Tooner Schooner (2 page)

“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.”

“
Y
OU
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.

“How many you expect?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

“How long does the cruise last, Captain?” Miss Tinkham said.

“Just goin’ out for the day.” The captain took the beer Mrs. Rasmussen handed him. “Batch o’ sightseers, wantin’ to say they been on a yacht. Sail ’em over towards San Clemente an’ back. Got fifteen from some motorcycle club. I get ten dollars a head from ’em. That don’t include no drinks but beer, you know.”

“Too good for ’em,” Mrs. Feeley snorted.

“Sandwiches?” Mrs. Rasmussen wrinkled her nose.

“Well, I hate it, but with a herd like that…”

“If you had a chowder, now…an’ them good heavy paper cups with handles,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Then give ’em a little paper bag apiece with a hunk o’ fried chicken an’ a dab o’ potato salad in it.”

“What’s the good o’ crucifyin’ me, woman? I’ll have to stay alongside the moorin’ till I go around on my own spud peelin’s before I’ll be able to raise enough money to bail out them blaggards.”

“No need to do that, Captain,” Mrs. Feeley put her hand on his shoulder, “you got all the crew you need right here. I’ll be your swabbie and Mrs. Rasmussen’ll cook. Miss Tinkham can add class an’ elegance.”

“I’ll be the cruise director and point out places of interest…er…Point Loma, for instance.”

Captain Dowdy looked around wildly for the door but Mrs. Rasmussen stood in front of it with the bread knife in her hand.

“We’ve done said we’d go,” she said.

“That’s damn decent of you.” The captain was sweating gumdrops. “Damn good. But, ma’am, if you’ll excuse me sayin’ so, you don’t none of you know port from starboard.”

“Don’t form any hasty conclusions, Captain,” Miss Tinkham said. “We can wear a red sock on one foot and a green sock on the other and then we can tell port from starboard!”

“Who’ll help me with the sheets?” the captain bellowed.

“What are you runnin’?” Mrs. Feeley said. “They don’t need no sheets just goin’ out for the day!”

“A wet sheet and a flowing sea,” Miss Tinkham began to sing blithely.

“Dammit to hell! Sheets! Ropes! What you haul the boom with!”

“Your trouble is ended, Captain,” Miss Tinkham said. “Your crew is ready, willing and able!”

“They’ll be hell to pay an’ no pitch hot,” the captain groaned. “I’d best go down an’ punch a policeman in the snot-locker an’ ask him to lock me up, too!”

“Now do relax, Captain! You haven’t a care in the world.”

“You’ll not regret it,” Mrs. Rasmussen soothed him. “Like to get this settled ’fore I put my soufflé in the oven.”

“Don’t have much choice, do I?” he said. The ladies shook their heads.

“I was thinking of a device to carve over the door when we rebuild the Ark, and you have just given me an inspiration. I can see it now in Gothic lettering: ‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.’ Dante’s Inferno.”

“I can’t keep track o’ every all-night dog-wagon in town,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Where is this Danny’s Inferno?”

“It’s a rather overcrowded rotisserie, Mrs. Feeley. Nothing worth wasting your time on.”

“We made up his mind for him.” Mrs. Rasmussen spoke gently. “Times when you gotta think for people.” She turned to the bemused skipper. “We won’t affront you, insult the customers, nor nothin’. Honest.”

The captain rubbed his head wildly with both hands:

“Just remember one thing: you asked for it!”

“What time we gonna start?” Mrs. Feeley got up and opened a drawer under the trailer bunk. “What went with my old dungarees?” She sat down on the floor with a thud. “They was burned in the Ark, wasn’t they? How long is this here gonna keep on? Guess the rest of our life we’ll be reachin’ for somethin’ that ain’t there. Mrs. Rasmussen an’ her pots today…me an’ my pants tonight!”

“Speaking of things that aren’t there,” Miss Tinkham waved her empty beer glass, “I suppose I should get hold of a pair of slacks.”

“Where we gonna get the stuff for the chowder?” Mrs. Rasmussen said, “an’ the chicken? Gotta get that lunch started.”

“I’m gettin’ underway at nine. All that ain’t aboard gets left.” Captain Dowdy was all business. “Long as you’ve a mind to go an’ nothin’ can stop you, we’ll get the stuff after we eat. Market bound to be open someplace.”

“We’ll be up half the night, so we might’s well take on a little shock absorber.” Mrs. Feeley thumped their guest stoutly on the back. “You ain’t got a thing to bother you now.”

“Nothin’ but this.” The captain spoke bitterly and pulled out a pinkish envelope with gilt deckle edge. Mrs. Rasmussen scented trouble.

“Some dame?”

“Chartreuse.” He nodded, staring at the sheet covered with infantile writing in purple ink.

“Excuse me, but that’s mauve,” Miss Tinkham said.

“Chartreuse Mulligan.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Do you eat it, salute it, or paint it?”

“It’s no laughin’ matter when it’s your wife,” the captain said.

“She goes by Mulligan. She didn’t think Chartreuse Dowdy sounded good, specially since she started the Health-Through-Light Clinic; she wanted me to call her Toozie, but I be goddammed if I would.”

“Toozie, the Boozie, the Fl…” Miss Tinkham stopped short at a glance from Mrs. Rasmussen.

“She was on the booze, but she ain’t no more. She’s death on Mental Health now.”

“How’d she get the harpoon into you in the first place?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.

The captain gave her a level look. “Does anybody ever know?”

“Best start in on the oysters, Captain,” she said. “Draw up.”

“All this Captain stuff! Might put a feller off his feed, so much title all the time! Couldn’t you just call me Tooner Schooner?”