We Five

by Mark Dunn

  “When did you know—or at least suspect?” asked Ruth.

  “Maybe it was that night at the blues club. The way you kept checking out the waitress with the big—well—”

  “You can say it. Tits. It’s a great word. I love the word. I love the tits.”

  “You seem really close to your four friends—”

  “Yeah, we’ve been like that since childhood.”

  Someone had left a promo postcard on the table for a local barbecue restaurant. Cain speared it with his index finger and spun it absently around. “You never had a, like, inconvenient crush on any of them?”

  Ruth laughed. “To be totally honest, if Molly suddenly came out to me—not that Molly’s budged from the zero mark on my gaydar in all the years I’ve known her—but if, miracle of miracles, she did happen to someday come out as the cute, pixyish little dyke of my dreams, I would, without the slightest hesitation, dive right into the sack with her. But I’m a realist who doesn’t dwell on things that shall never be.”

  “Hmm.”

  Ruth cocked her head. “Which one?”

  Cain grinned self-consciously. “Pat. The kid.”

  Ruth nodded. “He’s cute.”

  “And as straight as your Molly. Probably straighter.”

  Ruth smirked. “Probably straighter. Now what the hell, Mr. Pardlow, does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Isn’t it common knowledge that women have a little more wiggle room in this area than men do?”

  Ruth laughed out loud. “Well, that’s certainly what the straight male media wants you to think—all the better to feed those fantasies about two hot women going at it with each other under the sheets. No. There’s never been much wiggle room with any of the girls I’ve known. Especially my four sisters.”

  “Has there—if you don’t mind me asking—has there been anybody you’ve—?”

  “Not really. Viv at work—Ms. Colthurst—you know, who supervises all the gaming-floor waitresses—she’s been sending me a few not-too-subtle signals she might be interested in me.”

  “Do you like her?”

  Ruth shrugged her eyes. “She’s—I don’t know. Maybe I could grow to like her.”

  “You don’t have to settle, you know.”

  “Ain’t you sweet.”

  “Ruth, I have to tell you something.” Cain downed the rest of his mocha as if for fortification.

  “You’re gonna tell me about the bet, aren’t you?”

  “So you know about the bet.”

  Ruth nodded.

  “It’s more like a game, though, really—one of the twisted little games the guys and I play with each other. I hate most of them—this one more than all the rest put together.”

  “Then why do you go along with it?”

  “Blackmail would be the best way to put it. Will walked into the john one day when one of the busboys from the buffet restaurant had me in a—I’ll just say, a compromised position. Will’s using this to force me to play the game. If word gets out, then it could turn into a big scandal that would probably keep my dad from getting re-elected. He’s the district attorney down in Arkabutla County.”

  “This isn’t 1950. What you do is nobody’s business—not your father’s, not any of the people who may or may not be voting for him down at the other end of the state.”

  “But maybe you haven’t noticed: people in Mississippi still act like it’s 1950, and they get off on being affronted and appalled. How’d you figure out the game?”

  “There wasn’t a lot of figuring required. I overheard two of your ‘brothers’ talking about it during our little field trip last week. They couldn’t have been any more forthcoming if they’d deliberately set out to tell me everything I needed to know.”

  It took Cain a moment to recompose himself. “Have you told the others?”

  “Not yet. But I think I probably should, especially after the way that asshole treated Mags. I’m afraid he’s gonna start stalking her.”

  “I could see him doing just that. But I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want another mocha?”

  “Maybe. Tell me your favor first.”

  Cain leaned over and lowered his voice. “I want you to hold off telling Mags and the rest of them what’s going on—for just a little while longer. Jerry and Will and Tommy—even though they wouldn’t have proof it came from me, they’d still pin it on me and then I’d be royally screwed. But that’s just part of the favor.”

  Ruth sat up in her seat. “I’m not gonna sleep with you, Cain, to help you win your game.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to. I just need you to pretend like we did.”

  “Now that sounds like something straight out of the Archie comic books—Millennium edition.”

  “I’m not looking to win the game. Screw the game. I just want to come out of this whole thing in one piece.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure you could have won if you’d tried. Even with Mags and now Carrie off the field, you’ve still got Jane and Molly. Jane’s bat-shit crazy about Tommy—go figure—and Molly seems to be very fond of your friend Pat. And neither of those two, I predict, will be losing their virginity in a quiet way. I see champagne, fireworks, and a real circus atmosphere to the proceedings.”

  “How do you know they’re virgins?”

  Ruth smiled. “We Five have lived disturbingly sheltered lives. Your four friends showed up just as my four friends decided it was time to pack up and sneak out of the convent.”

  Cain took a deep breath. “All right, then, we’re gonna have to really put our heads together to come up with something comparably convincing.”

  Ruth nodded. Cain and Ruth looked at one another for a moment without speaking. Then Cain burst into laughter. He shook his head and said, “This is such bullshit.”

  Ruth grinned. “Do you think?”

  “But I appreciate that you were willing to help me out.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ruth finished off the rest of her caffé mocha. “So what are you gonna do?”

  Cain shook his head. “I don’t know yet. But this shouldn’t be your problem. It was wrong for me to even think of lassoing you into it.”

