Moss Farm Page 3

  And the end result was that they were each seated in the very chairs they had occupied every Thursday evening at seven o’clock since they had begun to gather here the previous July.

  “Marvelous!” said Mr. Christopher Eagleton, beaming across the table at his fellows. He beamed well, or it might be better said that his blond, clean-shaven countenance and the lookout his height afforded him were well suited to beaming. “Marvelous!” he said again.

  “Indeed!” agreed Mr. Matthew Ephram, who was of darker countenance and wore handsome black mustaches. There was nothing dark about his expressions, though he would have been the first to agree that he did not beam quite so naturally as his friend across the table. “Marvelous! Wouldn’t you say, Thump?” said Ephram.

  “Hmmm,” said Mr. Joseph Thump, the shortest and broadest of these three gentlemen. Had he beamed, it might have remained a secret, as said beam would have been forced to find its way through a prodigious and magnificent beard of chestnut brown. Thump would not have been considered beamy, at any rate, though in his beamless way he was as amiable and enthusiastic as his fellows.

  These five stalwarts, then, were the Moosepath League—a band of men who were still piquing the curiosity of such patrons as gathered at the Shipswood Restaurant (and Mr. Pliny had noted that patrons were, as of late, gathering in increasing numbers on Thursday nights) as well as drawing interest from the city of Portland, Maine, in general, this interest based on an extraordinary adventure that Mister Walton, Sundry Moss, and these Gentlemen of the Club had taken part in earlier that summer. Newspaper accounts of a kidnapped heiress, pirates, and buried treasure were of signal fascination but the street and parlor gossip was even better. More recently, however, the Moosepath League had stayed well away from damsels in distress and precarious felons and general consensus was beginning to think that this single exploit had been of an anomalous nature.

  But Mr. Pliny understood that there was a name to be had in serving such patrons. Their presence in his restaurant brought with it a degree of social inquisitiveness and their fine manners and agreeable temperaments made them popular with other guests as well as the staff. It was a pleasure to wait upon them.

  Five times Mr. Pliny bowed slightly as one of his waiters passed him a menu and the proprietor passed it to each guest in turn. He exchanged a few pleasantries with Mister Walton and, knowing when to leave as well as when to hover, moved off to another table.

  “Five minutes past the hour of seven,” said Matthew Ephram without preamble. He had established this fact by conferring with one of the three or four watches he kept about his person.

  “Continued fair weather expected,” said Christopher Eagleton. “Temperatures in the 70s tomorrow and a light south-westerly wind.”

  “Hmmm,” said Joseph Thump. In his mind, he was perusing a well-memorized almanac. He cleared his throat and intoned, “High tide at 3:33.” He looked from one to other of his companions. “Antemeridian,” he added.

  No one seemed more pleased by these announcements than Mister Walton. “Hasn’t it been a glorious day!” he said with immense feeling.

  It had, in fact, been a wonderfully balmy day for late September and this after several days of unseasonably cool temperatures. During the previous week, in Portland and along the adjacent coast, there had been the sense that fall had settled in for an early claim, so the return (however briefly) of something like summer carried with it the melancholic memory of recent months and the pressing desire to be out in the yellowing light and breathe the final fragrance of late blooms. Everywhere you looked, that gentle Thursday, a little less had been getting done and a little more had been simply standing about, looking around, and saying how grand it was. Even the few clouds that sailed the sky had been as white and docile as sheep and only the crickets in Deering Oaks stepped up their activity. Up and down the streets, windows were raised and many a front door left wide to let in zephyrs wafting from the opposing corner of the continent.

  “But is it Indian Summer?” said Ephram (or, rather, he read this). Under his arm, when he entered the Shipswood Restaurant, had been his journal of choice—The Eastern Argus—and the first page of the evening’s edition was now open before him. “Editorial,” he explained. “Interesting question.” He proceeded to read aloud: “We are of the emphatic opinion that the season is, as yet, too young for such a locution to be bandied about. A week of cool weather does not warrant dubbing a sudden upsurge in the temperature ‘Indian Summer.’ We have known cool Junes, but who would identify the following hot July by such a sobriquet?”

