Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  Jemmy walked slowly into the kitchen to face Randy and Dora. The three walked to the back porch in silence as if they were marching to the gallows. Randy set a coal-oil lamp on the ice box and turned up the wick.

  Jemmy had observed the demise of chickens, but she’d never had to kill one. Gerta had always been a most efficient executioner. She would wring their necks. Jemmy had often seen her grab hold of the head in her powerful hands and twirl until the headless body flew off to flop in the grass of the backyard.

  This turkey weighed twenty pounds or more. She doubted even Gerta’s work-hardened muscles could twirl that heavy body. In a hushed voice, she asked, “What’s the best way?”

  Dora said, “My grandmother just stepped on the bird’s neck and pulled the body right off.”

  Jemmy brightened. “Perfect. Go ahead, Dora. Do it.”

  “Me right arm is broke, doncha know. Got no strength to speak of in my left. You’ll have to do it.”

  Randy piped in, “Why don’t we chop off its head with a hatchet? Stay right here. I’ll get one from the carriage house.”

  In seconds she was back—not with a dainty hatchet, but with a full-sized ax. “I couldn’t find a hatchet, but we can use this.”

  “Just how do you think this ax will get the job done?”

  “You hold the turkey’s head, and I’ll chop it off.”

  “Not me, Randy. I’m not risking my fingers to your aim with an ax you can barely lift. Look how little the bird’s neck is.”

  “Then I’ll hold the head, and you use the ax. Go ahead. I’m not afraid.”

  “No. I’d rather eat bread and water for Thanksgiving than risk maiming my sister for life.”

  At that, the big tom turkey added his own two cents. He flapped his wings and tried to stand upright on his tied-together legs as if to say, “Well, if you three can’t put on a better execution than this, I’ll just take my business elsewhere.”

  He had very nearly managed to right himself when Randy’s stubborn streak took over. She commanded, “Dora, go stand on the concrete step by the cellar door. Jemmy, bring the lamp. Dora’s going to stand on the head. You and I will each grab a drumstick and pull.”

  When all three were ready, Randy spoke to the big tom. “I appreciate your patience with us this morning. I want you to know that we’ve never had a more handsome bird for Thanksgiving. Goodbye, Mr. Turkey.”

  Randy stretched his neck out by his red wattles so Dora could get a good foothold on the head. “Yank as hard as you can Jemmy—then throw him toward the fence. We don’t want blood on our skirts if we can help it.”

  The first attempt was a total disaster. Dora’s foot slipped off the head. Randy and Jemmy chucked the tom a good fifteen feet in the air. It banged against the wooden fence. Clearly annoyed by another bout of incompetence, the bird squawked and gobbled in protest.

  “What happened, Dora?”

  “I’m plum off balance without me right arm. I need something to brace meself, but the house is too far away.”

  Randy trotted back to the carriage house and returned with a long-handled spade. “Will this do?”

  Dora got a grip on the spade and nodded. Once again Randy pulled out the bird’s head for Dora to step on. When Dora nodded that she was ready, Randy and Jemmy each bent down to grab a leg.

  “On three. One—two—three.” Randy and Jemmy heaved with all their might, but old tom’s head stayed firmly affixed to his body. It was Dora who hit the ground. The act of pulling at the bird’s body knocked her clean off her feet.

  This time the bird didn’t bother to flop. He only made a feeble gobble as if to resign himself to being abused indefinitely.

  They stood Dora up and brushed her off. Randy said, “Maybe we should use the ax after all.”

  This time it was Jemmy who took control. “No, Randy’s plan is a good one. We simply have to make it work. If it takes all morning, we shall succeed.”

  Jemmy drove the spade into the ground to make a solid brace for Dora. Once again Dora planted a foot on the turkey’s head while the girls pulled at the body. This time they kept right on pulling until the bird separated into two parts. Of course, the poor bruised body was too exhausted to flop for long.

  Not until the bird came to rest by the fence did Jemmy notice the morning chill or the blood on her skirt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thursday Morning, Thanksgiving Day, November 24, 1898

  Randy brought a dishpan and a kettle of boiling water to loosen the turkey’s feathers. Plucking them out and singeing off pinfeathers over an open flame took the better part of a half hour.

