Mr. Wicker's Window

by Carley Dawson

  CHAPTER 4

  When Chris came to himself he woke from sleep and lay for a momentwithout opening his eyes. He waited with his usual sense of irritationfor Aunt Rachel's step at the door, and her voice saying, "Get up,Chris! You're late again!" But the step did not come, and feelingrested and hungry, Chris opened his eyes.

  What was this? The high regular walls of his bedroom were not aroundhim, nor the familiar furniture. Chris sat up, rubbing at his eyes asif this would help to clear his vision, and looked about him.

  He was in a narrow bed in a small sunny room. An attic room, it wouldseem to be, for the walls slanted down in different sharp angles fromthe low ceiling to the broad wood planks of the floor. Two dormerwindows projected from the room beyond the roof, making two niches inthe wall across from where Chris lay, and a third window in the wallabove his head showed that the room, as well as being at the top ofthe house, was also at a corner of it. A door was just beyond thefoot of the bed; a chest of drawers and a table with a blue and whiteporcelain wash bowl and pitcher, stood along the farther side. Woodenpegs were placed at hand level here and there, and a rag rug in brightcolors lay on the floor by the bed. The walls were white and thesunlight poured in to dash itself upon the floor and splash up thewalls in irresistible gaiety. There was no doubt about it, bare thoughit was, it was a pleasing room, snug, clean and cheerful, and somehowwell suited to a thirteen-year-old boy. Chris half smiled as helooked, leaning on one elbow, and then his smile faded as he caughtsight of the chair and what it held.

  The only chair in the room was laid with carefully folded clothes. Butthey were not Chris's clothes. Chris jumped out of bed and then lookeddown with a quick startled intake of his breath. He was wearing awhite nightshirt, something he had never even seen before and barelyheard of. The sleeves were long and cuffed, and the nightshirt fell inlinen lines to his feet.

  "Golly Moses!" Chris exclaimed, completely baffled.

  He returned to the examination of the clothes that were obviously laidout for him. There was a fine white shirt with full sleeves andturned-back cuffs. White cotton stockings; knee breeches of ablue-gray worsted material, and matching frock coat with silver carvedbuttons. Below the chair, Chris saw, was a pair of black leather shoeswith polished silver buckles.

  "Fancy dress, huh?" Chris murmured, and then, as if he had beenslapped into full awareness, came the remembrance of the eveningbefore, of Mr. Wicker, and of the dark flickering shop.

  Chris sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed, his mouth, in spiteof all his efforts, drawn down at the corners, and his eyes blank withconfusion and misery.

  "Oh my golly!" Chris said, and stared at the clothes he still held inhis hands.

  Then another idea struck him, and he jumped up to run to the nearestdormer window, the floorboards, where the sun had lain on them, warmunder his bare feet.

  But no. No freeway, no factories. The window looked out over WaterStreet, skirting the edge of the Potomac banks, and there belowChris's amazed eyes rose a forest of masts and spars of ships atanchor along the shore. Water Street, below him, was swarming withactivity, but not the activity that Chris had previously known. Mendressed in the same sort of clothes as those laid out for him pushedat cotton bales, rolled hogsheads along to the docks, or rowed out toships anchored in midstream. Most of the stevedores were hatless, andChris snickered at the sight of the short braid of hair at the napesof their necks. Many wore brilliant scarves tied around their heads,red, or mustard-yellow or green, and the sound of deep voicesswearing, laughing, or rising in unfamiliar sea chanteys excited Chrisand sent the blood tingling along his veins.

  He rushed to the high-placed window overlooking Wisconsin Avenue. NoKey Bridge was to be seen in the distance, only stretches of fieldsand orchards, scattered with occasional houses of russet brick, andwhen he craned his neck there was the inn where the People's Drugstoreought to be, the sign swinging high above the road.

  Wisconsin Avenue! Chris had to laugh. If it could see itself! Only awide muddy road full of ruts and puddles, along which someone's lineof geese was waddling, impervious to the cursing of passing cartersand riders on horseback. A little below him Chris could see the twoold warehouses he remembered from the night before. But now theylooked quite new, their bricks bright and their walls solid. Barrelswere being lifted by the winch and tackle into the upper loft, andChris watched the busy scene for quite some time.

  His rolling stomach and a simultaneous smell of food reminded him ofhis hunger. Dressing quickly in the strange new clothes, he opened thedoor and peered outside.

  His bedroom door was at the top of a narrow curling stair that twistedaway to the left out of sight. It was steep, and Chris stood silentand intent on the top step, listening. A deep woman's voice loudlysinging, "Farewell and Adieu, to you, Spanish ladies--" came rollingup the stairwell to the accompaniment of a brisk clatter of pots andpans. What rose also to Chris's nostrils was a smell of newly bakedbread, frying bacon, and woodsmoke, and the combination put an end tohis indecision. For a while he decided to call a truce to any attemptat solving the mystery in which he found himself, and following hisnose, went softly down the stairs.

