“It’s unnerving. Creepy,” commented Ruth, catching the pharmacist out of the corner of her eye. Maggie’s Uncle Whit was indeed looking in their direction — and quite absorbedly.
“Yes,” said Maggie. “But he really is harmless. It wasn’t a roving eye that broke up his marriage to my aunt. It was his addiction to Heroin-Hydrochloride cough elixir. Which reminds me that I really should thank him for opening the fountain to us before hours. I’ll only be a moment.”
Maggie strode back to her uncle’s office at the rear of the drugstore. Observing her approach through its little window, he flung open the door to admit her before she’d even had opportunity to knock.
“Uncle Whit, we want to thank you so much for all your hospitality this morning. We must be going along to work now, but you were such a peach to let us sit here for nearly an hour.”
Uncle Whit had a ready smile on his round, almost cherubic face. His eyes were veined and red with bloodshot from his various addictions, most of which robbed him of consistent (and restorative) sleep; but otherwise his noxious habits took little noticeable toll upon his body or countenance. (And Maggie had always been astonished by how much energy he seemed to have.) “Have you worked things out with your friend Molly?” he asked with warm solicitude. “I couldn’t help overhearing bits and pieces. Does this mean your mother won’t be marrying Molly’s father?”
“Not for the time being, at least. We’re going to convince them to delay the nuptials.”
“Perhaps ‘no nuptials at all’ would be the better course. Are you aware that Dr. Osborne practices both the medical and dental arts without a proper license?”
“I knew he wasn’t a qualified physician. I didn’t know that he shouldn’t be practicing dentistry either. That’s an intriguing discovery.”
“And he drinks. I’ve never met a hard-drinking man who didn’t come to a bad end.”
“Nor have I, Uncle. Including my own father. But you already know everything there is to know about that.”
Uncle Whit nodded. “Before you go, Niece, I have something to give you. One of my fountain customers accidentally left it behind yesterday. I don’t know a thing about her, except that she said she was on her way to Oakland to catch a train for someplace in the East. Since I don’t know where to send it, or whether she should ever be back here to collect it, I wanted you to have it.”
“What is it?”
“A book. She was reading it at the counter.” Uncle Whit opened a drawer to his desk and took out the book of mention.
Maggie accepted the volume from her uncle. “You are very kind to me, Uncle. In so many different ways.”
“I consider you my niece still. And do come back and see me again when you have the chance.”
“I will.” Maggie squeezed her uncle’s hand.
“And bring all your pretty friends with you.”
“Yes, well, of course. Good morning, Uncle Whit.”
Once outside the drugstore, Maggie put the book into Ruth’s hands without looking at it. “Uncle Whit knows a lot about me,” she said, “but he’s apparently forgotten that I don’t read for pleasure. You may have this — whatever it is.”
“Thank you, Mag,” said Ruth. As the four friends walked along California Street, Ruth opened the book to look at its title page. It was a novel with which Ruth was familiar, and she told this to Maggie.
“A Florida Enchantment,” said Molly, peering over Ruth’s shoulder. “But you haven’t read it yet?”
“No. But Miss Colthurst strongly recommended it,” replied Ruth, now leafing through its pages.
“What’s it about?” asked Molly.
“A magic seed that when eaten changes a woman into a man and vice versa. Not outwardly, but inside.”
Maggie snorted. “Yes, I can see why Miss Colthurst would ‘strongly’ recommend such a book.”
At that moment a cable car trundled noisily past. Ruth was given to think, as she sometimes did, of Maggie’s father stepping in front of it and ending his life in an instant. Today she pictured Maggie in her father’s place.
And didn’t feel guilty at all.
Chapter Eight
Zenith, Winnemac, July 1923
Cain Pardlow was always the first to arrive at Dodsworth Hall on that one morning a week in which he and his four college pals were able to grab a late breakfast together. Only on Monday mornings did their various lecture and lab schedules open up for long enough (from ten to noon to be precise) to afford the five longtime friends the chance to graze coevally in Winnemac Agricultural and Mechanical College’s revamped dining hall. (This semester marked the first time W A&M tried the relatively new “cafeteria dining concept,” which had been growing in popularity since the war.) Seated at their favorite table, they would trade stories from the week past, argue politics — national, state, and campus — and generally shoot a great deal of bull before being called away to afternoon classes covering such esoteric subjects as Cost Accounting, Mechanics of Trade, Machine Drawing, Agricultural Survey and Drainage, and Efficacies of Farm Manure.
Cain, the agricultural history student, had his unvarying “usual”: two cups of black coffee (Monarch—“Quality Seldom Equaled; Never Excelled”) and a bowl of Kellogg’s Shredded Krumbles with strawberries and cream.
Pat Harrison, who was usually the next to show up — Pat, the science education major (at least this was the degree path that interested him this particular semester) — ate cereal, as welclass="underline" Quaker Quakies corn flakes. And because they looked appealingly plump and succulent this morning, Pat also topped his cereal with strawberries and cream. Having always been taught by his father that caffein frayed the nerves and impaired the digestion, Pat drank Postum, and, to the amazement of his friends, was able to do so with little facial indication of his absolute revulsion for the gritty, pulpy beverage.
Today it was Tom Catts who arrived next. Tom appeared slightly bleary-eyed from an evening of getting himself stewed, if not to the eyebrows, then perhaps to a point just below the cheekbones. Tom had a fried egg sandwich — or at least he bought a fried egg sandwich — but because of the condition of his stomach, he was destined to spend most of the time just staring at it, occasionally peeling back the toast to see if the eggs had turned into anything remotely palatable. Tom was working toward a degree in the relatively new field of agricultural economics.
Next came Will (a.k.a. “William,” “Willy,” and “Willy-Boy,” but never “Billy”) Holborne, who was in the mood for bacon, and was provisioned that morning with a tall glass of orange juice and a plate piled high with nothing but crispy rashers of the aforementioned. There was a logical explanation for this beyond the fact that Will was terminally hungry. He was presently taking a class in pork production. Perhaps no further elaboration is necessary.
And making his wonted straggling appearance sometime around 10:30 was Jerry Castle, who was studying for a degree in Business and Industry. Jerry had his customary king’s breakfast of cinnamon toast, corned beef hash with poached egg on top, a side of fried ham, a bowl of fruit-in-season (today it was those mouth-watering strawberries), and a short stack of Aggie flapjacks (which were just your garden-variety pancakes, with the chance of a little embedded ash from one of “Chef” Shemp’s ubiquitous Lucky Strikes).
Castle spoke for the others as he flumped down with his tray: “Tom Catts — you look like somebody the eponymous dragged in, you bedraggled ol’ whisker-licker. What kind of hootch did you get your little snub-snout into last night?”