Tooner Schooner Read online

  Tooner Schooner

  Mary Lasswell

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Books by Mary Lasswell

  SUDS IN YOUR EYE

  HIGH TIME

  ONE ON THE HOUSE

  WAIT FOR THE WAGON

  TOONER SCHOONER

  LET’S GO FOR BROKE

  The characters in this book are fictitious;any resemblance to real persons is wholly accidental and unintentional

  For

  LASS

  Chapter 1

  MRS. FEELEY sat on the concrete doorstep of the trailer and looked at the ruins of her once florid garden. Mrs. Rasmussen was mending a pair of dungarees. Old-Timer had a pail of whitewash marking off oblongs in the parking lot. Miss Tinkham sat on a campstool near Mrs. Feeley reading a secondhand copy of Holiday.

  “Wisht I could lose myself in them ol’ books, the way you do,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Miss Tinkham smiled and showed Mrs. Feeley the colored pictures of Acapulco. “‘There is no frigate like a book to bear our spirits far away.’”

  “Frigate!” Mrs. Feeley cheered up. “Let’s go down to the waterfront an’ see what we can stir up. I’m gettin’ cabin fever sittin’ here like a bump on a log. Hand me my shoes, Mrs. Rasmussen, dear.” Mrs. Feeley hitched up the elastic waistband of her pants. “Let’s move around a bit. Settle our minds. They ain’t no use layin’ out the garden till we decide where ’zackly we’re gonna put the Ark.”

  “We’ll all be happier when we decide on the location of the Ark and whether or not to rebuild it exactly as it was,” Miss Tinkham said. “The cost of materials is frightful. We must come up with a really ingenious idea! Something worthy of our high moments; using materials that are common, and suited to our purpose, yet costing little…”

  Mrs. Feeley nodded. “Somethin’ free. Somethin’ people throw away.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen’s dark blue orlon dress was trim and neat. She took up her old string shopping bag. “Never can tell what donation might come our way an’ it’d be a shame not to have no way to carry it.”

  “Darleen was a dear to give us these lovely frocks,” Miss Tinkham said, smoothing out the pleats of her nylon skirt. Enormous red hibiscus blossoms were strewn over a spidery black and white print. Her pink nylon blouse was frothy with ruffles. “Practical, these synthetics, but totally lacking in the elegance of some of my Bendels from the Thrift Shoppes.”

  “I’ll stick to my vorl.” Mrs. Feeley smoothed the black voile with little pink springs in it. “Don’t let nobody sell you a wooden nutmeg,” she shouted to Old-Timer. “We’re goin’ down street.”

  Old-Timer had his head down between his legs, painting In and Out signs with the whitewash. He waved the brush like a tail at them.

  “Down towards the foot o’ Broadway?” Mrs. Rasmussen nodded and the three fell into step down Island Avenue.

  “It’s so changed that scarcely any boats tie up alongside any more,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “They’s a few boats alongside today. Don’t see no sailors.” Mrs. Feeley contemplated the bay, the docks and wharfs. “’Tain’t hardly the same at all. Glad we’re through with all that gallivantin’.” Miss Tinkham eyed her obliquely.

  “Let us cultivate our gardens,” Miss Tinkham said. “I could have, by renewing my library card, gone right through the whole of Racine in the same time.”

  “That’s in Wisconsin,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  Their slow steps came to a dead stop. There she lay, riding sweetly and gently with the tide. Her tall varnished spars gleamed gold in the sun. Her satiny white sides dazzled the eye. The insides of the portholes were painted a rich red. A thin streak of gold leaf marked her sheer line. Like a pretty filly she tossed her small elliptical stern.

  “Cast your eye over that.” A great shaft of a man in khaki shirt and trousers was coiling a line into a perfect and ornamental circle on the deck of the boat at the dock. His topsiders were immaculate and his yachting cap snowy. His open shirt displayed a hairy chest.

  “Bet he sings bass,” Mrs. Feeley muttered.

  “But look at his hands,” Miss Tinkham said, “and observe the delicacy of his mouth.”