  Rounding the last turn of the staircase, Chris remained in its shadowwhile he stared with unbelieving eyes at the room and figure beforehim. If this is a dream, he said in himself, it's the best one I'veever had--the very best!

  What confronted Chris was Mr. Wicker's kitchen. This room took upalmost all of the side wing of the house. Across from Chris twocasement windows showed the shrubs and flowers and white picket fenceof Mr. Wicker's garden, and at his left was the back door opening ontoWater Street, flanked by two smaller windows. These seemed mostinviting, each possessing a window seat from which one could watchthe busy comings and goings of the docks, with a view of the shipsbeyond.

  But what drew Chris's eyes and made them grow round with wonder wasthe extraordinary figure in front of the fireplace. The vast, deeplyset fireplace was in the wall that faced the back door. So deep itwas, that there was even a bench on one side of it, and over thesmoking logs were hung all manner of trivets, spits, and cookingirons. It was, in short, a fireplace such as Chris had never dreamedof. Yet the tall buxom woman stirring the hissing pots and singing toherself was what held Chris rooted to the last step of the atticstair.

  The woman stood easily six feet, broad and brawny enough to be a matchfor almost any man. Countless yards of sprigged cotton must have goneinto the making of her dress, to say nothing of her apron. A massivefichu of freshly laundered muslin went around her neck and was tuckedinto her bodice; a white turban was on her head, but on top of theturban--! Chris simply could not believe his eyes as he countedrapidly. On top of this amazing woman's head was a gigantic hatsupporting twenty-four roses and twelve waving black plumes! Chris'sjaw dropped at the sight of the turbaned, hatted head, the flowersbobbing and swaying, the ostrich plumes blowing and curtseying withevery slightest movement.

  As if blissfully unaware that her costume was not the usual one forcooking, the woman hummed and stirred, tasted, and hung up her ladle.But the sight was too much for Chris. Before he could stop it a shoutof laughter exploded from his lips. He laughed and laughed, and theindignant expression on the woman's face when she turned, to standglaring at him with her hands on her jutting hips, only added toChris's laughter. At last, sobering up somewhat as he realized thathis behavior was rude, to put it mildly, Chris stopped and caught hisbreath, shaken only now and again by a diminishing paroxysm. Seeingthe spark of bad temper in the red face of the enormous woman, Chrisdecided to pour oil on the troubled waters.

  "Good morning, ma'am. I--I'm Chris Mason, from upstairs, and I'm sorryI laughed so loud. I--" he floundered and grabbed desperately at anypassing idea "--I saw something comical out the window there"--hepointed wildly--"and it just set me off. I hope I didn't disturb you?"

  Mollified, though not entirely, the woman accepted this effort atpeacemaking and her face eased a little.

  "Well now. So you are aw
ake at the last, eh? And hungry, bein' a boy,I don't doubt?"

  She moved to the dresser and took down a mug and plate, the roses andostrich plumes nodding in evident agreement.

  "So you are Chris, did you say? Christopher, that would be? And I amMistress Rebecca Boozer, should you be wanting to know. Becky Boozer,they call me."

  She bustled over to a covered bowl, dipped out creamy milk with along-handled dipper, and set bread, butter, and bacon in front ofChris at a table pulled up to one of the window seats.

  "Eat up now, young man," Becky Boozer advised, every red rose andfeather accenting her words, "for Mr. Wicker will be wanting to seeyou when you have done. It's late. Past eight of the clock." Sheglanced out the window. "It might be just possible that Master Cilleywill be passing by before long for a midmorning snack and here I amgossiping with you instead of getting on with my work."

  Chris ate with a will, looking around as he chewed. The spotless brickfloor and the starched curtains at the windows, the shining copperpans hung beside the huge fireplace, were proof of Becky Boozer'shousekeeping.

  "Don't you have an icebox?" Chris asked, his mouth full.

  "What may that be?" Becky asked sharply.

  "To keep the food cool," Chris answered.

  Becky stopped to consider this, her hands on her hips. "We have alarder on the cool side of the house, if that be what you mean," shetold him, nodding. "Keeps the food pretty well up to April or May.Then the heat makes everything go. Oh! This heat! Prosperity,Maryland, where I come from, and on the sea coast as it is, was neverlike this!"

  A table with a wooden tub and dishes stacked nearby caught Chris'seye. Buckets of water stood beneath the table, and presently BeckyBoozer took off a small pot of steaming water from a hook above thefire, poured it in the tub, and dipped cold water from one of thebuckets into it.

  What a system! Chris thought as he watched Becky busy with her dishes,thinking of the neat white kitchen he knew at home.

  Aloud he said: "If you had a little wooden trough that led from thattub out through the window there, you could pull out a bung when youwere ready and the water would run outdoors. It would save youcarrying that great tub about, when you are in a hurry."

  Becky Boozer rested her soapy hands on the edge of the tub and lookedat him admiringly over her shoulder.