  Ruth was still smiling. “I wouldn’t have done it for free, Mr. Pardlow. You would have been required to buy me a generous number of mocaccinos and cranberry scones. Don’t those scones look good?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, and get something for yourself. I hate to eat alone.”

  That night, Carrie and Molly sat in the I.C.U. waiting room watching television in the company of a large family whose father had just undergone triple bypass surgery. Even though most of the country was tuned to Suddenly Susan, which had the good fortune to come on after the very popular Friends, Carrie and Molly and the Coombes family of Coldwater, Mississippi, were tuned into a different network—and specifically to a program called Living Single, largely because the character played by Queen Latifah reminded the younger members of the family of their ambitious and outspoken Aunt Vertice.

  It was Carrie who saw him first: standing in the doorway, peering into the room and looking like somebody who wasn’t sure if he was in the right place. She touched Molly on the arm and pointed.

  Molly and Pat made eye contact. He smiled and walked over to where Molly and Carrie were sitting. “Real sorry to hear about your mother,” he said to Carrie, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the rest of the group parked in front of the television.

  Carrie managed a small, appreciative smile.

  “Is the cafeteria downstairs still open? I wanna buy you both a cup of coffee.”

  “You two go on,” said Carrie, making a gentle shooing gesture toward the door. “I should probably stay here.” With a nod to the television: “I think Régine’s mother is about to give her baby the business for being such a terrible snitch.”

  “You got that right, girl!” confirmed Mama Coombes, her eyes never leaving the screen.


  Chapter Sixteen

  Tulleford, England, August 1859

  Lucile Mobry smiled, and in doing so presented seven very bright white teeth and one that was brown and wanted looking after. “Your timing, my dear Maggie, is most impeccable, for only yesterday my brother opened the doors of this house to all the members of our church—did your mother not tell you?—in a long delayed fete of welcome for the new minister. These rooms were filled with such resounding joy and unity of the spirit, and very nearly everything I could seize from the shelves of both our town baker and confectioner to offer as refreshing collation were put to plate. So please, my dear, take another sponge biscuit. We’ve plenty left over, and happily, Ruth is not here to contend with you, for she loves everything that is spongy and clotted and savoury and sweet. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  Maggie nodded, whilst effecting a look that was the living portrait of “The Girl Who Tried Very Hard to Look as if She Were Smiling.”

  “By the way,” said Mobry, “where is our inveterately famished niece? Was she detained by Mrs. Colthurst when all the rest of you were released at noon?”

  “Do you not know?” asked Maggie, and then with a tease, “Should I be the one to tell?”

  “I can very well guess it, Maggie,” said Miss Mobry. “She’s seeing that young gentleman, isn’t she? The one with whom she had such a lovely visit at the South Haven Tea Room only two days ago.”

  Maggie nodded.

  Lucile Mobry continued, “He seems like a most agreeable young man—some name which begins with ‘P,’ and we are eager to meet him, especially if Ruth is considering the possibility of a lasting attachment.”

  “As for lasting attachment, Miss Mobry, I cannot answer. But you have nonetheless guessed his identity. It is Mr. Pardlow, who works in the mill.” Maggie subsided into her chair and took a nibble upon the proffered sponge biscuit of earlier mention.

  Mr. Mobry cleared his throat and said, “I’m certain our friend Maggie here has numerous things to which she must attend on this Saturday half-holiday, so we shouldn’t long detain her, though your visits to this house, Maggie—with or without Ruth—are always welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said Maggie, nodding and colouring slightly from the generous compliment.

  “You’ve nearly finished your biscuit,” observed Lucile Mobry. “Have a damson tart.”

  Maggie took a damson tart.

  Mobry clasped his hands together, and, in the composed manner of a solicitor with intelligence of some import to convey to his client, he said, “Now. I’ve looked into the matter you brought before me and wish to report that I’ve succeeded in learning a bit of what it is you wish to know.”

  Maggie’s eyelids uplifted in eager anticipation.

  Mobry went on: “I consulted my diary for that period during which the baby—your sister’s twin brother—was put out. Is there any other way to say it? For I do not wish to cast aspersions on your mother. It is no business of mine the reason she and your father could not keep the child.”

  “Mr. Mobry, you may cast all the aspersions you wish, for you would not be alone in questioning why my parents did such a thing. I know the reason, and I forgive my mother for it to the extent to which I’m able, but I would certainly understand if the liberality of my feelings for her, which comes from my having lived with her for so long and observed her in all her moods and dispositions, wasn’t shared by others.”

  “‘Put out.’ There it is, Herbert; the phrase is acceptable. Now, move along.” Lucile seemed at that moment as eager to hear what her brother had to say as was Maggie, and for very good reason: Herbert Mobry had kept Lucile purposefully uninformed about the matter due to a tendency on her part to speak broadly of things out of turn and without her brother’s leave.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mobry. “The family’s name was Caster. Well, it still is, as a matter of fact. Not a family of any great means, but Caster has always been a man of aspiration and promise. An apprentice cheesemonger here in Tulleford, he was set adrift when the cheeseman under whom he worked decided upon retirement to hand the shop over to his daughter.”

