The Dime A Dance Girl

On Saturday nights, out of whiskey and in a mood to celebrate, Charlie would down a few bottles of vanilla extract, stash a few more into his pockets and come to town feeling no pain and looking for trouble.  He had a reputation for being a mean drunk with a hot temper and a .44 pistol - the men had learned to give him room while the women scattered - we all knew that taking on Charlie was a bad idea.  He was a big man, well over six feet and heavy on his feet with no more sense than God gave a gull, as Nana often said, just a no account bully with a chip on his shoulder. 


Still, child, she reminded me sternly, You stay out of his way and keep your distance.  I didn't need to be told twice.


Charlie's common law wife, Madelaine - rumor had it, a former dime a dance hall girl who'd been born on the French Shore but found her niche in a St. John bar - was a tall and well endowed beauty with dark hair and long legs. She  spoke with a slightly cajun accent and had what the islanders called a habit of steppin' out, spending her idle afternoons in the canteen feeding nickels into the old jukebox, drinking Canadian ale with Sparrow, painting her long, curved nails and unabashedly flirting.  She was, according to my grandmother, a train wreck in the making.

Mark my words, I overheard her warn Sparrow, That woman's no better'n an old mangy cat in heat and where she goes, trouble will follow. 

The old man roared with laughter.  Alice, he sputtered when he caught his breath, I don't hold with trash and besides that woman's 'bout dangerous as dust!


Mebbe so, my grandmother said dryly, but her husband ain't.  You'll be wantin' to mind your manners if you know what's good for you.


Honor was a thing of importance on the island - maintaining and defending it mattered, especially in affairs of the heart ( and cribbage ) and the trouble my grandmother predicted came on the heels of a sudden, late summer storm.  Rather than wait it out or brave the downpour, Madelaine carelessly accepted a ride home from a passing salesman - sewing machines and notions, so the legend said - but at the turn of The Old Road, the pickup slipped into a skid, lost traction and dumped itself, a pallet of sewing machines and both its occupants into the ditch, unfortunately out of sight of the nearest house.  Madelaine and the salesman climbed back into the truck to wait for the rain to stop and seek help but Charlie, arriving home not long after to a deserted house and no supper on the stove, immediately thought the worst.   He slipped on a pair of dry hip boots and a yellow slicker, grabbed his .44 and with murder in his heart, set out to hunt his wandering wife.


By the time he reached the canteen, so Sparrow recounted, the place was deserted but for Patsy Kline on the jukebox and Willie Foot on a three legged stool just outside the doorway, peeling potatoes.  The rain had stopped and a dazzling double rainbow hung high in the sky over Westport but Charlie ignored it, grimly setting out toward The Old Road with Sparrow following at a discreet distance.  Whether by intuition or instinct, deduction or dumb luck, he found the pickup and managed to shoot out the windows with a spray of gunfire before Sparrow took him down with a clumsy, one legged tackle.  Charlie, cursing and growling like a mad bear, threw him off and aimed his pistol again - Madelaine screamed and the salesman ducked for cover - and at the moment a potato came flying through the air, Like the hand of God!  Sparrow said later.  It struck Charlie square on the back of the neck and he staggered.  The second missle caught him just under his right eye, shattering his cheekbone and spinning him around - the third, a direct hit to his groin, finished it and he fell, clutching his privates and moaning, the pistol, the pickup and the problem forgotten.  Madelaine and the salesman hightailed it out of the truck and across the open field like hound dogs after a rabbit - neither was ever to set foot on the island again.  Sparrow claimed to have heard a cackling laugh and then watched Willie Foot empty his pockets of additional potatoes, jump knee deep into the ditch and skip happily back toward the canteen.  


Heroism is often just the right mix of circumstances and and the proper ammunition.