  To Jemmy’s surprise, Randy volunteered for the smelly job of gutting the turkey and cleaning the edible innards. “I appreciate your willingness to take on such an ugly job. You’ve been a real trouper this morning.”

  “I’ve always been curious about what’s on the inside of animals and people. Besides, I let big tom down, and I’m trying to make it up to him.”

  Jemmy didn’t know what to make of that, but she was glad to let Randy deal with the bird’s insides. She rinsed the body in salt water while Dora lit the oven. She tied the legs together with string while Dora brushed butter over the bird. At last it was ready for the roasting pan. Jemmy wanted nothing quite so much as a nice nap, but getting the bird in the oven was just the first chapter in what promised to be a long, long day.

  Randy, Jemmy, and one-handed Dora brought a new standard of teamwork to breakfast at Bricktop. They fed the boarders and the sickroom patients. Already tired, they could sit down to enjoy their own cinnamon toast and canned peaches.

  Jemmy stopped in mid-mouthful. The realization hit her. The turkey had already been in the oven for more than an hour. It was just seven thirty in the morning—yet it felt more like eight thirty at night. Jemmy marveled at how easily Gerta turned out three meals a day, every day except Sunday. With twelve or more people at every sitting, Gerta dished up more than two hundred meals a week.

  The rest of the morning flew by with preparations—chopping celery and onions and cubing stale bread for dressing, peeling sweet potatoes, grinding cranberries and oranges for relish. The feast came together in fine fashion. Jemmy crossed her fingers the boarders didn’t miss Gerta’s knack for seasoning.

  At last, the potatoes were mashed, the giblet gravy thickened, and the heavy cream for the pumpkin pie whipped. Randy dipped a finger in the potatoes and crowed, “Better than Gerta’s.”

  “Let’s hope the boarders agree.” Jemmy blew kisses to her sister and hustled upstairs to change into her Sunday-go-tomeeting dress.

  All spruced up, she stopped outside the parlor to smooth her hair and listen to the voices. She peeked in to see boarders sipping hot mulled cider and chatting with their guests—all except Mrs. Hendershot, who sat alone in the corner.

  Jemmy picked up the gong mallet and was just about to call everyone to dinner when the doorbell rang. All the other boarders’ guests had arrived. Who could be at the door?

  Standing on the porch in his Sunday best was none other than Jemmy’s own photographer-bodyguard Hal Dwyer. “Sorry to interrupt your holiday, but I thought tomorrow might be too late.” He handed her a packet wrapped in brown paper and turned to walk away.

  A thunderbolt of an idea slammed into Jemmy’s head. “Wait, Hal. Don’t go. You could do something wonderful for a sad and lonely woman.”

  Hal turned back and blinked twice. “I didn’t know you had begun to take a romantic interest in me.”

  “Not me, you fool.” Jemmy slid out onto the porch and closed the door gently. “You could bring such joy to a lonely old woman. She insists that her nephew is coming from Belgium. But there’s no nephew. She has no one. If you could pretend for just a little while, it would do her no end of good.”

  “I’d like to help out, but—”

  “Please, please. Have dinner with us. Everything is ready. I’ve never known a time when you would turn down food—turkey, pumpkin pie with whipped cream,
all the trimmings. Just for an hour, pretty please.”

  “I’d do it, Jemmy, but I’m not alone.” He waved at the girl with bouncy, light brown-colored curls on his yellow-green tandem bicycle. Miss Lucine Leimgruber waved back.

  “Wonderful! Mrs. Hendershot’s nephew is married.”

  “Hold on, Jemmy. We’re supposed to be at Lucy’s aunt’s home by two.”

  “Not a problem. You’ll be out of here in good time.”

  He took her arm and muttered between partly closed lips, “I wanted a little time alone with Lucy.”

  “Shame on you. Miss Leimgruber is a nice girl.”

  “To talk, just to talk.”

  “You have days and weeks and months and years to talk with Lucy. You only have now to be a godsend to a sad, sad lady.”

  Hal sighed. “I give. But only if you can talk Miss Lucine into it.”

  Jemmy rushed down the steps and embraced Lucy. “Miss Leimgruber, I’m thrilled to see you here because I know you are a Good Samaritan. I see it in your eyes. You could never deny aid to a poor soul in distress. Tell me you’ll help. I beg you.”

