Stealing home, p.9
Stealing Home, page 9
Now Ellie Jane could turn her attention to the remaining three men.
“So, Pop,” she planted her hands on her hips, “is this to be our new regime? Turning our home into some kind of gentlemen's club while I'm at work all day?”
“Maybe that's not such a bad idea,” her father said, and for the first time Ellie Jane noticed that he too, was smoking one of Mr. Dennison's detestable cigars. “What do you say, Ned?”
Ned didn't say anything. He'd stood the moment Ellie Jane walked into the yard, but now he was staring at the ground between his feet. Her father reached his foot out to give him a nudge, and Ned looked up—straight up at Ellie Jane—and smiled.
She offered a short-lived, tight-lipped smile in return and twisted her head away to talk to Mr. Dennison. “I suppose this is all your doing.”
“You know, Miss Voyant, that's pretty rude to turn your head like that. If he can't see your face, old Ned here doesn't know what you're saying.”
“I know that.” Ellie Jane repositioned herself. “I'm just surprised that Ned and my father were able to take time out of their busy schedules to accommodate your playtime.” She spoke so loud the neighbors from two houses down might have heard her, and she stretched her lips and craned her neck, exaggerating each word for Ned's benefit.
“It's all right,” Ned said in that odd, high-pitched nasal voice of his. “I should get home to supper.”
“You're welcome to join us for supper here.” Her father gestured meaningfully as he spoke.
She forced herself not to reach out and silence his hands. Wasn't there enough wagging gossip? Now, to force an evening with Ned Clovis of all people? But to rescind her father's offer would be insufferably rude, and she tried to force her face into one of pleasant anticipation, but it was too late.
Ned apparently noted her look of abject displeasure. His eyes met hers—and held them. Those few seconds marked the longest conversation she'd had with Ned since they were children, and his reassuring smile brought it to a close.
“No, thank you,” he said, not breaking his gaze. “Some other time?”
Ellie Jane didn't respond right away. First, there was the issue of deciphering Ned's peculiar speech, and second, the shock at his bold self-invitation. Before she could answer—by nodding or shaking her head—her father clapped Ned on the shoulder, saying, “Any time, young man. Any time,” as he walked with him out of the yard.
Once the two men got to the corner of the house, Ned turned around and looked at Ellie Jane one more time, smiled, and offered a little wave, just as he did every time he saw her at church, around town, or at the railroad station. And, just as she did on all those occasions, Ellie Jane waved back. But now her fingers lingered in the air a little longer, and she heard herself saying, “Bye, Ned,” long after he had turned his head back around.
“So,” Mr. Dennison's voice came from over her shoulder, “you two long-lost sweethearts?”
“Ned Clovis and I?” Ellie Jane said, buying time to settle her face before turning around. “Don't be ridiculous.”
He hadn't bothered to stand when she walked into the yard, and here he still sat, his cigar clamped in his mouth, squinting up at her.
“Well, I think it's pretty obvious he's sweet on you. Seemed happy enough to be in your backyard.”
“And you don't think the fact that he's playing catch with the famous Duke Dennison has anything to do with that? Given that opportunity I should think every man in town would soon find his way here.”
Mr. Dennison laughed and leaned forward in his chair. “If that's what you want, Miss Voyant, I'm sure it could be arranged.”
“No, it is not.” Ellie Jane stood her ground, despite the flush growing on her face and the intense desire to run inside. “Having one is quite enough.”
“One meaning Ned? Or me?”
Now this really was too much, as there was no mistaking the lascivious glint to his eye, so she spun on her heel to leave, only to realize her foot was caught in a tiny hole. Instead of the regal, intolerant exit she had planned, she found her body bent into a graceless corkscrew.
Worse than that, she felt Mr. Dennison's strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding her fast until she was on solid ground with both feet facing the same direction. Unfortunately, that direction brought her just inches away from his smirking face.
“And here we are again,” he said. She could smell the cigar on his breath and found it wasn't as repulsive as she'd imagined.
