Silver Rain

by Lois Peterson

“How?” Elsie trailed her fingers across the fur on Dog Bob’s back as he clicked along the sidewalk beside her. She often stopped by Melvin’s Café on her way home from school. Not to go in. Just to peer through the steamy windows, to breathe in the lovely smell of bacon and coffee that wafted though the grille above the door.

  Uncle Dannell reached inside his jacket and pulled out his oilcloth baccy pouch. He rolled a cigarette as he walked. “I have a brilliant idea,” he said. “A failsafe plan, if I do say so myself.”

  “Can I help? Ern—Scoop and me are both good at schemes. They don’t always work, but no one gets hurt.”

  Uncle Dannell snorted. “Sounds like something your Nan might say. But mustn’t talk ill. Not many other people would take me in like that. Not after what my no-good brother did to you and your mother.” He tucked his pouch back in his jacket. “But let’s not be gloomy. My scheme, you may wish to know…”

  But Elsie wasn’t listening. Instead, she watched an old man muttering to himself as he leaned against a lamppost. He bent over and shoved a handful of newspaper into his boots. He wore a hat too, but his was stained, and ragged on one side. Not as nice as hers. He pulled it down low over his eyes like she did though.

  Most of the hoboes never looked at you, Elsie realized. Not straight on. So as she passed him, she said, “Good morning, sir,” to see what would happen.

  Instead of answering—which would have been the polite thing to do—the man just lifted his other foot and shoved more newspaper into that boot before he pulled his trouser leg down as far as it would go. Which wasn’t far. His thin ankles stuck out like gray sticks above his boots. It looked like he got his clothes from the church rummage, just like she had to these days.

  “…and it’ll be a breeze.” Uncle Dannell stopped to wait for Elsie and Dog Bob, who was doing his business against a wall covered in torn posters. “If I sell forty tickets, that’s fourteen dollars’ profit,” he told her. “No problem. Don’t you think? Now, where is that boy?”

  They looked around, but there was no sign of Scoop. “Where is this place Scoop talked about, anyway?” asked Elsie. “If I’m late to school, Miss Beeston will give me lines.”

  “Did you hear a word I said?” Dannell asked. “I’m not used to being ignored. Oops. There he is.” He grabbed Elsie’s hand. “Here we go.” With Dog Bob scuttling behind, he hauled her between the few cars lined up along the sidewalk, and then across the road and over the railroad tracks on the other side.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Uncle Dannell didn’t often run. He was panting hard by the time they reached Scoop, who was leaning against a broken wooden crate. He scribbled busily in his notebook, then closed it with a snap and stuck the pencil behind his ear. “See that?” He waved one arm. “All that wood and stuff there was part of Mr. Branscombe’s warehouse just yesterday. Now it’s a shantytown. Or will be when those shackers have done.”

  Wooden planks and sheets of corrugated metal had been used to build a jumble of shacks and lean-tos. Mountains of rusty old car parts rose between them. A huddle of men stood around a big black kettle balanced on a blazing fire.

  Elsie watched a man crawl out from a hole between teetering piles of wood. He stretched and scratched and looked around as he joined the others at the fire. He held something on a stick above the flames.

  “Squirrel for supper, do you think?” said Uncle Dannell. “Or rabbit?”

  Elsie swallowed hard as Dog Bob trotted toward the men, drawn by the greasy smell rising from their fire.

  Uncle Dannell quickly called to him. “Good boy. You stay here.” He gave Dog Bob a quick pat when he came right back. “The survival instinct of those fellas,” he said, shaking his head. He waved one arm at the shantytown. “It’s a marvelous thing, I don’t think.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe and tucked the stub into his pocket.

  Elsie studied the men as they worked. Some wore pants, shirts and suspenders. Others hunched down inside long coats or jackets that looked like they once belonged to old suits. They shoved things around, leaned one sheet of wood against another, tucked in a chunk of cardboard, moved a rock to hold something else in place. A bunch of them shared a cigarette, passing it back and forth as they shifted from one foot to another, their shoulders pulled up to their ears.

  Suddenly Elsie spotted a man in a long black coat near the back of the new shantytown. “There’s Reverend Hampton.”