  “Well, if you put it like that, how can I refuse?”

  “Perfect. As I was telling Hal, Mrs. Hendershot has told everyone her nephew and his wife from Belgium are coming for dinner, but there is no nephew. How generous you two would be to play those parts—just through dinner—just for an hour. You’d bring more happiness than you could ever know to a sweet, sad old lady.”

  “We’ll do it.” Lucy leaned the bicycle against a lamppost. “Tell us all you can about Belgium.”

  Lucy beamed. Jemmy beamed. Hal rolled his eyes.

  Jemmy crooked her arms through Hal’s and Lucy’s and guided them into the house. On the way she told them what little she knew about Mrs. Hendershot’s imaginary nephew.

  As the trio stood in the parlor doorway, she announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce Mrs. Hendershot’s guests, her nephew from Brussels, Mr. Harold Hendershot, and his lovely wife, Lucine.”

  Under her breath, Lucy asked, “Which one is she?”

  Jemmy put an arm around her waist and steered her to the old lady.

  Lucy kissed Mrs. Hendershot on both cheeks and emoted, “Nana Hendershot, I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Hal kissed the old lady, too, but he drew his lips away as fast as if she’d been a wet bar of lye soap. Jemmy couldn’t hear what he said, but it must have pleased Mrs. Hendershot. The old lady stood on tiptoe and took Hal’s face in both hands. She planted a big, wet kiss smack on Hal’s lips.

  Purple streaks raced up his ears like red berry juice up poke stems in summer. Jemmy could see he longed to wipe the slobbers off his face but didn’t dare. Mrs. Hendershot hugged them both as a gusher spouted from her eyes. Her emotion swept across the room until every eye—even Jemmy’s—shed at least a few tears.

  Lucy fetched her hanky and dabbed at her eyes. She gave Hal a look of warning. He got the message and fetched up his own handkerchief and offered it to Mrs. Hendershot—without even wiping a stray tear from his own face.

  Lucy gave Hal another “look” until he put his arms around Mrs. Hendershot. She wept silently into his shoulder. This show of familial tenderness seemed to please Lucy, Mrs. Hendershot, and everyone in the room except Hal. All the same, he gamely put on a smile while Mrs. Hendershot soaked his lapels.

  Jemmy excused herself to bang the dinner gong. With more than a little pride, she slid open the dining-room pocket doors to reveal the festive table with its unusual centerpiece of turkey tail feathers. She escorted the newly minted Hendershot family to one side with Mrs. H. between Hal and Lucy.

  While Jemmy said grace, she surprised herself with the emotion she felt. She truly meant each word. The struggle of bringing dinner to the table had given her a brand new view of what it means to give thanks.

  Jemmy presided over the feast. She carved the turkey not into elegant, thin slices, but odd-shaped chunks. Still, she managed to carve the bird without cutting herself—or anyone else. Randy and Dora waited table and served turkey soup and toast to the flu sufferers in the back room.

  The food might not have had Gerta’s deft touch with seasonings, but it was palatable enough to receive a good bit of praise. Mrs. Hendershot declared she preferred dressing without oysters. In short, the dinner was a resounding success, thanks to the multitude of setbacks the girls overcame in preparing it.

  All through dinner, Lucy chatted away to Mrs. H. When anyone spoke to Hal, he stuffed a fresh forkful of food into his mouth.

  By the time each bite of pumpkin pie had found its way into an already overstuffed stomach, Jemmy had to stifle a yawn. A nap would be a fine thing, but piles of dirty dishes needed washing, and leftovers needed tending.

  What’s more, Hal had cast a pleading look in her direction on three separate occasions. At length Jemmy took the hint. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am more gratified than I can say to have you join me on this day of giving thanks. I would be overjoyed to linger, but I have duties to attend. Please stay at table as long as you wish. I’ll bring out fresh coffee and seconds on pie for those who still have room. I’d be happy to serve it to you in the parlor if you would find that room more comfortable.”

  Hal jumped up from the table faster than a jack-in-the-box. Jemmy thought he would bolt straight out the front door if he could pry Lucy away from Mrs. H.