  “’Bout forty and his ears sticks out like the handles on my mother’s sugar bowl,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. Just then the man looked up at the trio. He looked straight into Mrs. Rasmussen’s face until she slid into one of her rare smiles. “Nice boat you got there.”

  “Come aboard,” he boomed.

  Mrs. Feeley looked at Mrs. Rasmussen, then at Miss Tinkham. They stared first at the scrubbed teak decks of the schooner and then at the man who issued the invitation. Mrs. Feeley placed one foot gingerly on the gleaming mahogany rail.

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Miss Tinkham said gently. “Mustn’t touch the rail!”

  “I always put my foot on the rail, first thing,” Mrs. Feeley announced.

  “That’s all right, long’s it’s made of brass,” the man bellowed.

  “That’s the kind we stands on mostly.” Mrs. Feeley grinned, showing her toothless gums.

  “Come aboard! Step smattly, now!” A well-shaped hand took Mrs. Feeley’s hand in a firm grip.

  “We apologize for not having worn sneakers, Captain,” Miss Tinkham said. Mrs. Rasmussen and Mrs. Feeley looked at her quizzically. “If we step on the cocoa matting, perhaps we won’t mar the deck too much.”

  “Hell…’scuse me! That’s all right! Take ’em off, if you’ve a mind!”

  “That’s for me!” Mrs. Feeley sat down on the deck and took them off. Mrs. Rasmussen sat in one of the low deck chairs to remove her oxfords.

  “You the Captain, for real?” she said.

  “Ayah. I’m the Captain, all right.”

  “Sure big,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Fifty-two six. Sleeps eight. I chatter.”

  “You seem extremely laconic to me.” Miss Tinkham fished out her lorgnette.

  “Haul passengers for hire.”

  “He charters,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Is that bad?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Sometimes ’tis. Sometimes ’tain’t. Not doin’ so much lately. Had a passel o’ fools aboard last trip. Drove us daffy. The cook took to his hammick with a bottle a rum an’ lay there guzzlin’ for ten days, kickin’ it down with his heels.”

  “You cook?” Mrs. Rasmussen’s topaz eyes looked into the captain’s.

  “Ayah. Have to bear a hand at everything in this racket.”

  “Them’s sails,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but what kinda sailboat is it?”

  “It’s a schooner…gaff rig.”

  “Schooner!” Mrs. Feeley shouted. “Wouldn’t you know it?” The captain looked puzzled.

  “Mrs. Feeley is referring to our fondness for schooners,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Best boat there is,” the captain said.

  “She means beer schooners.” Mrs. Rasmussen came to his aid, then blushed. It sounded like hinting.

  “Come below!” The captain slid the hatch cover back and stood by.

  “You go first, Mrs. Rasmussen.” Miss Tinkham took charge as she clamped her flaring
skirt firmly between her knees. “Then Mrs. Feeley, and I’ll go down ahead of the captain; my costume is not quite…They choke me.”

  The captain’s face was red as he went down the ladder backwards. “Make yourselves to home.”

  “Gawd!” Mrs. Feeley exhaled reverently.

  “Ain’t it bewruhful?” Mrs. Rasmussen sank down with a sigh on one of the foam rubber mattresses of a bunk that served as a sofa. “Carpets all over.”

  “Nothing short of palatial.” Miss Tinkham leaned against the back of the bunk in supreme content. There were downy cushions under her elbows, soft shaded lights on the bulkheads, and a polished mahogany table against the wall at her right. Over the bunk facing her was a set of bookracks filled with books still in their gaudy dust jackets. Opposite the table, a mahogany cabinet held a silver ice bucket and the complete paraphernalia of a bar.

  “Care for a snort?” the captain said.

  “Beer?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  “Funny how you can tell your own from far.” Mrs. Rasmussen looked smug. The captain fished three pewter beer mugs from an ice chest filled with crushed ice. He poured the beer into them deftly.

  “Here’s how,” he said.

  “We know how.” Mrs. Feeley smiled and raised her mug.

  “Mrs. Feeley, Mrs. Rasmussen, and Miss Tinkham.” Miss Tinkham indicated each of them with a wave of the hand. “And now, if you please…whose beer have we the pleasure of drinking?”

