the old blanket beside it in case of electrical failure. Sometimes a thunderstorm knocks down a power line. In which case, I toss the blanket over the deep freeze for a bit of extra insulation until the lines are fixed. It usually doesn’t take long, but if it does—