Joseph listened, agog at news of this alien world. The only black man he had ever spoken to was William Henry Harris. Lomax’s life in the Louisiana delta was exotic, steamy, and cruel, a universe away from the vanilla, landlocked borders of Missouri.
As they walked back to the house at the end of the day, Joseph was exhausted. His body hummed with the ache of a day’s work, and he was filthy with dirt and grime, but he was happy. He was looking toward the future, and saw nothing but mystery glimmering just beyond the horizon.
His euphoria did not last long. When he pushed open the front door, Jette was sitting at the table, her head in her hands. She looked up as they walked into the room.
“Something terrible has happened,” she said.
D
espite the audience’s apparent indifference to Lomax’s performance the previous evening, those pretty melodies had lain siege to an unexpected heart.
Polk, the ancient bartender, had listened to the music, and a heavy melancholy had descended upon him. Ever since he’d been struck by Cupid’s unexpected arrow the day of Frederick’s departure for war, his devotion to Jette had never faltered. In the intervening months he had remained more or less constantly drunk. With enough whiskey inside him he could still achieve a sedated equilibrium, at least for a while.
But Polk’s precariously balanced existence was knocked disastrously off-kilter by the sweet sounds that crept out of Lomax’s cornet. He listened in dismay to the truth and beauty in those sad notes. The music clustered around his beleaguered heart, extinguishing hope. Only when he crashed to the ground later that evening was he finally able to escape its spell.
When Polk awoke in the alleyway behind the Nick-Nack some hours later, he opened his eyes and stared up at the stars. Inside, the tavern was silent. He gingerly pulled himself to his feet.
The hopelessness of Polk’s love for my grandmother had given him a certain grace, but not any longer. His feelings had been betrayed by the purity of Lomax’s music, exposed for what they really were: shabby, second-rate, and compromised by his own timidity. He walked sadly through the deserted streets of the town.
Even before Lomax’s cornet had sliced him open, Polk had been teetering on the brink of despair at the prospect of the tavern closing its doors. There would be no more exquisite proximity to Jette, and no more liquor to soften his nightly crucifixion. Over the past few months Polk had been pilfering bottles from behind the bar and hiding them beneath his bed, but he knew that he was merely postponing the inevitable. A future without alcohol or Jette Meisenheimer was waiting for him, and he did not know how he was going to survive.
The old bartender heard the quiet pulse of the river nearby, and turned toward it. He walked to the end of the pier and stared out into the night.
Such a shame
, whispered the rushing water beneath his feet,
such a shame
. With a small sigh, Polk stepped forward and allowed his body to fall into the water’s embrace. There was barely a ripple as the river closed over the old man’s head, bearing him onward into darkness.
I
t was one more departure, another good-bye.
Polk had been found a little way downriver, his tired, bedraggled body washed up on a muddy bank. Cap in hand, a somber Walford Scott had delivered the news personally to my grandmother.
Jette had grown very fond of the old bartender. She sat at the kitchen table and wept for him. Chief Scott did not know whether he had jumped or fallen into the river; the evidence was inconclusive.
Still, no amount of fruitless conjecture would ever bring Polk back. The Nick-Nack was gone, and its tottering talisman with it.
SEVENTEEN
That evening Lomax sat down to dinner with Jette and the children. The four of them ate in silence. Usually Rosa dominated mealtime conversation, but she was perfectly silent, her eyes never leaving the dark-skinned stranger sitting across the table from her. Jette had made a thick potato soup laced with sauerkraut. Lomax ate thoughtfully.
“Is this the sort of thing you were thinking of serving in the restaurant?” he asked.
Jette nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Oh, well. It’s very good, yes.” Lomax stirred his spoon, not looking up.
“It’s German,” said Jette. “It’s traditional.”
“Uh-huh. Traditional. Well, okay then.” Lomax returned to his silent contemplation of his soup bowl.
Jette remembered their first meal in New Orleans, the hotel table laden down with all that spicy food. “Perhaps you think it’s a little bland,” she sniffed.
Lomax put his hands up. “I never said that,” he protested. “It’s very nice.”
Jette’s eyes narrowed. “
Nice
?
”
“Absolutely. Delicious, in fact.” Lomax tried a worried smile. He knew he was in trouble.
Jette put down her spoon. “Perhaps you have some suggestions as to how I might improve it?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” muttered Lomax, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t—”
“Really,” interrupted Jette. “Please.” Although it was not a request.
“Well.” Lomax looked uncomfortable. “You might add a little cayenne.”
“Cayenne? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Cayenne pepper. Give it a little zing.”
“A little
zing
,” repeated Jette.
“Or, um. Maybe some dried basil,” said Lomax, his voice small.
There was a long silence.
“Are you a cook yourself, Mr. Lomax?” asked Jette eventually.