  “Indeed,” said Thump.

  “It would seem precipitous,” agreed Eagleton. He was glad that they had not committed such a rash act. He had entered the restaurant with the evening edition of the Portland Daily Advertiser (to which he had long subscribed) under his arm and glancing at the front page of this journal, he let out a small cry of discovery. “The question of Indian Summer is treated here, as well!” he announced, and then he read: “Indian Summer is no more than a brief refreshment of the sunny season when we have been led to expect its absence for the aging year’s remaining days. Indian Summer is not defined in the realm of meteorological science but in the chambers of the human heart.”

  “Bravo!” said Ephram, though his own chosen journal had discoursed so differently. Indeed, the reference to the human heart had affected him deeply. He put his head up a little and blinked several times.

  “Hmmm,” said Thump.

  But Eagleton felt it problematic that the editorial voice of his own favored journal had so flatly challenged what Ephram had previously read. Eagleton would never have read the Advertiser’s judgment aloud if he had realized how much it contradicted that of the Eastern Argus. All three of the charter members felt that the opinions of newspapers could be a little brusque.

  Sundry didn’t know if the subject was quite up to loud discussion.

  Mister Walton was amused by the minutiae evident in certain differences of opinion.

  “It says here,” said Eagleton, swiftly and purposefully picking a likely item from the front page of the Daily Advertiser, “that Professor Longthorne’s Incredible Camera Obscura erected at Deering Oaks has gained great popularity with the crowds at the park. Young and old alike cry out with wonder to see a perfect image of strollers fashioned by the mysteries of light onto a wall of the otherwise darkened room. Benches have been set inside the building so that people might linger and marvel. Outside, a plaque details the manner in which this illusion is created and it is termed a work of science but this writer cannot see the eerie and silent figures of pedestrians and cyclists passing by unaware without thinking it is all magic!”

  “Unaware?” said Ephram. The notion of watching people unaware was vaguely scandalous but oddly fascinating—which vaguely scandalized him.

  “Camera Obscura,” said Thump.

  “It sounds worth looking into,” said Mister Walton with a glint in his eyes.

  “I wish I’d said that,” said Sundry.

  “You’ve said much better, my friend,” twinkled the portly fellow.

  “Perhaps we should,” said Thump, who could be decisive.

  “Do you think so?” said Eagleton.

  “And, please, report your experience when next we meet,” said their jovial chairman. He was only carrying on with his previous humor but the Charter Members took it to heart like club instruction, and also gathered that he would be glad to hear about it rather than accompany them. Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump looked at one another with expressions redolent of purpose and satisfaction. Not only were they quite willing to perform this expedition but they were deeply honored to have been asked.

  But a stray thought derailed further discussion on this subject. Mister Walton was yet fascinated by the definition (as well as mystified over the obscure origin) of the phrase that had recently caused the Gentlemen of the Club some discomfort. “I wonder what the Portland Courier might say about it all,” he said in complete innocence. “Indian Summer, I mean.”

  This query brought Thump out of something of a brown study on the subject of camera obscuras and people unaware, whereupon he lifted the newspaper to which he subscribed—the Portland Courier—and announced that it, too, had something to say about the day’s weather and the term in question. It did not offer judgment except to suggest that the matter was of little moment. “Fall and Winter,” it said solemnly (and sounded solemn couched in Thump’s deep voice), “will come however slow or swift they will, no matter what we number some few intervening days.”

  “My!” said Eagleton. “That seems very well said!”

  “There is no fault to be found in that reasoning,” offered Ephram with a certain nod.

  “Hmmm,” said Thump. He subscribed to the Courier but might not subscribe to all its ideas. He thought it a little over-blunt and was not entirely pleased to have brought it to the table, even if it had been requested.

