by P. N. Elrod
Escott’s skin was a nice shade of blue and violently puckered with gooseflesh when I took pity and shut off the flow. He shivered like an earthquake and readily accepted the cup when I put it under his nose. He tried to take it but couldn’t get his hands to work right. I held it, and he slurped some in, making an unhappy noise as it burned his tongue.
“He won’t be able to keep that down,” Coldfield observed.
“Which is why he’s in the tub and I’m out here,” I said. Sure enough, the coffee made a sudden reappearance. I turned the cold water on again and flushed everything clear.
Escott squinted blearily at me. “Damn your eyes.”
“You know who I am?”
“Damn your—oh!” He leaned forward, coughing. I kept the water running, but twisted the tap on for the hot. He eventually stopped shivering. I cut the water and offered another cup of coffee. He drank it down, then lay back in the water spray and groaned.
“You awake now?” I asked, drying off with a towel.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Sick?”
“Please don’t say that word.”
I poured more coffee.
“This is wretched stuff,” he complained.
“Sue me. Drink.”
He choked more down.
“You need any help getting dressed?”
“I want to sleep.”
“What a change. You can sleep later. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got company.”
Coldfield waved at him from the door. “Hi, Charles. You look like hell.”
Escott glared at him, then dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping. “Nothing changes.”
“Oh, yes, it does. Are you gonna pull yourself together and get off your ass or do I have to come over and kick it for you? Maybe you’ve forgotten, but you told me a long while back to do exactly that the next time you got stupid. This sure looks to be one of those times.”
“Very well,” he said wearily. “Leave the coffee. Let me work on this.”
I thought he would still need help, but Coldfield signed for me to come along. He was right. Escott had had enough self-induced humiliation for one evening; he didn’t need us around to help him pull on his socks.
We tramped down to the kitchen. Coldfield expressed regret at not snagging a cup for himself.
“I can go up for the pot,” I offered.
“No, give the man some privacy to recover. I’ll make do.” He found a shallow pot, put some water in it, and set it on the stove to heat.
I sat at the kitchen table and watched as he raised the flame on the gas ring to its highest level. Yellow tongues licked up the sides of the pot.
“You’ve seen him like this before, haven’t you?” I asked.
“Too many times to count.”
“When? Back when you were actors?”
He shook his head. “Later. It’s a long story.” He pawed through a drawer and found a tea strainer, setting it next to a coffee cup. “He used to get drunk all the time because of something that happened in Ontario about a dozen years ago.”
“You think it’s related to what’s happened to him now? The shooting?”
“I don’t see how it could be.”
“Something set him off. Tell me. It’s time I heard.”
“That’s up to Charles.”
“Not anymore. Not after the shooting and what he’s done to himself today. Not after the way you reacted when I asked about ‘Raymond.’ Who is he, and why does Charles keep saying he didn’t do something? What’s he talking about?”
“It’s not up to me to tell.”
“Charles can’t and probably won’t, so you’re the only one left. Is it connected to Ike LaCelle?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I read over those files Charles got from his office. LaCelle didn’t catch anyone’s notice until some ten years back. It’s not impossible he’s involved.”
I resisted prodding him again, though the wait was making me crazy. He was working his way around to finally talking; he only just needed to get used to the idea.
The water started to steam. He waited for it to boil, cut the heat, then dropped in a big spoonful of coffee and stirred it around a minute. He poured it into a cup through the tea strainer. From where I was, it smelled good, but it would have a hellish kick for drinking.
Coldfield sat opposite me and grimaced. “I really don’t see how his shooting could have anything to do with what happened back then, but the only times he ever got this kind of stinking drunk was when he thought too much about it. He hasn’t been like this for years, though.”
“Then something today must have brought it all back to him. Come on, tell me what’s going on that I should know about.”
He put his hands around the cup as though to warm them, staring down into the coffee, and heaved a long-drawn, defeated sigh. “All right.”
13
Ontario, Canada, April 1924
THE sausage sandwich had been a mistake.
The afternoon stop of the Hamilton Players at Elkfoot Flats for petrol included just enough time for a late luncheon. Charles W. Escott, second youngest member of the troupe, lavished several coins from the grouch bag hung around his neck on a meal that was meant to last him the rest of the day and into the next. Since joining the acting company six years before, he’d long grown accustomed to the vagaries of touring and knew the only meal you could count on was the one you’d just finished. He ate heavily and well for the money he’d spent, but was now having second thoughts about the last sandwich. Though it had looked and smelled quite toothsome in the tiny café, the sausage had had an odd taste to it, but at the time he’d put that down to the spices. Hunger won out over his usual caution in regard to road meals, and he’d finished every bite.
Now, as the first ominous tendril of nausea caressed his insides, he swallowed thickly and knew things would get worse before they got better. There wasn’t much he could do about it, either, except sweat it through. They were all due to play in Ottawa the following evening and could not be delayed just because of an upset stomach.
