Before Mr. Forrest could answer, Elsie said, “Scoop's eleven. I'm eleven too. I'm older than him by three months and seven days. Aren't I, Scoop?” But he wasn't listening. He was leaning sideways, staring at the notebook that lay open across Mr. Forrest's knees. “Scoop's not a very good speller, but he knows lots of big words, and he's good at adventures,” said Elsie.
“All fine qualities for a reporter,” said Mr. Forrest. “And with the perfect name for a newspaperman, I must say. I see you've been taking notes.”
Scoop held his book against his chest, both hands clasped across the black-and-white-marbled cover.
“But perhaps you're not ready to share your sources,” the man said.
Sauces? thought Elsie. But before she could ask what he meant, she noticed that the music had changed. The song was one her mother loved. Sometimes she and Father would dance around the room while Father sang “Ain't She Sweet” into Mother's hair, making her laugh and shake her head. He knew all the words and sometimes made up extra verses to make Mother laugh even harder.
Elsie watched the dancers shuffle slowly around the floor. It seemed to make no difference to them what song was playing. One couple was hardly dancing at all, just shifting from one foot to another. When one woman broke away and crumpled to the floor, her partner pulled her back into his arms. But her feet wouldn't take her full weight; they dragged behind her and the man had to pull her along.
As the Reverend, Scoop and the reporter talked quietly next to her, the curtain behind the dance floor was pushed aside, and a man in a white coat walked toward two dancers. He put his fingers around the woman's wrist, then eased her head off her partner's shoulder and peered into her face. When he waved toward the curtain, a nurse in a crisp white uniform came forward and spoke to the woman. Her partner tried to push the nurse away, but she shook him off and led the woman behind the curtain. The man followed slowly, his shoulders slumped and his head bent.
“Why did the nurse take her away?' Elsie asked.
“The doc gets to say who's fit and who's not,” Mr. Forrest answered. “That girl was likely passed out, anyway. She's not missing much.”
“How could she dance if she'd fainted?”
“Her partner would have been holding her up. Somehow her legs kept going.”
“Can they come back?” asked Scoop.
Why had he put his notebook away? Elsie wondered. This was all interesting stuff. He should be writing it all down.
“That couple is out of it. Eliminated. But there's lots more,” said Mr. Forrest as other dancers stumbled through the curtain, some rubbing their eyes, staggering this way and that as if they were in the dark. “This lot has just had their ten minutes,” said the reporter. “They do them in shifts here. Not enough cots.”
“It's a disgrace,” said the Reverend. “This is why I brought you children here. That poster outside and the newspaper advertisements do not reflect the truth of things.”
Elsie studied the spectators gathered in groups on the bleachers or sitting alone. One man was reading a newspaper. A couple were cuddling, their faces buried in each other's collars. Two young men were laughing together, one minute watching the dancers, the next whispering and nudging each other. A woman unwrapped sandwiches and passed them to three children playing between the benches.
“Would you look at this lot,” said Mr. Forrest. “But if a dime can buy them a day indoors, who am I to criticize the poor souls with nowhere else warm to go?” He stood up. “I'm glad to meet you. Especially you, young man. Scoop, isn't it?” He dug in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Here's my card.” He handed one to Scoop and another to the Reverend. “I've a meeting with the organizer of this shindig. A Mr. Hayden Lyle
â
if you can believe that's his real name. Not that I expect to get much from him. But you, sir,” he said to the Reverend, “you seem to have strong opinions. My paper would be interested in your views. May I get in touch with you? An hour of your time, at most?”
The Reverend ducked his head. “Certainly. You'll find me at St. Mary's. Leave a note if I'm not there.”
The reporter skipped down and along the rows of seats, pushing past the spectators in the bleachers. When he reached the dance floor and edged around the dancing couples, they showed no sign they even knew he was there.
He disappeared behind the curtain with a quick wave.
“It seems like you've been scooped, Scoop,” said the Reverend.
“Why didn't you take any notes?” asked Elsie. “You won't remember all this important stuff without notes.”