  A peculiar (and rare) impasse fell over the party while the salad came and went. The Charter Members were clearly out of sorts and Mister Walton (himself sorry for anyone’s discomfort) realized how embarrassed his friends were that their chosen literary organs so frankly disagreed with one another.

  “They are building a new chimney next door to Mrs. Wilbur’s,” said Thump, in an effort to redirect the thought processes of the table.

  “Are they?” said Eagleton.

  “Yes,” said Thump hopefully. “There are quite a lot of bricks.”

  But that was the end of it. Deep contemplation derailed the Charter Members’ powers of conversation. Mister Walton was also contemplating, and as the chicken allemande and spinach in vineg
ar and braised squash-balls laid upon a bed of apple compote was set before them, he addressed the situation with typical grace and candor. “I think they each have something to recommend,” he said and all attention turned to the head of the table. “The three views expressed by our local journals on the question of Indian Summer,” he explained. “I think it can be said they do not entirely refute one another.”

  “Oh?” said Eagleton and Ephram at the same time and with obvious hope.

  “Hmmm?” said Thump.

  “The Argus writes,” said the jovial chairman, “in this instance, from the head, while the Advertiser, by its own admission, does so from the heart. A human being is both things and might hold up each impression, one in either hand.” And this Mister Walton did, in a symbolic way. “Like balanced scales,” he said. It was as consciously wise a thought as they were likely to hear from a man who was not prone to sententious statements. There was, in fact, something of the puckish in his demeanor to which the Charter Members each responded without quite understanding it.

  “And the Courier?” said Sundry Moss, leaning back his lanky frame and folding his arms before him. From anyone with less faith in Mister Walton’s powers it might have seemed a question (not to mention a pose) born of doubt, but Sundry was simply waiting for (and encouraging) the final proof.

  “Ah, the Courier!” said Mister Walton, looking over his spectacles at his young friend and smiling at the challenge. “The Courier reminds us that however we do or do not term the moment, it will be fleeting. Aside from the delights of an academic debate, we should be sure that we actually take pleasure in the day that we are discussing.”

  The light of this notion dispelled the shadow of confusion and distress that had hung over the table and the Gentlemen of the Club looked quite happy and also determined to enjoy the lingering fair weather.

  “People swear by Spring Fever as a source of confusion,” said Sundry as he addressed his meal. “But my mother had an Uncle Hoban who was twice as goosed by Indian Summer.”

  “Goosed?” said Eagleton.

  “I should say!” said Sundry like a man who hadn’t already.

  Mister Walton laid down his fork and studied his young friend. “And how did this—goosing—manifest itself?”

  Sundry set down his own knife and fork and studied a far corner of the room before saying, “By Uncle Hoban’s own admission, he found it troublesome to get anything finished.”

  Mister Walton sympathized. “On a day like today, I am not immune to lethargy myself.”

  “It’s not uncommon,” agreed Sundry. “But he tended, also, to run into things.”

  “Things?”

  “Door posts, horses, the occasional tree. Once he walked smack into the oak in his back yard and didn’t get up for three or four hours.”

  “Oh, my!” said Eagleton. “Wouldn’t you say, Ephram?”

  “Yes, Eagleton, I would!”

  “Thump?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “He was knocked unconscious for three or four hours?” asked Mister Walton.

  “No, I believe he just lay there. He was breathing,” said Sundry with continued equanimity. “And his eyes were open. His wife came out and looked at him.”

  “That was charitable of her,” said Mister Walton, who was up to this sort of thing.

  “Trouble really began one fall when at odd moments he might take it into his head to up-and-kiss any woman within reach.”

  Ephram, Eagleton, and Thump straightened their postures in concert and as if they were tied to the same string. Small exclamations escaped from Ephram and Eagleton. “Any woman?” said Thump.

  “That was odd,” agreed Mister Walton placidly.