“Yes.” She dislodged herself from his grip. “Just imagine how freely I could move through life if you weren't lurking at my every turn.”
She had little more than a breath's time to regret how inhospitable she must sound before the man's smirk turned into a smile, then a laugh, before the cigar was clamped between his perfect teeth. “Well, then, I guess that answers my question. Ned it is.”
Her body turned to prickling fire. “You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Oh, I'm a pretty good judge of character. I think old Ned would love to have a chance to sweep you off your porch some Saturday night.”
“You couldn't be more wrong.”
“You've never noticed the way the man looks at you?”
“Of course he looks at me, Mr. Dennison. The entire town looks at me! Because of Ned Clovis, I can't walk down the street without people clearing their path.”
Ellie Jane noticed a slight flare to Mr. Dennison's nose, a hard glint in his eye.
“What did he do to you?”
“Nothing.” She wished she'd allowed their conversation to continue on a harmless, flirtatious path. Then again, maybe if Mr. Dennison knew the whole story, he'd refrain from involving her in this type of conversation again. So with a heavy heart, and a heavier sigh, she took a step back to gather her thoughts. “It's nothing he did to me. It's what I did to him.”
Mr. Dennison took out his cigar and let loose a low whistle between his teeth. “Broke his heart, did you?”
“Something like that,” she said, surprised at the chuckle behind the words. She'd never thought of any of this as funny before. “More like I broke his ears.”
Now that wiped the smugness off the man's face. He took two steps backward and dropped into the chair; the rattan stems squeaked in protest against the sudden weight.
“Tell me.” He gestured to the chair across from him, and without question she obeyed.
“We were children,” Ellie Jane began, taking herself back to that awful day. “I was eleven years old; Ned was twelve. He wasn't always deaf, you know. He was a normal boy—a nice boy as I remember, although he teased me mercilessly.”
“Because he was sweet on you?”
Ellie Jane picked at a reed that had escaped its weaving on the arm of the chair. “I don't think so. Children have always teased me, mostly because of my mother.”
“The head-bump reader.”
“Exactly. The town never really accepted her. And then I suppose I was a little shy, a little reclusive, and the other children saw that as suspicious too.”
“So what does that have to do with Ned?”
Ellie Jane looked at the man across from her, speckled in the shade of the backyard's oak tree. The shock of seeing him in his undershirt had long worn away, and she quickly shifted her gaze to the rustling leaves above his head.
“We were in school. The teacher was guiding us through a reading of ‘The Lady of Shalott’.” She paused for a nod of recognition at the mention of the poem, and when there was none, she continued. “I thought the poem was beautiful, but most of the boys didn't. They were bored and silly. Ned sat behind me, and for some reason, he chose that day to put a caterpillar in my hair.”
“Hoo boy!” Mr. Dennison slapped his thigh. “He must have been in young love.”
“Nonsense.” Ellie Jane smoothed her skirt. “He was just a typical, teasing boy. I remember hearing him snickering behind me, but I thought he was just making fun of the way one of the other children was reading the poem. When it was my turn, I stood and was immediately lost in the verses. I can recite it to this day.” She took a deep breath and prepared to launch into the words of Tennyson, but the disapproving shake of Mr. Dennison's head stopped her.
“Well, I'm sure you haven't noticed, but my hair is rather thick and curly—so much so that I couldn't feel the caterpillar crawling through it. But I noticed that more and more of the children were snickering while I was reading, despite our teacher's reprimands. Soon they were in an absolute uproar and then”—she shuddered at the thought of it—“the thing crawled onto my forehead. It scared me to death, and I slapped it. And—”
Mr. Dennison's face mirrored hers as she remembered the warm, sticky feel of the smashed creature.
“Well, then the children began to laugh harder. And I started to cry. The more I cried, the more they laughed, and I just wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.”
“How did you know it was Ned?”