  Uncle Dannell and Scoop turned to look where she was pointing. “Busy as ever, your Nan’s friend,” said Dannell. “Out among his people. Silly bugger. ’Scuse my language.” He spat on the rubble at their feet.

  “Why silly?” Elsie asked.

  “Who’s he?” asked Scoop, his question falling on top of Elsie’s.

  Uncle Dannell answered them both at once. “The very Reverend Hampton tends to his flock by supporting schemes like this—a shantytown jury-rigged from a stolen warehouse. He can’t just stick to his breadlines and soup kitchens. Oh, no. He tends to men who’ve abandoned their families and now only care about themselves.” When Uncle Dannell scuffed his boot savagely on the ground, Dog Bob backed out of the way. “My brother is somewhere out there” — Uncle Dannell’s voice was getting louder—“though heaven knows where he’s skulking.” His cheeks were bright pink now. His eyes flashed.

  Elsie had heard him talk like this often enough. Nan called it “getting aerated.”

  And he hadn’t finished yet. “My brother. Your father. Just as bad as this lot.” He prodded one yellowed finger into Elsie’s chest. “But don’t you worry.” Now he stabbed his own chest with his finger. “I will take care of my family even if your no-good father won’t. You can rely on that.”

  Elsie thought she should defend Father. But what Uncle Dannell said was true. Her father had left them. Maybe now he was just another shacker in another shantytown somewhere. Maybe he had already forgotten all about his family stuck living in a garage behind what used to be their own house.

  And she was confused about what her uncle said about the Reverend. Surely it was good to want to take care of people? The Reverend came by to visit Nan most days and was always kind. He got aerated sometimes too. Talking about unemployment and people who could no longer afford a doctor. And children with not enough to eat. He had strong views about the System and Society—whatever they were. He said it was his job to help all God’s children. That made sense to her.

  “And now the latest,” said Uncle Dannell. “You’ll have heard all about it. The man’s all set to shut down the dance marathon.”

  He flapped his arms around him to keep warm, and Elsie moved away so she wouldn’t get hit by his big meaty hands.

  “He spouts all kinds of rhetoric from the pulpit,” Uncle Dannell went on. Nothing could stop him now. “Banging on about degradation and humiliation. When people are just trying to make a bit of money. He offers the hand of charity to his hoboes. No questions asked. But a dance marathon that might allow a few poor folks to make a few bucks? Oh, no! We can’t have that!” He pulled up his collar and stuck his hands in his pockets. He was silent for a long time while Elsie and Scoop watched the men in the shantytown pouring tea into tin cans.

  “But enough of this,” said Uncle Dannell. “We came, we saw. Now let’s skedaddle. Come on, you lot. You’re going to be late for school.”

  He turned around and started walking, slapping his leg to bring Dog Bob to his side.

  What’s a dance marathon? Elsie wanted to ask Scoop. What’s rhetoric? What’s degradation? But he had grabbed her arm with his bony hand and was hurrying her away as he ran to keep up with Uncle Dannell. “Did you interview someone?” she asked Scoop when they’d caught up. “Before we got there?”

  “No one would say a word,” he told her. “Because I’m just a kid, I bet. But when I’m famous? They’ll be lining up to talk to me.” He patted the bib of his overalls, where he’d tucked his notebook. “How about we find out more about these dance marathons your uncle was on about
? After school?”

  School! There was a spelling bee today. And Elsie had not practiced one word. “Did you study your list?” she asked Scoop, skipping over a big puddle.

  His hands were in his pocket as he kicked a stone along the street. “Sure I did,” he mumbled.

  Elsie didn’t believe him. Anyway, it wouldn’t make a difference. Scoop, the newspaperman, was the worst speller in class. Probably in the whole school.

  Elsie got top marks for spelling, but Miss Beeston kept her behind after school for sticking her tongue out at Jimmy Tipson when she should have been making a list of rivers of the world.

  Scoop only got two out of twenty on his spelling test. He had to copy each word out thirty times before he was allowed to go. So it was nearly dark by the time they were let out of school, and they both had to go straight home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next afternoon Elsie helped Scoop paint his mother’s summer kitchen. It was his job as man of the house, he’d explained to Elsie. And the Noises were afraid of getting paint on their clothes. He knew Elsie didn’t much care if her clothes were secondhand, too small or covered in paint.