Charles was one of the drivers in the little caravan of four cars and a large truck, a job he usually enjoyed. He continued at it, saying nothing about his growing sickness, for the activity kept his mind off the discomforts of his body. Besides, if he stopped, he’d likely lose his place in the car, having to give it up to one of the more senior members of the troupe. That meant bouncing around in the back of the truck with the properties, costumes, and extra luggage, something he literally would not be able to stomach.
The road between Toronto and Ottawa should have been in better condition, but winter had had its way with the surface, creating whole sections to challenge even Mr. Ford’s indefatigable motor cars. About an hour after the last stop, two of them broke down within a mile of each other. One from a cracked axle, the other with bent wheel rims.
The grumbling passengers wearily redistributed themselves into the remaining vehicles without much discussion and proceeded on toward the next village where they hoped to find aid for their stricken transportation. It was crowded in each of the remaining cars as seven people packed themselves into a space more suitable for four. Those that were left had to make do crushed together in the cab of the truck or perched uneasily on top of things in its back.
Spirits were fairly high, though. Their last run had paid well, and the group in Charles’s car entertained themselves exchanging plans on how they would spend their cash once they hit town. Bianca Hamilton, half owner of the company and also its pay mistress, longed to have her hair washed and styled. Cornelius Werner, one of the older leading men, spoke fondly of getting thicker socks. He often voiced complaints, his most frequent one having to do with his constantly cold feet.
Being an actor who suffered from such a condition usually invited numerous obvious jokes from his peers, but for once none of the others indulged in them. During the day there had been a hint of spring in the air, but now with each mile the sky
grew darker and the air a lot colder. They huddled together in their coats, with blankets tucked all around. Outside, wide patches of unmelted snow still covered the ground under the trees, and the scent of it was in the rising wind.
“I think we’re in for it, children,” said Bianca, staring out as the first fat flakes of a new storm spattered wet against the windshield.
Charles kept driving, peering hard through the clacking and inadequate wipers. He turned on the headlights and tried to ignore a cramp twisting his guts. No one noticed the grim cast to his face; they all looked grim. He had to slow as the snowfall got heavier, and he couldn’t see to avoid the more obvious potholes. The overloaded car lurched and swayed along, and after an hour of it they’d barely covered twenty miles.
“This is ridiculous,” Bianca stated. “I’m getting seasick.”
“Freezing and seasick,” said Cornelius, next to her in the front seat.
“It’s a freak blizzard,” added Stan Parmley, whose looks had earned him young romantic leads.
“This late in the season?” asked Bianca.
“That’s why it’s freak. We may have to pull over.”
“Then we’ll freeze to death,” said Cornelius.
Until Bianca ordered otherwise, Charles would continue, though by now his cramping was uppermost in his concerns. He knew he’d have to stop before very long, and that it was likely to be unpleasant and embarrassing.
The wind vigorously buffeted the car, and he had to fight to keep it on the road—which was rapidly disappearing under the fresh layer of snow. After half an hour he could only discern its surface from the rest of the murky landscape because it was somewhat less bumpy.
“Slow down,” said Bianca. “I see a signpost.”
Charles slowed, easy enough to do, but because it was full dark and the headlights were thwarted by thick flurries, he was compelled to get out and walk to the sign to read it. The needle-sharp wind was painful on his exposed face, and the sting did not go away when he returned to the car.
“It said thirty-seven miles to the next town along this stretch,” he told them, raising a disappointed groan. “That’s two, perhaps even three more hours of travel. If I recall correctly, the hamlet of Moose Welts consists of a postal office and a small dry-goods store—both in the same building.”
“No hotels?” asked Raymond Yorke, who had signed with the company only a month before, supplanting Charles as youngest member. Like Stan, he was handsome, but in a rugged American way despite his English-sounding name. He was always in a relentless good humor even in the worst of times. Now he looked soberly apprehensive.
Bianca shook her head, sighing. “We’ve been on this road more than once and have often passed Moose Welts. If you could see it you’d understand why we kept going.”
“I fear our two courses of action,” said Charles, “are to continue all night in this, or turn back. The wind would then be behind us. There’s also a chance the snow might thin out the farther south we retreat from this storm. We can stay at the last village and try again in the morning.”
“I vote we go back,” Cornelius muttered.
“We can’t,” said Bianca. “We have to be at the playhouse or lose our contract.”
“The contract has an ‘act of God’ clause, doesn’t it? This would seem to qualify. No one’s going to come see us because they’ll all be snowed in.”
Bianca still had more argument left and made use of it while the others shivered. Charles leaned against the door in nauseated misery until woken from it by a sharp rapping from outside. He cranked the window down. Clarence Coldfield, the only colored man in the company, peered in.
“What’s the holdup, Bianca?” he asked.
“It’s under discussion.”
“Well, discuss it fast because I’m turning the truck around.”
“You can’t do that!”
