Crestmont (21 page)

Twenty polished wooden bowling lanes lined up on the right side of the place and a soda bar stood on the left wall. In the central area sat impressive cherry shelves displaying bowling shoes, balls and framed awards. A huge
Victrola
with a brass horn atop sat on the counter. A girl tying a brimmed blue hat trimmed with flowers under her chin touted, “Drink Coca Cola” from a huge calendar on the wall.

A door slammed. PT jumped. “I’m sick of telling those pin boys to speed it up, Eddie. You handle it.” Warren Sloan emerged from the rear of the bowling lanes in a dapper black pinstriped suit and red bow tie. He cranked up the
Victrola
with one hand and pulled out a new record from under the counter. He was about to put it on the phonograph when he noticed PT.

“Hey, kid, what’s up? Sorry, we’re not running any games right now. You’ll have to come back around eleven.”

PT dipped his head down in acknowledgement, tucked his hands in his pockets, and cut his eyes over toward the soda bar. “If you need some help, I’m a pretty fast learner.”

“Oh, you’re looking for work. Come on over here,” Sloan said, motioning toward the soda fountain. “Warren Sloan’s the name,” he said, offering his hand from the other side of the counter. “Boy, you’re a scraggy one. I need some glasses from out back. Give me a minute and I’ll fix you a root beer float.”

PT pulled up a stool and slumped over the counter as Sloan disappeared through a door behind the pretzel machine. Stacked glasses, a big coffee urn and ads for malted milk, floats and beer half obscured the mirror behind the counter. Through an unoccupied corner PT saw the reflection of a piano on the same wall as the front door.

Sloan reentered with a tray loaded with thick soda glasses. He pumped root beer syrup into one, added seltzer water from the machine on the counter and a dollop of vanilla ice cream. After popping in a straw, he pushed the drink over the counter to PT. “Here.”

Sloan pulled up a stool and idly drummed his fingers on the counter while the kid downed the drink. “Know anything about bowling?”

“Learned to bowl a bit when I played piano at that alley up on
State Street
.”

“Good. Show me what you’ve got.” They both stood, PT a head taller than Sloan, who was sizing up
PT’s
feet. “You wear an eleven shoe, right?”

“Not bad,” Sloan said later after the kid had thrown a few balls.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t say much, do you? I like that. You might even listen to me, unlike the knucklehead I just fired. I could teach you a thing or two about bowling if you like. How are you with figures?”

“Pretty good. I need a job, Mr. Sloan.”

“Right. Come here a second.” He went to the shoe rental counter, pulled out a sheet with numbers on it and pushed it over in front of PT. “I’ve got a bunch of people who’ve run up tabs renting shoes. Take a crack at adding these totals.”

“This first guy owes you a dollar and a half.”

“You added that in your head?”

“Yup.”

“Impressive. Stand up and let me take a gander.” Sloan pursed his lips and snapped one of
PT’s
dirty suspenders. “Not only are you skinny, but a little scruffy too, pardon me saying it. Okay, I’ll start you tomorrow, but you’re going to have to clean up. Do you have a suit?” PT shook his head.

Sloan pulled his wallet and stuck some bills into the kid’s hand. “Buy a new shirt, wash your suspenders and put on a tie. I need a guy out front to rent shoes and help players with scores. My partner, Eddie, can’t be here all the time and I want to bowl more tournaments. We’ll see how it goes.”

****

Warren Sloan, PT discovered after working for three weeks, ran two successful bowling alleys in
Camden
, had made a name for himself in tournaments along the east coast, wasn’t in the war because of a slight heart condition, and continually talked about replacing pin boys with something mechanical. He never asked PT where he came from or where his family was. He treated him with respect and paid him a fair wage.

When PT asked to learn the soda fountain, Sloan corrected him, “It’s a bar, kid. Soda fountains are for kids in drugstores. We sell beer, pretzels and some ice cream sodas for the tea-
totallers
.” PT smiled widely. “Oh, so you can smile? Crack a few more of those out and you might find you get good tips. Okay, kid, I’ll teach you how to run the bar. I like it that you want more responsibility. Close it up when I’m running a tournament because I don’t want a sticky mess on my lanes, get it? Then you put the
Victrola
on and open back up for beer and root beer floats to celebrate after the last game.”