  It was Friday before she and Scoop had the chance to go looking for the dance marathon. They walked halfway across town, asking directions from two newspaper vendors, a policeman, a lady with a little kid hanging on to each arm, and a big man rolling barrels into an alley.

  Scoop was pink in the face and panting, and Elsie’s shoes were rubbing by the time they finally stood on Main Street in front of a rickety building that had once been a garment factory. Big white letters saying Taylor’s Clothing still ran sideways up the brick wall.

  While Scoop checked the back door for a way to sneak in, Elsie studied the billboard propped on the sidewalk. In the picture, a man in a dark suit and a bow tie and a woman in a long slinky evening gown danced together under a big glittering ball of mirrors. They smiled, showing bright teeth, as showers of light fell like silvery rain all around them. The words beneath the picture read:

  DANCE MARATHON

  Starts Monday!

  Thirty Couples Dancing for Thirty Days!

  Admission: 10¢ before 6pm; 25¢ after 6pm.

  Winners Take All!

  $1000 Prize!

  “Does that really say one thousand dollars?” asked Elsie when Scoop came back. “That’s a lot of money.”

  He took a quick glance at the billboard. But instead of answering her question, he just said, “It’s locked up tight. I knocked, but no one answered.”

  “It’s ten cents to get in,” she told him.

  “How much have you got?” Scoop stood with his hands in his pockets, his notebook tucked in the crook of one arm. The pencil propped behind his ear looked like it might fall any minute.

  “Uncle Dannell told me he’d give me a dime for my spelling test. Let’s come back on Monday when it starts. Now we know how to get here.”

  “Ask your uncle for two dimes,” said Scoop.

  “Get your own. Or ask your mom. Or the Noises.”

  “Fat chance!”

  Fat chance? Maybe it didn’t really matter if Scoop couldn’t spell. He knew all the best expressions. Surely this was enough to make him the perfect newspaperman.

  “Maybe Mother will let me have a dime for you too,” said Elsie. “Mrs. Tipson paid her for cleaning their bathroom. What used to be our bathroom, before we got stuck in the garage.” She crunched up her face. “Now we just have that stinky outhouse.”

  “You can use our bathroom anytime,” said Scoop grandly.

  Elsie looked at the billboard again. “We’ll get twenty cents by Monday. Somehow. Come on. I’ll catch heck if I’m late for supper.” She walked away along the sidewalk.

  Scoop didn’t follow right away, so she turned back and grabbed his jacket sleeve to lead him down the street. He was too busy scribbling in his black and white book to look where he was going. Elsie had seen him walk into a lamppost or someone else on the street more than once. “Come on!” She peered sideways to read Scoop’s notes about the dance hall.

  She knew he always wrote very small so he would not be “scooped,” and so the book would last a long while. His spelling was bad. His handwriting was awful too. Elsie couldn’t make out a word.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Elsie could hear the ruckus when they were still half a block from home.

  When Nan yelled, her voice warbled. Uncle Dannell’s voice was a low rumble. And Mother sounded like a cat with its tail caught in a door. Elsie couldn’t make sense of any of it. All she could hear were lots of words all jumbled together.

  Scoop broke into a trot. “Let’s check this out.”

  “Wait up.” Elsie grabbed his sleeve.

  The words were just starting to make sense. “Big chancer.” Nan’s voice. “Can’t be trusted farther than I can throw you.” Nan again.

  “Oh, Dannell. Really!” It was Mother’s voice this time.

  “Will you let me speak?” Uncle Dannell suddenly shouted.

  “That’s some argy-bargy,” said Scoop, ready to turn onto her street. He was just curious, Elsie told herself. Like any top-notch news reporter would be. But you kept family business to yourself, Mother always said. And this sounded like family business, all right. “Better not,” she told him. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the corner, like we agreed.”

  “You sure? Could be important.” Scoop scuffed the ground with one boot as he looked hopefully in the direction of the shouting.

