Silver Rain (9 page)

“That's important, of course.” Scoop pulled out his book and licked the end of his pencil. Then he stuck it behind his ear.

“How about I take notes this time?” Elsie suggested. “You tell me what to write.”

When she reached for Scoop's book, he pulled away from her. “You're just my sidekick, remember?” he said. “
I'm
the reporter. Anyway, I don't think you'd know a red-hot story if it burned you.” He stepped back to let a couple go to the door. Then he changed his mind and tapped the man's elbow. “Excuse me. Could I have a moment of your time?”

The woman took her hand from the crook of the man's arm. She patted her hair with a very pale hand with long red nails. Her blond curls were pressed tight against her head like a pretty hat, and her tiny mouth glistened with bright red lipstick.

The man ran his finger down one long black sideburn and flashed a toothy smile. “No autographs. Please.”

Scoop frowned as if he didn't know what to make of this. Then, in a most un-newspapermanly way, he asked, “Who are you?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” the man said.

The lady snickered. “I could ask the same of you, little boy.”

“I'm Scoop.” He puffed out his chest and drew his book from his overalls pocket. “I'm hoping to document… I mean I plan to make a record…I mean…” He sniffed and looked at Elsie, then back at the man as, all in a rush, he asked, “Can you spare a dime?”

Elsie felt herself flush red. Over and over, she'd been told that no matter how difficult things were, they would never beg. She had seen the men on the street with cardboard signs pleading for a day's work, mothers with crying children huddled around them begging for food. She knew it was because of the Depression. But she knew that begging was not the right thing for her to do.

As she grabbed Scoop's arm, the man stepped back and frowned at his companion. All Elsie wanted to do was get Scoop away from there before the man gave them his spare change. As if they were beggars. As bad as the hoboes. “Sorry to trouble you, sir,” she said. “Come on, Scoop. We'll come back later.”

“Hang on!” Scoop tried to pull away from her.

“No. Let's go.” She struggled to keep hold of Scoop's sleeve. But he yanked back and forth, just like a dog hanging on to a rope with its teeth. She finally let go and fell back onto the sidewalk with a thump that went all the way up her back and gave her head a jolt.

When the man in the silky gray suit put out a hand to help her up, the woman said, “We're due on in ten minutes, Jake. Leave these children alone, for heaven's sake.” She tottered to the door on her high heels and held it open. The man winked at Elsie, then followed the woman with a little flick of his wrist, which might have been a wave.

“Look. You ripped my coat.” Scoop shoved his arm at Elsie as the door closed. “I think they were famous. They've been in the glossies, I bet. You made me miss out on a big story.”

“You shouldn't have begged,” she told him.

“Well, it's better than stealing,” he answered, as if that idea had just occurred to him.

“You shouldn't do that either!” said Elsie.

“No one got hurt.”

“
I
did.” Elsie thumped him.

Instead of hitting back, Scoop stepped away from her and peered at the billboard.

“What's so interesting, anyway?” said Elsie. “It's just a dumb dance. Mother and Father used to dance. Sometimes after I went to bed I'd hear them, and I'd come down and watch. But Nan and the Reverend say what they're doing here is degrading. I don't know what that means. Do you?”

“Whatever it means, it's a story. Don't you know that?” said Scoop. “If I'm going to be a newspaperman, I have to follow the stories. Wherever they lead.” He tapped his nose and tried to wink, but only managed to scrunch up his face.

“Nan says marathons should be outlawed,” Elsie said. “That it's indecent to watch people at the marathons. But she won't tell me why. How about you interview her instead? That would be research.”

Scoop smacked his notebook against the wall. “Don't you get it? If they don't want us to see a bunch of people dancing, there must be a story. We can't find out about it by asking your grandmother, you dummy. What does she know!
You'll
never make a newspaperman. That's your funeral. But I've got a nose for news, and I'll be back.”