  “Elisha Dowdy, Bawth, Maine.” The captain took hold of his cap brim and ducked his head shyly from under it. “Welcome aboard.”

  “What’s its name?” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “South Wind. But when I have to run her on engine I call her Gassy Lena.”

  “You said she sleeps eight?” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Four in the main cabin,” the captain said. “These lift up.” He took hold of the back part of one of the sofas and lifted it up, showing the ladies how it fastened with hooks to a chain.

  “Like an upper berth,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Two in here.” He stepped through a passageway and the ladies followed into a neat cabin with a single bunk on either side. “Two more in here, in the chat room.”

  “That’s eight. Where do you sleep?” Mrs. Rasmussen asked.

  Mrs. Feeley winked at Miss Tinkham.

  “Two pipe bunks in the galley, for me an’ the cook, an’ the crew forrard in hammicks in the engine room.”

  “That’s more’n eight,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “Eight in the chatter party…but that’s the top. Mostly six take it, but four’s the best. They generally have plenty of money an’ want the full treatment, plenty of privacy and martinis.”

  “Where is Mrs. Rasmussen?” Miss Tinkham said.

  The captain grinned. “She discovered the Shipmate.” Mrs. Rasmussen had the lid-lifter in her hand peering into the firebox of the miniature coal range.

  “Ain’t it darlin’?” Her voice was like brown butter. “Look.” She pointed to the coalbin where small bundles of kindling were neatly done up with twine.

  “Use the Primus in hot weather.” He showed her the two-burner alcohol stove. “You like pressure cookers?”

  “Do I like pressure cookers!” Complete and perfect approval glowed in Mrs. Rasmussen’s voice. “I got two sets of broke-in cast-iron cornstick pans that I don’t need…” Her eyes filled up and she bit her lip.

  “Did I talk outa turn?” Captain Dowdy looked at Miss Tinkham and Mrs. Feeley as Mrs. Rasmussen scurried back to the main cabin in search of her purse.

  Mrs. Feeley shook her head. “This is the first time it’s happened.”

  “It takes time for the full impact of the loss to be felt,” Miss Tinkham said. “Of course you don’t know what we’re talking about, Captain. We all lived at Mrs. Feeley’s house, Noah’s Ark, in her junk yard, until we went to New York to visit Mrs. Feeley’s nephew.”

  “He’s in the Navy,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  “I did a hitch in the Navy. Where do you live now?”

  “I was coming to that,” Miss Tinkham went on. “We had to detour slightly on the way home. We were away longer than we had planned and our friends were unable to get in touch with us as we were traveling incognito. When we finally got back, we found our delightful dwelling burned to the ground.”

  “That’s rough.”

  Mrs. Feeley nodded.

  “’Tis. But it ain t like we hadn’t had fun in it. Whatever we had, we used. Right to the hilt. Wasn’t nothin’ kep’ for Sundays.”

  “Nothing worse’n a fire,” the captain said. He opened the icebox. “Time for a beer.”

  “It is indeed.” Miss Tinkham sat beside Mrs. Rasmussen. Captain Dowdy brought in a plate with crisp saltines on it and hunks of honest store cheese.

  “Don’t you hate that process axle grease?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “Only thing worsen that is the bread,” Captain Dowdy said. The ladies got the communion-of-saints look on their faces. ‘’Course, bein’ so short o’ space, sometimes I have to use package mix aboard,” the captain made full confession.

  “Don’t apologize,” Miss Tinkham said. “There are even one or two that Mrs. Rasmussen sanctions.”

  “Take the gingerbread now…”

  “I knew it.” Mrs. Rasmussen interrupted the captain triumphantly. “You can’t make it as cheap or dependable outa yer own stuff, ’cause you can’t hardly get decent sour milk today. Never comes the same twice.”

  “Sure saves me time when the cook’s drunk an’ the patty yammerin’ for dessert.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen rose. “You an’ me see eye to eye. I’m sorry about them pans. I’d a give them to you. We better get outa here before I start actin’ unbefittin’ my age.”

  The captain put his hand on Mrs. Rasmussen’s shoulder solemnly. “You’re a good girl.” She went up the ladder smartly and put her oxfords on.