“I don’t know that I’d call myself a
cook
, but I’ve worked a few different kitchens in my time,” he answered. “That place I met your husband? Chez Benny’s? I worked there for a while. I learned a thing or two along the way.”
“Well, then, perhaps you could show me how
you
would do it.”
“You want more zing?”
Finally, Jette smiled. “Yes, I want more zing.”
T
he next few weeks were a riot of industry. Lomax agreed to stay until the Nick-Nack’s metamorphosis was complete. He slept in the back room of what was to become the new restaurant. During the day he and Joseph worked together, slowly erasing the years of liquor and smoke. They whitewashed the walls and polished the floors until they shone darkly underfoot. The old mirror that had hung for years behind the bar was removed, cleaned, and rehung. The piano was pushed back into the same corner where Frederick had first discovered it, silenced once more.
My father and Lomax had plenty of time to talk while they painted and cleaned. Joseph loved to hear his new friend’s tales of New Orleans, but what really made the two of them as thick as thieves was Cora Leftkemeyer.
Lomax was fond of boasting about the trail of brokenhearted women he had left in his wake. His bragging convinced Joseph that he had finally found the person to help him unlock Cora’s heart, and he peppered Lomax with questions. Seeing the desperate look on his young friend’s face, Lomax’s soliloquies on the manifold complexities of the female became more thoughtful. The two of them discussed tactics and techniques. They practiced opening conversational gambits. Lomax would flutter his eyelashes and respond to Joseph’s questions in an arch falsetto. Joseph became upset when Lomax could no longer contain his laughter. He mumbled his lines, his face a mask of terror. No amount of coaching could hide his fear. When it came to Cora Leftkemeyer, there was simply too much at stake.
While Lomax and Joseph worked, Jette ordered pots and pans, a mountain of new plates, glasses, and cutlery, and a new stove. She visited local farmers and negotiated daily deliveries of vegetables and meat. She bought tablecloths and candles.
There was no rest in the evenings. Jette and Lomax discussed menus and stood over the stove, experimenting with recipes. From somewhere Lomax had procured a selection of herbs and spices that Jette had never seen before, and he showed her how to use them. My grandmother was a good student. Soon the kitchen was a rainbow of paprika, bell peppers, okra, and sweet potatoes. Saucepans of fragrant, dark stock bubbled on the stove, filling the house with their dangerous, delicious aroma. Every fresh concoction now had plenty of zing. Occasionally there was
too
much zing—Lomax was sometimes reduced to coughing fits when Jette was too heavy-handed with those new, potent ingredients. Every night he would taste my grandmother’s latest attempt at gumbo, red beans and rice, or shrimp Creole. Jette made notes of whatever improvements he suggested, and would try again the next day.
One evening Lomax put a forkful of chicken étouffée into his mouth. It was Jette’s fifth attempt in three weeks. On each previous occasion he had shaken his head; this time, though, he closed his eyes and a wide smile appeared on his face.
“Oh, that’s it,” he breathed, “that is
it
.” My grandmother stood there, a wooden spoon in her hand, blushing like a schoolgirl. “Miss Jette”—Lomax grinned, his mouth still full—“you just took me home.”
Jette beamed at him.
T
hroughout all this, the rest of the town looked on. Jette’s decision to open a restaurant was a matter of mild interest, but it was Lomax’s continued presence that scandalized the gossips. A black man in the house! What’s next? people wondered. Well, this, came the reply: he would murder them all in their beds soon enough. They watched Lomax go in and out of the Meisenheimer home as if he owned the place. They watched and waited.
J
ette decided that they needed a new name to go with the new venture. The Nick-Nack held too many memories, not all of them good. It was time to move on and start afresh. She ordered a new sign, which Lomax nailed over the door.
The sign read
frederick’s
.
On the first Sunday in April, the new restaurant opened its doors for its inaugural lunch service. There was a healthy line of hungry guests at the door, still dressed up in their churchgoing best.
Jette had invited Mathias Becker to be the guest of honor. The doctor was never one to turn down the offer of food, and he happily accepted. Joseph led him to the best table in the room. “This is quite delightful,” he said to my father as he sat down. “I can’t wait to see the menu!”
“Actually, there is no menu,” said Joseph.
“No menu? How can you have a restaurant without a
menu
?”
“You’ve got two choices,” explained Joseph.
“Just two?” pouted Dr. Becker.
“We’ve got either pork chops and sauerkraut or jambalaya and jalapeño corn muffins.”
The doctor stared at him. “What did you say?”
“Pork chops—”
“No, no. The other one.”
“Oh. Jambalaya and jalapeño corn muffins.”
“Goodness. That sounds like an illness, not something you eat,” said Dr. Becker.
“Oh no, it’s delicious. It’s got smoked sausage, chicken, rice, and tomatoes in it. And lots of spices.”