He swaggered away from her, his coat flapping. “You coming or what? I'm going to find that dime one way or another, chicken!” he yelled as he marched off.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

I
t didn't take long for Elsie to catch up with Scoop. But she was so mad at him for calling her a chicken
—
she who had rescued Dog Bob from the hoboes!
—
that she ran ahead.

“Slow down, will ya?” he called. “I've been ill, ya know.”

Elsie leaned against a storefront where
Out of Business
was scrawled across the window in whitewash. When Scoop finally caught up, beads of sweat sparkled across his forehead. He'd better not faint here, Elsie thought. She'd have to go halfway across town to fetch his mother. “You okay?” Maybe she'd have to find an ambulance!

He panted for a moment. “Just considering my options. Figuring out what to do.” He panted some more, his hand on his chest. “I'm starving. Where's your dime?”

“Why?”

“We could get a plate of beans at Melvin's. Maybe he'll give us credit, and we can get two plates.”

Elsie's stomach suddenly felt as hollow as a drum. “Maybe beans
and
a glass of milk.”

Scoop was studying his jacket sleeve. “Reckon Gladdy or Belle will fix this for me before Mother sees it?”

Elsie fingered the ragged tear in the worn corduroy. “Sew it yourself. Nan'll give you needle and thread.”

“Newspapermen don't sew! The only men who sew are sailors.” Scoop grinned. “I'll race you for those beans. Come on.”

Even though Elsie gave him a head start, she easily overtook him at the corner. By the time she reached Melvin's, Scoop was half a block behind, dragging his feet. He'd wear his boots right down to his socks, if he wasn't careful.

While she waited, Elsie peered through the café window. It was so smudgy with steam, all she could see were lumpy shapes moving around. When she put her hand on the knob, it was suddenly pulled out of her grasp, and she landed on the sidewalk. The second time today she'd ended up on her backside!

Melvin stood looking down at her. He was as big as a barrel. His grubby white apron was tied around his thick middle, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his thick red hands. The stained white hat on his craggy head was so crooked, Elsie wondered how he kept it on.

She pulled her own hat down tight. As she got up, Melvin pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit a match with one hand
—
a trick Elsie had seen Uncle Dannell do. He took a drag, then blew smoke rings in the air. “You got business here, missy?”

Elsie brushed herself down. “I'm waiting for my friend. We have a dime for beans.” The rattle of crockery and a rumble of voices and the smell of coffee and hot grease drifted through the doorway. The bell over the door jangled as Melvin closed it on the noise and delicious smells. “Don't they feed you at home, you need to be wasting your money on my beans?”

“We can spend it if we want to.” Elsie rooted in her dungarees. Then in her shirt pocket.

“Beans is fifteen cents. Look, missy. I've seen you with Dannell. He's a buddy of mine. You're welcome to dine at Melvin's, but you come with your family, hear?” He dropped his cigarette butt and rubbed it out with his boot. Then he bent down, picked up the stub and popped it behind his ear like Uncle Dannell would have done. “This your friend?”

Scoop had caught up at last. He was leaning against the lamppost, a wheezy sound coming from his chest.

“The man says we have to come with our parents,” Elsie told him.

Scoop's face was streaky red, and his eyes were glittery bright.

“What's the matter with the boy?” asked Melvin.

“He's been sick. But he's better now. Aren't you?”

Scoop nodded hard without speaking.

“Well. My kitchen won't run itself,” said Melvin. He put his hand on the door. “You go on home. Come back with your mother and father.”

“Mother's in New Westminster,” said Elsie, “and Father's disappeared.”

“What's this ‘disappeared'? Like some carnival trick? Poof! Just like that?” Melvin bent down and looked at Elsie's face closely. “You don't mean like that, do you?” His breath smelled of cigarettes and sausages.

Scoop had rested his bum against the window frame and was bent over, his fists on his knees. He'd got his breath back, but his voice sounded shaky. “Her mother went to New Westminster. To help an old friend on her deathbed. We thought maybe her father was at the shantytown with Reverend Hampton's hoboes. She went there
—
all by herself, without me
—
and they stole her dog, but she got him back. But her father's not there.”