  “You can’t go now,” Captain Dowdy said. “Hell! Excuse the rough talk. We’re only just gettin’ acquainted. You can’t shove off an’ leave me like this.” Mrs. Feeley rolled her eyes at Miss Tinkham. Miss Tinkham smiled at the captain, thinking of some of Mrs. Feeley’s finer flights in the art of addressing uncomplimentary remarks ad hominem.

  “Don’t give it a thought, dear Captain. Remember that to the pure in heart all things are pure. What are you doing tonight?”

  The captain turned his cap on his head until the peak was around at the back of his neck.

  “Have to go see about my crew and get the laundry. They just la’nched me yesterday after the haul-out. Got a patty comin’ aboard Sat’day.”

  “You have to tend to the laundry?” Mrs. Rasmussen was stricken.

  “You’d be surprised at the sheets an’ towels them…beggars dirty up. Course, I use paper napkins.”

  “I should think so!” Miss Tinkham said. “Cocker them up with double-damask indeed.”

  “Hell! That won’t take all night,” Mrs. Feeley said. “What’s for supper, Mrs. Rasmussen?”

  The chef was revising a menu.

  “The trailer so small an’ all, guess some chilled oysters on the half shell, ’bout a dozen apiece, with rye bread an’ parsley butter, an’ then a big cheese soufflé would be best. Sure go good with the beer.”

  “Woman, you talked me into it.” The captain drooled. “How do I get there?”

  “Twenty-six Hundred Island Avenue,” Mrs. Feeley said. “You can’t miss it. The parkers goes home after five.”

  “Don’t you run the packin’ lot at night?”

  Mrs. Feeley looked at her friends. “We overlooked that ’un! But, hell, we wouldn’t like it. Ol’-Timer, or one of us, jumpin’ up from our beer every two minutes to collect the money. We’d be on tender hooks the whole time, thinkin’ it was company comin’ to see us.”

  “Who’s Old-Timer?”

  “Mr. Feeley heired him to me. He’s our Useful Man.”

  “Seven o’clock?”
Mrs. Rasmussen said.

  “I’ll take a taxi.” The captain helped the ladies to the dock and stood at salute as they hastened towards the street.

  “Don’t look back, Mrs. Rasmussen.” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “The poor old creep that was so stuck on you in New York would sure have the black bile if he could see you this afternoon.”

  “You can’t turn back the clock,” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “but them oysters better have pearls in ’em.”

  Chapter 2

  “YOU DON’T SUPPOSE he crumped out on us?” Mrs. Feeley looked at the dollar watch on a string that hung over the sink of the trailer.

  “He is probably decking himself out like the bridegroom cometh,” Miss Tinkham said.

  “Coulda stopped in someplace to pick up a little Dutch courage,” Mrs. Feeley said.

  Mrs. Rasmussen’s ears heard the sound of a taxi door slamming a good three seconds before the others did. All the little lines around her eyes smoothed out.

  “Dig that!” Miss Tinkham whispered. Captain Elisha Dowdy was resplendent in white duck pants, dark blue jacket with brass buttons and a spanking new hat-cover.

  “Ahoy in the trailer, thah!” Mrs. Rasmussen opened the screen door to admit the captain and the paper carton he carried under his arm. “Figured a little brew wouldn’t come amiss.”

  “What kep’ you?” Mrs. Feeley said with her usual indirection.

  “Trouble…that lousy crew went on a three or four-day sinus attack an’ has fetched up in jail again. This time it’s serious, drunken drivin’, in a hired car…near killed a woman. I ain’t got the money to bail ’em out. To top it off, I got the first fair-sized chatter patty for Sat’day, and I can’t afford to call ’em up an’ cancel. Pretty kettle o’ fish, ent it?”

  “Man, today’s Friday,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Too late to call it off.”

  “How can I take ’em out alone? Who’ll mind the helm while I h’ist sail? Who’ll feed the beggars? That damn drunken cook…excuse me! It just sorta slipped out. They pay good money an’ they want the best. Drinks…‘Captain, the fruit bowl’s empty. Could I have a sandwich, Captain?’” Elisha Dowdy crooked his little finger and imitated the soprano tones of lady passengers.