Scoop kept staring down onto the dance floor, his gaze wandering from one couple to another. Suddenly he stood up and pushed in front of Elsie. His notebook was tucked tightly under his arm. “Come on. Let's go.”
“We just got here,” said Elsie.
“Let's go, okay?” He blocked her view of the dance floor, his face pushed toward her. “You coming, or what?”
“I think we've seen what we came to see,” said the Reverend. He stood up and led the way along the row of seats, then down into the hallway.
With Scoop pulling her toward the light of the open doorway leading to the street, Elsie turned to look at the dancers one more time.
They were now shuffling around the floor to the tune of “April Showers.” Another of Mother's favorite songs; she always said it was well-suited to the Vancouver weather.
But it wasn't the familiar song or the dark shadows that sent a cold chill sweeping across Elsie's shoulders. It was something she saw on the dance floor. There, shuffling around the edge with her back to the bleachers, was a woman wearing a pair of ivory dance shoes. And an orange satin shirt.
Just like the one her mother had packed in her suitcase for a visit to someone Elsie had never heard of.
“W
ait up!” she called. But Scoop would not let go of her. And the Reverend was already standing in the bright doorway that led onto the street. When Elsie glanced back into the shadows, she could only see a blur of dancers drifting across the floor like ghosts.
“Just a minute!” Elsie yelled. She wanted to demand that they come back inside right this minute to check on what she had seen. She wanted to walk onto the dance floor and stand in front of the dancing couple to see if there really was another woman with the same shoes and skirt and shiny orange blouse as her mother.
But, pulled along by her friend, who would not let go, she now found herself on the sidewalk with the sound of the music fading as the door closed behind them. Scoop jabbered away, telling the Reverend how his new friend would help him get on in the newspaper world. This would be his big break. He would expose the dance marathons, make a name for himself. “They're crooked,” he said. “I don't know how. But I will find out.” He jigged up and down. “How about I come and meet with Mr. Forrest when you have your interview with him?” he asked the Reverend. “Don't you think that would be the best way for me to learn the trade?”
“Shut up, Scoop. Just shut up.”
The Reverend and Scoop turned to stare at Elsie. “Shut up,” she repeated. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”
“Child.” The Reverend laid his hand on her shoulder.
Elsie shrugged it away. “Shut up, Scoop,” she said. “I just want you to shut up.” She was crying and shaking. When the Reverend tried to put his hand on her shoulder again and lead her away from a group of women who stood nearby, digging in their purses, she cried even harder. That couldn't be her mother. It must be someone who looked just like her. And if it was her mother, who was that man dancing with her? Was it her father? Had he come back without telling her?
Elsie stood on the sidewalk and cried and shook. She didn't care that Scoop was staring at her with big eyes. Or that the Reverend was looking around helplessly. “Everyone just shut up,” she said again, as if there were no other words worth saying. She didn't care that the only time she had ever said them before, Nan had slapped her, leaving a red mark on her cheek that stayed there for days.
Scoop sidled up to her. “Cut it out, Elsie. Quit blubbering.” His voice was shaky. “I get enough of that at home. Stop it, Elsie. Please,” he said, as if he was upset too. “Look. I'll let you carry my book. I'm gonna write all kinds of notes,” he said. “About what we saw. That nurse taking those people away. The dancers sleeping on each other. That there was no big lights. No fancy dancers. I'll write all about it.”
Elsie's arm flew out. Anything to stop him going on and on. Her hand caught Scoop's arm, sending his notebook flying onto the ground. The pages splayed open. Loose scraps of paper scattered across the sidewalk. Among the scraps was the photograph of Elsie's father.
Elsie lunged forward and grabbed it. “That's mine!”
“Hey!” Scoop dropped to his knees on the sidewalk. But he didn't give the photo a second look. He grabbed his notebook and held it tight against his chest.
The Reverend knelt down on the sidewalk beside him. But not to pray. He groped this way and that. Picking up a scrap and handing it to Scoop. Then another. He found a small pile of them, then a single piece, adding them to the papers in his hand as he stood up. He looked at them, turned them one way, then the other. He studied them again and frowned.