  Jemmy’s admiration for Lucy rose higher by the minute. She helped Mrs. Hendershot stand and walked arm in arm with her into the hall. The celebration of new-found relations concluded with at least a half-dozen tearful hugs. As she walked out the door, Lucy promised the couple would visit as often as they might before they had to return to Belgium. Jemmy patted Mrs. H.’s hand and walked her back to the dining room.

  By then most of the company had risen. Some meandered off to the parlor to play chess or backgammon. Mrs. Hendershot suggested a whist game and found three like-minded souls. Jemmy’s little deception had worked wonders on the old lady’s attitude.

  Jemmy couldn’t help feeling proud. I’ll have to think of something nice to do for Hal.

  Jemmy started on chores while Dora and Randy ate. Not until after the last dish was dried did she remember the brown paper packet Hal had brought.

  One look at the contents cleared Jemmy’s head. All weariness evaporated. She had less than an hour to get ready and locate some means of transportation. With a little luck, Jemmy would soon be in the right place to find answers. Handsome Harry Benson, Pervia Benigas, John Folck, Sassy Patterson—get ready. Jemima McBustle is going to find out what you know about the death of Quisenberry Sproat.

  She sashayed to the kitchen, where Dora was rubbing her arm through its sling. Randy sat with head down on the kitchen table. “Put on a nice frock, Randy. You wouldn’t want to miss the program at Mary Institute.”

  “Why would I want to go to Mary I on a day when I don’t have to?”

  “You know full well the girls will gossip about you behind your back.”

  “Let them. I’ve given them plenty of ammunition. The day I arrived, they were already looking down their noses at the poor girl whose mother takes in boarders.”

  “But today is special—the Thanksgiving matinee program.”

  Randy shot Jemmy a glare that could set paper on fire.

  “Auntie Dee says you’ll get an excellent education, excellent social contacts, and that public school won’t turn you into a proper lady. Mary Institute can and will.” Randy sat with her jaw set like a pug dog of Chinese porcelain. “Get up and get ready to go. You get demerits for not attending.”

  “Don’t you think I know? I’m hoping to get so many, they boot me out of that miserable place. I’d much rather go to public school.”

  “Nonetheless, you and I are going.”

  “Be sensible. We’d never get there in time if we walk.”

  Jemmy had to chuckle at Randy’s demand to be sensible. Being sensible to Randy meant eating dessert first because a
tornado might strike during the meal. “I’m calling on a friend to take us.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone I’d rather not even speak to, but someone who lives nearby, someone I think I can persuade to provide transportation.”

  As Jemmy picked up the telephone, guilt clawed up her spine. She looked behind her to see if Mother might be glaring at her. Mother would surely leave her sickbed to keep her daughter from making a forbidden personal call.

  A tinny voice said in a lilt, “Number please.”

  Jemmy answered as loudly as she dared, “I’m sorry I don’t know the number. I’m trying to call the Ploog residence on Albion Place. I wish to speak to Mr. Peter Ploog.”

  Mr. Bell’s invention worked. A Ploog maid said she’d fetch Mr. Peter.

  “Hello, Peter. This is Jemima McBustle.”

  “You sure are full of surprises, Jemmy.”

  “I know it’s an imposition, but I’d be forever in your debt if you would escort my sister and me to the Thanksgiving matinee at Mary Institute.”

  “You mean today? Right now?”

  “Yes, I know my asking is downright rude, especially on such terribly short notice. Ordinarily, I would have made arrangements in advance. We’ve had such turmoil here I didn’t believe we could manage an amusement. But Miranda has been begging. You know she will earn demerits if she doesn’t attend.”

  “I’d love to help, but my family expects—”

  Jemmy cut him off. “I believe Sassy Patterson will be there.”

  “I’ll be at your house in fifteen minutes.”

  On the way across town in Peter’s phaeton, he asked, “Are you sure Sassy will be there?”

  “No one can ever be sure about Sassy, but she said she’d see me there. That was on Tuesday, I think.”

  He answered by flicking the buggy whip over his pacer’s ear. The shiny black gelding accelerated from trot to canter.

  At Mary I, ushers rushed the trio into the recital hall. They had to sit at the back because the matinee had already begun. Pervia Benigas’s fingers flew across the keys in some extraordinarily showy and impossibly difficult piano piece by Franz Liszt.