  Lucile Mobry shook her head and narrowed her eyes depreciatingly. “To think! A woman selling cheese! Carrying that offensive smell of Stilton and Double Gloucester upon her person like a lunatic’s perfume. Maggie, dearest, do take the almond cake. Your hand seems to want it, the way it’s suspended above the serving plate.”

  Maggie obligingly took the little almond cake and placed it on her own plate next to the little squares of half-nibbled pound cake and cocoa-nut cake.

  “My sister,” said Mobry, in an apologetic tone, “carries her distaste for fragrant cheeses into every possible conversation. As it turned out, the cheesemonger’s daughter died only two years after taking over her father’s shop—which is why she isn’t there still.”

  “She had an abscess of the stomach,” struck in Lucile, “no doubt from consuming mildewed food, which is exactly what I believe strongly fragrant cheeses to be.”

  “Sister, dear—pray may I proceed? Maggie is waiting to hear what I have learnt.”

  “I will remain silent,” replied Lucile, pouting a little from the upbraid. “Please, my dear, take a sweet seedcake and gooseberry tart.”

  Herbert Mobry soldiered on. “The husband—your brother’s new father—took employment here in town wherever he could find it, but then was required by unrelenting near impecuniousness to remove himself and his wife and adopted son to Manchester, where prospects were far better. In fact, he wasn’t there for very long at all before he secured a most promising apprenticeship with a successful Mancunian cheesemonger, and eventually, as I understand it, became a top-sawyer cheeseman himself.”

  “And whatever became of the son?” asked Maggie. “I should so like some day to meet my brother.”

  “I have no doubt you will, dear girl,” said Mobry. “Caster was very prompt in responding to my letter of enquiry, once I was able to learn of his precise whereabouts. He did not give me the name of his grown son, nor where he may be at present, but I warrant it is only a matter of my asking. I have business in Manchester next week, and I will make a point of paying a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Caster to learn these very things.”

  “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Mobry. Up until the point of my discovering the existence of my brother, Jane was the only one of us to have a brother, although she’s hardly taken pride in the family affiliation. The thought that I too should have a brother, and that he should have been raised far removed from the venomous influence of my morally bankrupt father, is a most propitious development. I can scarcely believe it.”

  Miss Mobry took Maggie’s hand and held it firmly. “Do not raise your hopes too high, my darling girl, for there are few brothers who are as exemplary in temperament and disposition as is my brother,” and then with a mischievous wink in that very gentleman’s direction, she codicilled, “except when he should be domineering and officious. But thankfully, such misbehaviour manifests itself infrequently. Please, have another—”

  “I cannot endure another bite,” interrupted Maggie, placing her hand upon her stomach in demonstration of the pain of overindulgence that was more than likely to strike her if she didn’t suspend her bolting of everything Ruth’s aunt was putting before her. Maggie uprose from her chair. “You’ve both been most kind, and I’m quite eager to find out everything there is to know about my brother. Perhaps, if the Casters are willing, I’ll go thither myself.”

  “I would not advise it,” Mobry cautioned. “Allow me first to lay the proper groundwork. It’s a delicate matter to reunite brother and sister when the brother, perhaps just like you, never knew there was a sibling in the picture.”

  Maggie nodded. She departed after accepting compliments on behalf of her mother (in spite of the historical fact of the woman having given away to total strangers the fruit of her maternal loins) and after a promise was made by Mobry to report to Maggie every little tiddle and jot of what he
gleaned from his impending trip to Manchester.

  An hour later, having betaken herself to the town common where the fresh air helped her to think more clearly, Maggie came to rue her accommodating subscription to Mobry’s proposal that his visit to Manchester should precede hers. “After all, he’s my brother!” she proclaimed to the grass and to the shrubberies, “and I have every right to find things out for myself without need of an intermediary. Moreover, if I am to betake myself with all dispatch to that city not so very distant, the trip will prevent me from exchanging harsh words with my mother over why she would ever do such a fell and cruel thing as to give up my brother, and why, once she’d done it, she’d never found need to tell me about it.”

  Whereupon, Maggie rushed home and filled her little hand-portmanteau with a few overnight necessaries, and drew out a sovereign and some silver from the jewellery drawer in her bedroom bureau, and, not wishing to wait for her mother’s return from her after noon visit with Mrs. Forrest, lest she miss the last train to Manchester, Maggie dashed off a note to Mrs. Barton, which said she was going away for the night. Maggie could not keep herself from adding, “to ascertain facts pertaining to my brother, which you should have named years ago, you blatant banisher of boy babies!” But then, thinking the last phrase superfluously hateful and not entirely accurate (there having been only one boy baby at issue, and the blatancy of its banishing having yet to be confirmed), she struck it through.

  At the same time, Carrie could be found at the infirmary, standing next to the bed of her own mother and assisting the doctor and nurse in making the patient as comfortable as possible, for with burns as severe as those sustained by Mrs. Hale, not much more could be done other than the application of ointments and salves and the imposing of the salutary delirium of laudanum to put the sufferer into a state of anesthetic insensibility.