“Well, there's a to-do,” said Melvin, scratching an itch under his hat.

“We had dandelion and potato stew last night,” Elsie told him. “I had to go to Bryant Park and pick dandelions for our supper. I love beans. We don't have them at home.”

“Dandelions. Things have come to that, have they?” Suddenly Melvin grinned. “Well. Lookee who's here.”

The Reverend Hampton was reading his Bible as he came down the street. The same way Scoop studied his notebook until he tripped over a baby's buggy or bumped into a newspaper vendor.

She was just about to ask him whether he still had the picture of her father in his book when Scoop grabbed Elsie's arm and tried to drag her away. But she wasn't fast enough. The Reverend had seen them and was smiling as he walked toward the café.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

“W
hy, Elsie. This is a surprise,” said Reverend Hampton.

“Hello, Reverend. We were just heading home.”

“What about your beans, then?” asked Melvin. He had tucked his hands through the strings of the apron that ran around his middle. “These two stopped by for a bite,” he told Nan's friend. “They have a dime to contribute, they tell me.”

“I thought I'd look in for a cup of coffee. To warm myself up.” The Reverend rubbed his hands together. “Would you children care to join me?”

Elsie couldn't think of the last time she'd been allowed coffee. Nan drank chicory these days and said there wasn't enough to go around. “We can pay. I have a dime,” she told him. “We had planned to use it to get into the da…” When Scoop grabbed at her, Elsie just managed to stop herself. “We thought we had enough for beans,” she said quickly.

Scoop swiped at a bead of sweat trickling down beside his ear. When he bent down to put his hands on his knees again, he nearly fell over. The Reverend caught him by the elbow. “I think this is the best place for us for the time being. It's Ernest, isn't it?”

Scoop didn't answer as the Reverend guided him into the steamy restaurant, with Elsie following. “Sweet tea. I think. And beans,” he called to Melvin, who headed for the counter. “With toast for two. And one coffee.”

A lady with a hat like a saggy flowerpot moved her shopping bag so the Reverend could lead Scoop and Elsie past. They found an empty table at the back, beside a young couple who were leaning so close that it looked like they might bump heads at any minute. Elsie watched them, hoping they'd kiss. But they just whispered so quietly, she couldn't hear.

Scoop was slumped back against his chair as if he was asleep. “Do you think he's all right?” Elsie asked Reverend Hampton.

The Reverend took his Bible from his pocket and set it on the table. Just as he leaned forward to look closely at her friend, Scoop's eyes popped open. “I've been ill. But I'm okay. Really.” He glared at Elsie. “Don't tell my mother.”

“What would I tell her?” she asked.

“Women worry. You know how it is.” Was that really a wink he gave the Reverend?

Sometimes Scoop did the daftest things!

Melvin arrived with two plates piled high with beans in tomato sauce. Triangles of toast were propped up like wings at the sides, reminding Elsie of the fairy cake Mother had made her so long ago. “Did you know my mother's gone away?” she asked the Reverend. She took off her hat and set it on her knees.

The Reverend pushed a plate toward Scoop and moved the other in front of Elsie. “Your grandmother informed me. And your uncle is away working in the cranberry fields, I understand.”

Scoop shoveled beans into his mouth as if he were afraid that someone might steal the plate from him. Elsie was hungry too. But she tried to eat slowly, alternating bites between mouthfuls of tea, which was very strong and very sweet. She swallowed and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Will you tell us about the dance marathons?” she asked the Reverend. “What's wrong with them?”

Scoop gave her a nasty look and swallowed hard, as if he was about to say something. But instead he took another bite of toast.

“It's for research,” she added quickly.

“Dancing should be for celebrating. Not as a means of exploitation.” Reverend Hampton put down his cup and gave his tea another stir. “These are hard times. So, of course, desperate measures are sometimes called for. But these events are aberrations. Why are you so interested in them?”

“What's aberrations? And exploitation?” asked Scoop. He squished the last bean with his fork and popped it in his mouth. He wiped his toast around the plate to get the last streaks of sauce.