  “Down at the local store, at Grange, Sunday church—”

  The idea of kissing a woman compelled the Gentlemen of the Club to rapt attention. (They had occasionally read of such things, their ears burning, in the odd novel or magazine story.) In the most honest situation it must take nerves of steel, but kissing any woman would represent a wild imprudence and was well past their ability to imagine.

  “And the public response?” asked Mister Walton.

  “Well, this was before my time but I think it was cautious at best.”

  Mister Walton had composed himself by this juncture. “When this occurred, did his wife come out and look at him as she did when he stumbled into the tree?”

  “She didn’t, as it happened,” said Sundry. “She got him a dog.”

  Mister Walton looked as doubtful as they were likely to see him that evening.

  “And that dog would growl at him,” explained Sundry, “and pull at his pant leg if he ever got near another woman.”

  “That was a rare dog,” said Mister Walton.

  “There have been several of his descendants at the farm,” said Sundry, speaking of Moss Farm, his parents’ home in Edgecomb. “Great-aunt Gert said it wasn’t of such moment to her, but the neighbors would complain.”

  Eagleton had produced a small copybook from a coat pocket and was writing into it the salient details of Sundry’s anecdote. Ephram was wondering if the neighbors had complained about Great-uncle Hoban kissing any woman or about the growling dog.

  “You have quite a lot of uncles,” said Mister Walton. “I’ve heard about several.”

  “Yes,” said Sundry, returning to his meal. “You can hardly throw a rock in Lincoln County without hitting one.”

  “Good heavens!” said Eagleton.

  “I wonder how many bricks one must have to build a chimney,” said Thump.

  The chicken allemande was superb and the sweet and the savory of the squash and apple was magnificently balanced by the precisely vinegared spinach. It was a complete gustatory success and they said so to their waiter and Mr. Pliny and the nearby tables. Sorbet came to cleanse the palate and then a delicately flavored haddock and finally desert—a chocolate almond torte dolloped with whipped cream and a touch of cinnamon.

  “I do keep meaning to mention an approaching adventure,” said Mister Walton when they were lingering over the torte and cream.

  “Adventure?” said Ephram.

  “Oh, my!” said Eagleton.

  “Hmmm?” said Thump, who appeared startled. He had been thinking about Sundry’s Great-uncle Hoban. Kissing women willy-nilly, as it were, and the result of a mind confused by Indian Summer had filled his heart with a low-lying dread, as if he might be similarly effected on an unexpectedly warm day. And Eagleton had forecasted fair weather tomorrow. Perhaps Thump should stay in. “A dog,” he said, which statement seemed a little vague to the others.

  Ephram and Eagleton looked around for the creature.

  “An adventure?” Thump corrected.

  “I’m to go dancing,” he said. “In Hallowell,” he added, as if he were to indulge in this activity down the town’s main thoroughfare. “You will recall Miss McCannon, with whom Sundry and I visited the shell-middens in Damariscotta?”

  “Certainly!” said one and, “Why, of course!” said another, and “Miss McCannon!” uttered a third. They had been much impressed with that fine lady and each, in his secret heart, had experienced at least a brief picture of Mister Walton and Miss McCannon as what the social columns would sometimes term an item.

  “She has very graciously requested my company at this year’s Hallowell Harvest Ball,” explained their chairman. “It being leap year, the ladies of the town have been given leave to lead the invitations.”

  “I regard that notion highly,” said Sundry, who considered the normal burden of a man to win a woman a stiff custom.

  The Charter Members regarded Mister Walton’s news with amazement. They had taken lessons in dance at Mrs. De Riche’s Academy of Ballroom Sciences and had even attended many affairs where those lessons might have been put to use. Only once had they been. But never (to their knowledge or even suspicion) had Ephram, Eagleton, or Thump been sought out by a female for a dance, much less an entire ball!

  “Ever in the fore!” declared Thump.

  Eagleton led a round of applause, which made Mister Walton chuckle heartily.