When Scoop reached for them, the Reverend stared at him for a moment before he gently handed over the papers, giving them a little pat as he set them into Scoop's open hands.
Elsie was still crying. The lump in her chest was still there. But she didn't know anymore what she had seen in the dance hall. Or what she had thought she had seen. She made sure her photograph was safe in her pocket, then fished out her handkerchief to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. What should she say to the Reverend and Scoop? What if the Reverend told Nan about all the
shut ups
that had flown out of her mouth?
On the road next to the sidewalk where Scoop's notebook had fallen lay a piece of paper with squiggles all over it. She bent down and picked it up. “Is this yours?”
Scoop reached forward to grab it.
“I can't read this,” said Elsie slowly as she turned it over and over, looking at both sides. “It's just squiggles. It doesn't say anything.”
“It's shorthand.” Scoop's face grew pinker and pinker.
“This is just scribbling,” said Elsie. “It's not real writing. It's not even code.”
Scoop stared at the ground and scuffed his feet. He chewed his bottom lip.
“Is it?” Elsie asked.
Standing behind him, the Reverend looked at her over Scoop's head. He closed his eyes for a second; then he shook his head as if he was trying to send her a message.
Maybe she knew what he was trying to tell her. Maybe she didn't. She just didn't care. She was so sick of secrets. “You can't write at all, can you, Scoop?” she asked. “That's why you are so lousy at spelling. Why you don't get your homework done. Why Miss Beeston gives you special work. Isn't it? You can't hardly write a word!”
The dance hall didn't matter. Even if her mother was there, dancing until she dropped for a chance to win a few dollars. Even if she could dance longer than anyone else. Right now, all Elsie could feel were the secrets that everyone was keeping from her. About her father. And her mother. About Uncle Dannell.
About the letter Nan was hiding in her apron.
And now the one about Scoop the newspaperman, who was so dumb he couldn't even write a simple sentence. He would never be a reporter. There were no important facts in his notebook.
Even her best friend was keeping secrets from her.
E
lsie turned and ran.
“Just a moment,” cried the Reverend.
Elsie ran harder.
“Hey, Elsie. Hold up!” yelled Scoop. She could hear him chasing her.
Elsie ran until her knees ached and her head throbbed. She ran across roads, between cars, through empty lots. She climbed over fences and raced across someone's garden, nearly knocking over a small boy playing with a toy truck.
Elsie ran past the lilac tree at the end of the driveway. Past the mailbox that was always empty, no matter how many times she looked inside. She ran under the towering rhododendrons and along the gravel path until she reached the door of the small, overcrowded place that was home.
When Elsie barged into the garage, Nan startled awake, knocking her knitting off the arm of the chair. “What's the to-do?”
Under the kitchen table, Dog Bob rolled over. He yawned, then closed his eyes again.
“Where is my mother?” yelled Elsie.
“You back already?” asked Nan.
“Do you know where Father is?”
“Will you tell me what's got you all aerated?” Nan reached down to pick up her knitting. “Stop this yelling. And take off that hat. How many times!”
Elsie's hat stayed right where it was. “What's in that letter?” she demanded.
“I was going to talk to you about that.” Nan heaved herself out of the chair.
“Did you know that Scoop can't read or write?” Elsie asked her.
“I did.”
Elsie felt as if all the wind had been sucked right out of her. She leaned against the table. “You did?”
“You look all done in.” Nan eased Elsie into a chair. “Let's get you calmed down, shall we? Then we'll take one thing at a time.”
Elsie felt like throwing up. But she'd have to get up and fetch a bowl, or go out to the outhouse. So instead, she swallowed hard and decided it was easier to stay where she was.
Nan fixed Elsie a real cup of tea, rich and dark, with three sugars. She set it on the table in front of Elsie and watched until she put her hands around the cup. “You going to tell me what's got you all upset?” Her grandmother poured tea into her own saucer and blew across it.