  "I would never have thought it," she said, "by the look of you. Neverin this world. You have brains, young lad, that's what you have. Abetter idea than that I never heard! Indeed, it is just what I havebeen a-needin' since years, and that simple I might have thought itout myself! I shall set Master Cilley to work on it when he comes.He's right handy with tools, is Ned Cilley."

  At this moment a short knock sounded on the back door, and an instantchange came over Becky Boozer. It was impossible to imagine thatanyone as ponderous as Becky could be coy, but at the sound of theknock, this is what she became. Wiping her hands hastily on one ofmany petticoats, she pushed and pulled at her hat (which remainedimmovable), straightened her fichu, and smoothing her dress, sheminced her huge bulk to the door with a welcoming smile.

  A little man scarcely higher than Becky's barrel waist, with a rollingsea gait and twinkling blue eyes, bounced into the room and strainedup on tiptoe toward Miss Boozer's blushing cheek. Chris, behind theopened door, had not yet been perceived.

  "Come now, Becky me love!" shouted Cilley the sailor in a good-humoredroar, "How can I start the day right 'thout a kiss from my Boozer?"

  Becky blushed and simpered and cast down her eyes. "Get along withyou, Cilley! What a way to behave," she admonished, delighted andabashed. "See--there's company here."

  She pushed her suitor off with an elephantine shove and gestured toChris.

  Chris was feeling the contagion of laughter catching up with him againat the scene he had watched, and was glad when the sailor turned andcame over to where he sat.

  "A visitor, eh? Well, well. Off a ship?"

  "No--no!" Becky put in quickly, and gave Chris a look. "No. He is afriend of the master's, from--" she searched her mind--"from anotherpart of the country. He got here last night and slept late, as yousee."

  "Indeed and indeed!" said the sailor, settling himself comfortably,and as if for a long stay, in his chair and observing Chris throughhis keen blue eyes. "Well, young man," he announced genially, "I amCilley," he said, and stretched out a hard brown hand.

  "Christopher Mason," Chris said in return, and they solemnly shookhands, taking account of each other as men do when they meet.

  "I shall sit here, Mistress Becky, by your leave," Cilley called out,as if Becky Boozer were a mile away, "to keep this lad company, as itwere."

  "So you shall!" Becky answered warmly, smiling broadly, wrinkles ofpleasure at the corners of her eyes. "And could I tempt you with amorsel, Master Cilley?"

  Ned Cilley appeared to consider this invitation from all sides beforehe gave his reply, cocking his head on one side like a parrot as hereflected. Finally, he answered.

  "How could I refuse when I know your fame as a cook?" he said with asmile at Becky and a wink at Chris, and put his horny forefinger andthumb the distance of a thread apart. "But a crumb, Mistress Becky. Amorsel. A taste. Just to pay my respects to your art, as it were."

  Then such a commotion took place in the kitchen. Chris watchedflabbergasted, as Becky set before Cilley a meat pie, a large cheese,fruit preserves, two kinds of bread, cakes and cookies, latticedtarts, and pickles in jars. And with a beaming smile Becky drew froma cask a jugful of ale which she set down on the table with a thud.

  "Just a morsel, Master Cilley," she said, adding in a coaxing tone,"Try just a taste, to please me."

  Ned Cilley, his eyes winking with anticipation and smacking his lips,attacked the meat pie and the cheese, tarts and pickles, with a will.

  "Here--try this," he urged Chris, heaping the boy's plate as lavishlyas his own, and the two ate in silence and gusto while Becky stood bywith roses and feathers bobbing.

  "You must keep your strength up, Ned Cilley," she admonished, "for'tis a hard life that you lead," she warned him.

  Ned paused long enough to swallow. "Aye, that it is, that it is!" heagreed, wagging his head, champing his jaws, and digging into thefood. "A hard life, has a sailor," Ned said with an effort at sorrow,which failed signally, and he took a great draught of the ale.

  After a while Cilley slowed, wiped his mouth with his hand and leanedback in his chair, rolling a dazed eye at the anxious face of thewaiting Becky Boozer.

  "Mistress Boozer," he announced, "I am a new man." He heaved a sigh ofrepletion. "You have saved me again. Ah! Mistress Becky, what atreasure you are!"

  Becky curtsied and giggled, her fabulous hat shaking as if with asecret all its own. Just then a bell tinkled, at the end of thekitchen passage.

  "That will be the master," Becky said, bustling away. Then she turned."I shall be back, Master Cilley! I pray you, do not leave!"

  Chris seized his opportunity. "Please, Master Cilley," he asked,leaning across the empty plates in his interest, "Why does she wearthat queer hat?"

  Master Cilley cocked an eye at the boy before him, picked comfortablyat his teeth with an iron nail which he took from his pocket, andloosened his belt buckle.

  "Ah!" he said, "So you've not heard? Quick, then, I shall tell you,for that is truly a tale."

  The sailor stretched back in his chair, one hand holding the mug ofale. His short nose and red, wind-burned cheeks seemed to share thejoke with his eyes as he finally leaned forward across the table withan air of conspiracy.