The doctor’s nose wrinkled. “Spices?” He stared long and hard at Joseph, who smiled affably back. Finally the doctor came to a decision. “Pork chops,” he harrumphed.
It had been Jette’s idea to offer only two items a day. She knew her limitations as a cook. In addition, she wanted to be in the dining room while the restaurant was open, so the food needed to be prepared in advance. Lomax was stationed in the kitchen, ready to plate up orders from the bubbling pots. Each day there would be one traditional German dish, bland and monumental, and one more exotic. As that opening sitting progressed, however, Jette began to wonder whether she might have miscalculated. Joseph was carrying plate after plate of pork chops across the room. Not one person ordered the jambalaya. Finally Joseph came out of the kitchen, looking worried.
“We’ve run out of pork chops,” he told her.
Jette let out a deep breath. “All right, then,” she said.
The next people waiting to be served were Bucky and Minnie Rohrbacker. Bucky was the best cattle auctioneer in the county. He’d been known to knock back a drink or two at the Nick-Nack in his time, and he was gazing around the room with an astonished look on his face as he lowered himself into his chair.
“Sure looks different in here now,” he said, a little wistfully.
Minnie Rohrbacker beamed at Joseph. “And look at you, all grown up!”
“The thing is, we’ve run out of pork chops,” said Joseph.
“That’s all right,” said Minnie kindly. “What else do you have?”
Joseph stood on one foot. “Jambalaya and jalapeño corn muffins.”
Minnie Rohrbacker’s smile slipped a little. “Jamba—?”
“Jambalaya. And jalapeño corn muffins.”
“That sounds interesting,” she said uncertainly.
“It’s better than the pork chops.”
Neither of the Rohrbackers looked convinced. “Don’t you have anything else?” asked Bucky.
Joseph shook his head.
Bucky looked at his wife. “Well, we’re here,” he said, sighing. “We may as well try the—What was it again?”
“I’ll bring it right out,” said Joseph.
A few minutes later he delivered two steaming plates of jambalaya to the table. The Rohrbackers sniffed and prodded cautiously at their food. Finally Bucky shoveled a forkful of rice and sausage into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Then he took another bite. And another. Then he took a small bite of a corn muffin.
Jette watched all this from across the room until she couldn’t help herself any longer. She went up to the table. “How is everything?” she asked.
By then small beads of sweat had begun to appear on Bucky Rohrbacker’s forehead. “Good God, Jette,” he gasped. “What’s in this? My throat feels like it’s on fire.”
“Don’t you like it?”
Bucky shook his head. “My head may be about to blow off, but I believe it’s the best goddamned thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” He wiped his napkin across his brow. “Could I have another glass of water?”
You don’t become the most successful cattle auctioneer in Caitlin County by being a shy and retiring type. Bucky Rohrbacker was used to making himself heard over the agricultural ruckus of a busy auction yard and a crowd of squabbling farmers. He was blessed with a
very
loud voice, and his profane opinion was heard by everyone in the restaurant.
Thirty minutes later there was no food left in the kitchen.
T
he following day Jette prepared Wienerschnitzel with pan-fried potatoes and a devilish chicken gumbo. Reports of the new restaurant’s unorthodox menu had spread quickly through the town, and although there were still many diners (including Dr. Becker) who chose the more familiar fare, this time orders for both dishes were evenly matched. Jette had to turn disappointed customers away when the food ran out.
That night she and Lomax planned out a schedule of menus. There were two dishes for each day of the week—fourteen recipes in total, before the cycle began again.
By the end of the first week, people had begun to wait in line thirty minutes before the restaurant opened, just to be sure to get a table. It did not take long for many of the Nick-Nack’s old customers to return to their old haunt, albeit for more sober communion.
Joseph enjoyed taking orders and clearing plates. He developed a knack for describing Lomax’s culinary creations in particularly mouthwatering terms, so that even the most cautious of the town’s eaters were unable to resist them. He ferried plates back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen while Jette took the money and poured gallons of iced tea. She bought a till, which gave a satisfyingly heavy
ching
every time the drawer slid open. In that metallic chime she heard the echo of promise and hope.
Jette was bombarded by pleas from customers to open for dinner in the evening, but she always refused. Frederick’s opened at eleven o’clock each morning, and was always closed by two. Jette and Lomax spent the afternoon preparing the next day’s food, while Joseph and Rosa washed dishes and swept the floors. By six o’clock the work for the day was done. After supper with Lomax at a small table in the kitchen, Jette took her children home.
While the restaurant was open Lomax stayed in the kitchen, hidden from view. He was well aware of the unease that his presence might cause. He was used to the fear of strangers. It was as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. He knew that this town was not for him.
But days and weeks passed, and still he did not go.
The fact was, Lomax couldn’t leave. He found himself skewered in place like a butterfly wing pinned to a collector’s board. The fierce love of Jette’s family kept him there long after he should have been on his way.