  Elsie gave him a hard nudge with her elbow. “Go on. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

  “All right, all right. I’m going. If you promise.” He stuck his tongue out at her and walked slowly in the direction of his own house. “I wanna know everything, mind,” he called back to her as she headed home.

  Uncle Dannell stood in the doorway looking at Nan and Mother, who had been doing the wash outside in the old tub. Nan’s sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hands were red and puckered. Mother’s hair was in a roll on top of her head. Wet strands hung down by her face.

  “Go inside,” she said when she spotted Elsie at the end of the driveway.

  Elsie would have liked to do as she was told. Dog Bob would be shivering under Uncle Dannell’s bed. He never liked loud voices. Nor did she. But she wanted to know what was going on, so she dragged her feet as she came up the path.

  “Didn’t I say to go inside?” said Mother, doing up the top button on her shirtdress. “Oh, what’s the point? You might as well know. Your uncle. My precious brother-in-law.” Her voice came out like a slow drip from a rusty tap. “He thinks he’s clever. Too smart for his own good…”

  “Bugger in a bag. That’s what he is now and always was.” Nan did not swear, not in the usual way. But she had a few special phrases she kept for really important occasions.

  “Mother?” Elsie pulled up her socks as she watched her mother’s face.

  “Your uncle. We rely on him. It’s hard without your father…We rely on Daniel.” Mother retied her apron tightly and wiped her face with one hand.

  Elsie knew this was serious. No one ever called her uncle by his real name.

  “Now this,” Mother continued. “We have to eat somehow. With four mouths to feed. A few hours next door is not enough…” She held a wadded handkerchief to her mouth, as if she needed to hold back other words that might come out.

  Nothing made sense to Elsie. “Uncle Dannell? What did he do?”

  “Your precious uncle…no relative of mine, mind…” Nan’s voice was cold and flat now, far worse than her yelling. “Your uncle raffled his pay packet. Your mother needs shoes if she’s to keep looking for work. You need feeding if you’re going to learn anything. But the big man here? A fortnight’s work—the first work in months—and he raffles his pay packet. Go on, Mr. Big Ideas. Let’s have no secrets here. How much did you make on this scheme? Break this child’s heart too, why don’t you?”

  “It was failsafe,” said Uncle Dannell. “I e
xplained it all. Remember?” He was still leaning in the doorway. But now he was looking down at the ground with his hands shoved into his pockets. “It worked for Jamie Mackenzie. He came home with forty-two dollars from raffling his twenty-nine-dollar pay. Thirteen dollars’ profit. Seemed like a good risk. Don’t you think?”

  Elsie knew about raffles, sure. You took a chance and paid a penny for a ticket. You might win something worth a nickel. Or even a dime. But raffling a pay packet? “So what happened?” she asked.

  Mother sniffed and patted back her hair. Elsie noticed how thin she was. Her eyes had dark shadows around them. “Your uncle sold tickets for a dollar at the Fraser Arms,” she told Elsie. Her voice now just sounded tired and sad. “He sold seven tickets. On a sixteen-dollar payday.”

  Elsie couldn’t work out the math in her head; she was better at spelling.

  “If they’d given me one more night, I could have made up the rest,” said her uncle. “But the rule at the Fraser Arms is one night only. And they draw just before they close up. It was a quiet night, see? But rules is rules. I respect that.”

  “Oh. So you do respect something, do you?” said Nan. Instead of waiting for an answer, she shoved the wooden rollers off the washtub, heaved it onto its side and let the scummy water trail down the sidewalk.

  Usually Uncle Dannell emptied the tub and put it away for her on wash day. But today Nan did it with her back to him, wrestling it onto its side and propping it against the wall.

  “Fair and square, you could say,” said Uncle Dannell. “Last week Edward Hooper took home twenty-four dollars for the price of a dollar ticket.” But he didn’t sound so sure of himself anymore.

  “His family must have been glad of that,” said Mother quietly.

  It seemed a long time since Mr. and Mrs. Hooper had sat around in the front room with Elsie’s family. They used to gather on Saturday nights to play whist and listen to Bing Crosby on the brown radio that sat on the sideboard under the mirror.

  In Elsie’s old home. Where Jimmy Tipson lived now.