“Because he stood up, handed me a handkerchief, and helped me clean my face. And all the while, he was apologizing over and over.” She could still hear his soft, earnest whisper rising above the cacophony of the classroom.
“Sounds like a good kid,” Mr. Dennison said, his voice every bit as soft as Ned's had been back then.
“Yes, it does. Now. At the time, though, I was hurt and embarrassed.”
“And so?”
“And so I hit him. I balled up my fist,” she demonstrated, reliving the moment, “swung out my arm, and hit him on the side of his head. Right on his ear.”
It was quiet in the backyard, save for the rustle of the leaves and the more distant sound of children being called home to supper. Ellie Jane studied Mr. Dennison's face, feeling just as embarrassed as she had that day she slugged Ned Clovis. The man's moustache was twitching, and he showed every sign of being on the verge of bursting into the same laughter that taunted her all those years ago. Somehow she sensed that one more word out of either of them would burst the dam of his resolve, so she sat quietly, studying the lace pattern on the cuff of her sleeve, waiting for the moment of mocking opportunity to pass.
“You know,” he said at last, his voice full of restraint, “it's impossible for a little girl to hit a boy hard enough to strike him deaf.”
“Yes, I know that.” Ellie Jane felt like she'd just fallen into another little hole. “Everybody knows that. Our town is superstitious, not stupid.”
“Then why—?”
“Because that was a Friday afternoon. And by Monday Ned was sick. He had a horrible rash and a fever. I prayed for him every night. The whole town prayed for him at church the next Sunday. His parents said he nearly died.”
“But he didn't.”
“No.” She offered a wry smile. “He didn't. But by the time the fever was gone…”
“He was deaf.”
Ellie Jane nodded.
“And you—and this whole town—”
“I know it seems odd. But what can I say? Old prejudices run deep.”
“And this is why you're living here with your father. Watching happy couples parade by on a Saturday night. Because you slapped some kid twenty years ago?”
“Please, Mr. Dennison. It was fifteen years—” She felt herself growing smaller and smaller, facing a room full of ridicule in her own backyard.
“And you never talked to him about this?”
“I…I couldn't.”
“Sure you can! I talked to the man all day. You just have to know—”
“I mean I couldn't. I wasn't allowed to. His parents wouldn't let me in their front door. Ned couldn't come to school. He went away shortly thereafter, to a special institute. I wrote him a letter once, but he never responded.”
“Well, I guess I'll just have to look on the bright side of all this.” Mr. Dennison settled back in his chair.
“Which is?”
“At least now I know who the one man is.”
Tuesday “Tails”
Story Submitted by A. Nony Mouse
(the little reporter with BIG ears)
(May 16, 1905)—What are we squeaking about this week? Why, the long happy “tail” of the Spring Promenade, of course. What whiskery joy it is to see the lovely young people of Picksville arm-in-arm strolling through the town square. Lavender seems to be the color of choice for many a fine lady, as Miss Sophie Carson and Miss Emily Porthouse were both spotted in the pastel shade, which was perfectly set off by the greenery in the corsages presented to them by one of many dapper young men.
Speaking of the gents, there is no finer accessory than a well-groomed beau as our Mr. Pete Shiner was in a perfectly pressed linen suit.
One notable absence to the bevy of bachelors, however, was the rather anticipated introduction of Picksville's newest gentleman, the handsome heartthrob Donald “Duke” Dennison. It's not often the first night of the Spring Promenade finds homes with both drapes and doors sealed up tight, but this little mousy wonders if our own eccentric EJV finally found the right kind of cheese to trap herself.
DUKE
Routine kept him sane and sober in Picksville. Up and out of bed at the second round of raps on his door. Catching Miss Voyant with her little hand suspended mid-knock. Wash and shave, then downstairs for coffee and a bowl of medicinal gruel before heading to Marlene's with Floyd for a real breakfast.
But today at the diner everything seemed different. Rather than the usual genial chorus of “Morning” and “Coffee's hot,” there was just the sound of one throat clearing after another. They barely looked at him.