“Got it.” PT said. “And if you let me jam on the piano instead of playing that
Victrola
during tournaments, you’ll have more customers walking through your door.”

Sloan gradually took PT under his wing. He let him play piano and taught him not just the business of running a bowling alley, but also the sport of bowling. His only gripe was that he had to tear the kid away from the piano to help with the scoring during tournaments.

Woodshed on
Crestmont
Hill

February 5, 1926

William switched off the radio, his slight frame swimming in
his
camel and cream-colored blanket bathrobe. “No school again today, Margaret. The International News Service just reported twenty-two inches of snowfall and that roads all over the area are closed. You are stuck with me for your birthday,” he announced.

“Our school is closed too, so we have a long weekend. Eleanor, now we’ll have time for Gracie to cut our hair into bobs like hers. We’ll be just like modern women.” Peg jokingly tugged on a stray tuft of her sister’s hair.

“We will discuss bobs later.” Margaret brushed a kiss on her daughter’s cheek as she headed into her bedroom to dress.

“Peg, bundle up and bring in some wood, please. The coal stove works wonders, but today we need a fire in the fireplace to make it extra cozy,” William said.

Eleanor, still in her yellow bathrobe, plunked herself in the middle of the couch. “Let’s have Mama open her birthday presents now instead of waiting until after dinner.”

“Whoa, slow down, Eleanor. I haven’t wrapped mine yet.” He frantically grabbed a pencil and paper, sat at the kitchen table and began to write. “Peg, I need a box and some ribbon.”

“Hurry up, Papa,” Eleanor said, rapping on Gracie’s door. “Of course you should join us, silly,” she insisted a moment later, pulling Gracie into the living room. “You sit here while I get Mama.”

“You’re going to have a
wicky
-wacky birthday, Mama,” Eleanor explained, ushering her mother into the living room.

“What does ‘
wicky
-wacky’ mean, sweetheart?”

“You get to open your gifts before breakfast. We decided.”

“But you won’t have a birthday cake, because I can’t get out to buy eggs,” Peg moaned.

“Oh, no bother,” their father said. “We’ll make a big cake as soon as the snow clears. Time to open your gifts, Margaret.”

“Me first, Papa.” Eleanor undid her bathrobe, pulled out a picture she had drawn and handed it to her mother.

“You drew my hibiscus. Eleanor, it’s beautiful. Just the thing to brighten up a winter day.”

Peg gave her mother a collar and cuff set made with dainty Oriental lace. “It’s a new color called ecru, Mama, and it was imported. You can wear it with your navy blue suit all buttoned up and people will think you have a whole new blouse underneath.”

“Wherever did you get the money, Peg?”

“Mr.
Swett
is a real good tipper when I pull his canoe out of the water.”

Gracie’s gift was a bud vase in an unusual design of Japanese lusterware. “I wonder what catalogue you ordered this from,” Margaret teased, placing it on the mantel.

“My turn. Your real gift is stuck on my desk at school, my love, so this will have to suffice.” Her husband placed the small box delicately in her hands. “Happy Birthday, Margaret.”

She untied the pink ribbon and opened the box. Her lips moved slightly when she read the words on the paper. “Oh, William, just what I wanted!”

“What does it say?” the girls asked.

Taking a deep breath, Margaret held up the paper importantly and read, “You have nothing to do today except what you want to do.”

“Huh?” Eleanor scrunched her eyebrows together and her strawberry beauty mark almost disappeared.

“It means your father is giving me a day of rest. What a lovely gift.”

“So what did you really give Mama?” Peg asked her father later while she broke the only egg in the house into the pancake batter.

“I find it curious you feel what I gave her isn’t a real gift.” William neatly lined up bacon in the cast iron skillet.

“You know what I mean, Papa.”

“Well, two topaz earrings with diamond chips set in gold in the long dangling style are sitting on my desk at
Westlawn
, but it will be Monday before I can get to them. Wait until you see what a marvelous compliment they will be to the color of her eyes.”

“And the shoulder of lamb I was going to roast for Mama’s birthday dinner is stuck at the butcher’s.”