“It’s not exactly my decision. Everyone’s cold, tired, and in a bad mood. Henry got out and saw how far to the next stop and started a mutiny. They’re all going back to Elkfoot Flats whether you want it or not, and I might as well be driving them as freeze out here. Your sister’s going along with the rest.” That the other owner of the company was joining the impromptu exodus lent a certain legitimacy to it.
“Just let me talk to them a minute.”
Cornelius put a hand on Bianca’s arm. “Now is not the time for debate. A vote has already been taken.”
This resulted in more animated discussion initiated by Bianca. Clarence frowned at Charles, who was his best friend in the group. “You all right? You look awful.”
“Bit of a bad stomach, is all.”
“It must have spread to the rest of you, then. Listen, don’t wait for Queen Bianca to make up her mind, just turn and follow us out. Henry was already bringing his buggy around.”
Charles nodded and rolled the window back up. A mile later Bianca was still obliviously arguing with Cornelius.
The blizard seemed to ease with the wind behind them, and Charles could better see out the windshield since the snow was no longer hitting them head on. Countless flakes sailed ahead of them, their swift dance in the headlights mocking the car’s snail pace. Charles followed in the tracks left by Henry’s car, and could see nothing at all of the properties truck.
Bianca finally noticed their change of direction, pursed her lips, and sat back in the seat, her body rigid with anger. She was not one to fast forgive when she lost a fight, particularly when she was in the wrong. Everyone else was relieved, though the laughter was somewhat forced when Raymond launched into one of his funny stories. Since he was still new, the others hadn’t yet heard them all. Charles didn’t care about any of it. He would soon have to give in to his cramps by making a short trip to the woods long before they reached Elkfoot Flats.
Then the brake lights of Henry’s car flashed, and Charles had to stop.
“Now what?” asked Stan. They were surrounded by threatening trees swaying in the wind like drunken giants. He was a child of the city and most things to do with the forces of nature made him nervous.
Henry himself came to deliver the bad news. “I lost the truck.”
“What do you mean? Did it break down, too?”
“I mean I lost its trail. Clarence got too far ahead of me, and the snow filled in the wheel ruts I was following. I thought I was still on the road, but we’re on another road and have been for a while.”
The language inspired by this announcement was much less than polite, for when it came to cursing, no ship full of sailors could surpass a company of highly annoyed actors. Charles abstained, having excused himself from the car while the opportunity was available. He knew Bianca was good for at least ten minutes’ worth of recrimination.
Going far enough into the thin woods for some privacy, he was surprised—and highly thankful—to find a looming shape in his path that proved to be an outhouse, complete with a copy of last year’s Sears catalog. He made hasty use of both, and, upon emerging, looked around for any other buildings he reasoned might be nearby.
He returned to the others to report that not all was hopeless. The road Henry had mistakenly taken for the main route actually led someplace, halting at a small, but sturdy hunting cabin. No one occupied it, but there was a store of wood stacked by the door and a substantial fireplace within.
“You broke inside?” asked Bianca, aghast.
“It wasn’t locked. There’s nothing of value there, but it is shelter, and this is an emergency. I suggest we take advantage of it before frostbite sets in.”
His suggestion was universally accepted, for by now even Bianca was too cold for further argument. The two cars plowed through another hundred feet of snow and came to stop in the yard before the cabin.
“How rustic,” Bianca commented, walking in. It was constructed of logs and looked old, but the cracks were well chinked up and the roof was sound.
Space was short in the small structure; there was barely room for the fourteen of them to lie
down on its bare plank floor, but that made it faster to heat once a fire was started. After that, everyone’s humor improved, except for Charles, who could now well and truly succumb to his case of food poisoning.
Someone noticed, of course. Like any other family the members of the company were sensitive to each other’s moods. Several of the more lively girls volunteered to play nursemaid, but Bianca shooed them away and administered a practical bicarbonate of soda in melted snow. She told Charles to stay close to the door so he could escape to the outhouse when necessary. He rolled himself under a borrowed blanket, shivering in a cold sweat but counting his blessings.
He’d been nineteen, recently demobilized from the army, when he’d walked into a London theatrical agency six years earlier looking for work. Times were bad and there were a lot of other young men with the same problem; the chances of an inexperienced hopeful getting a job were nearly zero.
Bianca Hamilton, then a forceful woman of thirty, had just formed The Hamilton Players acting company with her sister Katherine, and both were determined to see it succeed. They were looking to hire a man who was smart, self-possessed, willing to work for a percentage of ticket receipts, and travel to Canada. Their chances were also nearly zero.
Charles had been the only one to come in that day who seemed qualified and able. He was told to pack and be ready to sail by evening. Whether he could act or not was a side issue, for the sisters were of the opinion that it was a teachable skill.
On the voyage over he got to know the people who would become his new family, and they him. Working and training with them, he soon discovered he was clever with props and character makeup, had a gift for memorizing dialogue, and an excellent mind for solving whatever problems arose. In the world of the theater, things went wrong all the time, so he soon became their miracle man.