He continued on to his usual place at the breakfast counter, Floyd Voyant on his left, Ned Clovis on the corner at his right. And a newspaper right in front of him.
Duke picked up the paper as he settled on the stool. “You didn't have this at the house this morning.” He sent an accusing glance over to Floyd.
“Don't take the paper on Tuesdays,” Floyd said, getting Marlene's attention for coffee. “Too upsetting for Ellie Jane.”
The paper was open to the town Social Events page. At the top was a little section called “Picksville People.” Duke skimmed the article. Spring Promenade. Women's fashion. Men's fashion. And…him. Rotten gossip and innuendo.
A burning sensation skimmed all along the top of his head, just under his scalp. This wasn't the first time he'd seen his name in print, not even the first time he'd been the object of an unflattering exposé. In the months before his hospitalization, the Chicago papers were full of stories of debauchery. Reckless behavior and exploits with women. Sportswriters loved to fill their columns with tales of his failure at the plate, jeering at every fall. At least once a week, in black and white, he'd been called a bum, a drunk, a lousy lush, and a surefire bet. Even from Dave Voyant, for a while. Before the guy decided that what Duke really needed was help.
But this was worse. Maybe because he was seeing it with a clear head; maybe because he was reading through Ellie Jane's eyes. He folded the paper up and slammed it down on the counter.
Ned clapped him on the shoulder. “Now you're famous,” he said before turning his attention back to his hotcakes.
“This town is crazy.” Duke looked over his shoulder at the restaurant at large.
“Now, son, you stop it right there,” Floyd said. “We might be a bit smaller than what you're used to, but we have our ways.”
“But how can you stand it? Having them write about your daughter that way?”
“They don't mean any harm. Ellie's managed to weather it well.”
“You think so?” Duke thought back to the previous evening's conversation. The way Ellie Jane managed to look both defeated and defiant. “You think Ellie Jane likes to be the object of public humiliation?”
“I'm not saying she likes it.” Floyd leaned in close, keeping his voice low. “I'm saying she can carry it. I love my girl, but she does have a strangeness to her. Like her mother did. Nobody takes it too serious.”
Duke could have argued that point, given the way Marlene's customers were eyeing him this morning, but he chose instead to focus on the food in front of him. When he stabbed the fork into his perfectly cooked eggs, sunshine oozed across the plate. By the time he took his third bite, he'd decided if the town wanted to play a game of gossip, he just wouldn't step in. There were better games to play.
He tapped Ned's arm to bring him into the conversation but directed his question to Floyd. “So what do you think of the kid?”
“Morris? He's a good boy.”
“I've never seen a kid who could throw like that.”
Ned nodded and gestured that not many full-grown men could either.
Floyd's fork hovered over his breakfast. “That what you've been doing all these days while me and Ellie are out? Playing catch with Morris Bennett in our backyard?”
Duke sensed tension behind the older man's words, the same that had been present the previous afternoon when he first walked into the backyard. After being invited to play the fourth in a round of pepper-catch and take a few swings at the tethered ball, though, Floyd had relaxed, and Duke had chalked up his initial reaction to surprise.
“That a problem?” Duke asked. “I know I'm not allowed to step foot on a real field, but I didn't think I was banned from tossing a ball around a backyard.”
“'Course not,” Floyd said. “You just might want to be more careful.”
Duke turned to Ned for confirmation but got only a shrug in response. His gaze shifted back to Floyd. “Just what do you mean?”
“You didn't notice I came home early yesterday?”
“Never been one to keep an eye on time.”
“Wonder why?”
“I'm guessing there isn't much work being the law in Picksville.”
Floyd glanced over his shoulder before leaning in close again. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I got a telephone call at the office from Mrs. Finneworth. Do you know who she is?”
Duke shook his head.
“She's the old lady who lives in the house behind you.” Ned's voice, uncontrolled in its volume, rang through the diner, much to the amusement of their fellow patrons.