****

“We’re going to need to shovel the big house attic, Papa. That was a big snowstorm.” Icy air blew into the Woodshed as Peg came back in from the porch while Gracie rinsed breakfast dishes in the sink.

“I’ll give Sid a jingle to help, but I’m just not sure how he’s going to get here.”

“Oh, let’s do it ourselves, Papa,” Peg pleaded.

“Do it ourselves?” Margaret groaned, pushing herself out of her caned rocker. “Oh William, it’s too much for the children.”

He eased her back down. “Today was the day you weren’t going to do anything taxing, Margaret. Relax here by the fire and we’ll do the work.”

“I’ll go instead. It sounds like fun.” Gracie said. “I mean—any way to help the family—that’s what you hired me for, right, Mr. Woods?”

“Oh, goodie. You rest, Mama, and Gracie can borrow your boots.” Eleanor grabbed her own boots, sat on the floor, and pulled them on.

“Not so fast, Miss Eleanor. Gracie’s going to need more than boots. With this much snow on the ground, we need to snowshoe on over there.”

“Snowshoes, the bees knees! You’re going to love it, Gracie.” Eleanor started furiously buttoning her coat.

“Have you walked on snowshoes before?” William asked. Gracie shook her head. “It’s hard work, especially for the novice. Your feet are probably going to sink eight inches in this snow because it’s fluffy. Then, it’s difficult to pick your other foot up to take the next step. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

The ladder snapped into place as William reached up and pulled the rope. He climbed up to the crawl space above the kitchen. Accustomed to this ritual, Peg stood at the bottom and reached for the snowshoes when he handed them down to her.

Eleanor pulled two kitchen chairs side by side and indicated Gracie should sit down. Slapping a three-foot-long wooden framed lattice snowshoe on the floor, she pointed to the leather binding. “Put the ball of your foot boot in there.” She put the rawhide straps into Gracie’s hands. “Come on, I’ll show you how to buckle them. If you don’t do it right, one might come off and you’ll go head-over-tea-kettles into the snow.”

William led, carrying a shovel, as they trudged over to the big house in single file. Behind him, Eleanor bent over double, pumping her legs deliberately up and down in her snowshoes. Gracie followed with her eyes squinted against the cold and her feet slipping inside Mrs. Woods’ boots. Peg brought up the rear, keeping her balance with another shovel.

It was incredibly windy. Gracie and Eleanor turned their backs to the blowing snow while they waited for the other two to shovel the steps of the inn and a path through the porch to the door.

Once inside, they removed their snowshoes. “I’ll get the other shovels and a broom from the store room,” said Peg, handing her shovel to Gracie to hold.

“It’s really dark in here.” Gracie blew on her gloved hands, gawking at the cold, empty shell of the inn.

William opened some blinds. “We keep the blinds on the main floor closed in case any unwelcome strangers come poking around peeking in the windows off season. It’s colder in here than outside because it doesn’t get any sun.”

“All right, troops, upstairs we go. Stay close.” He accepted the flashlight Peg handed him. They all trudged up to the first landing and then climbed four more flights. William waved the flashlight back and forth across the attic. “That’s using your noggin, Peg. There’s a good foot here in some places.”

“Why does the snow collect inside the building?” Gracie asked, flapping her arms around herself for warmth.

“Well, don’t tell my wife I told you, but her father skimped a bit on the construction of this place. The snow blows in through eaves and cracks around the windows. Then it melts and leaks down, creating water damage on the ceiling and walls. When the temperature drops, ice forms, making the floorboards buckle. We want to keep this place going as long as we can, so we shovel it.”

“Where do you put the snow after you shovel it?”

Peg trudged over to open the window on the east end of the house. “Out there, silly. Sometimes we have to shovel a path to the windows.”

Eleanor was busy throwing little shovelfuls of snow out the window while the others talked. They followed her lead and in forty minutes the attic was clear.

****

“Aw, Papa, can’t we roam around?” Eleanor asked as her father swept up the snow the shovels missed. “I want to see the new addition. Can I use one of the new toilets?”

“There’s not much to see. It’s just a bunch of empty rooms now, Eleanor, and the water is turned off. If you need to use the toilet, you’ll have to go back home.”