Biting the Moon (15 page)

Andi blinked. She said, “I don't mean to put your cook down, but—”

“
Chef
,” Darlene gently corrected. “He just hates being called
cook
or having people talk about his creations as
cooking
.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” Andi thought for a moment. “I was just saying that a lot of rainbow trouts are cheffed that way. So what's special about Chef Dusseldorf's?”

Darlene bunched her lips as if she meant to kiss a cat or dog. “It's the herbs and spices he puts in the crumbs. It's his special crumbs.” She looked at Andi. “There's no word called
cheffed,
is there? You said
cheffed
.”

Mary said, “You mean is there a verb
cheffed
? No, it's not a verb. Well, it's not even a word, you're right. Andi used it because the chef doesn't like the word
cook
.”

Darlene flapped her hand at them, laughing. “Oh, for heaven's sakes, I didn't mean—Just don't call
him
a cook.”

Andi blew out her cheeks, regarded the menu again. “Listen, maybe the best thing to do is you tell us what the chef thinks is the best dish.”

Mary nodded. “That's a good idea.”

Darlene was flustered. “Well, the lobster, maybe; or, no, the trout. . . .” She seemed to think she'd been called upon to uphold someone's honor. “Maybe the lamb. . . .” She frowned. “Look, why don't I just run back there and ask
him
for a suggestion?” She smiled.

“Yes, why don't you?”

Relieved, Darlene went off to the kitchen.

Mary looked at the menu. “Okay, I bet he says the meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”

“But what about all those Dusseldorf dishes? Wouldn't he choose one of his specialties? I wonder who Hiram is.”

Mary shook her head. “You don't think he
makes
all this stuff, do you? It'd take the whole staff of the Santa Fe Cooking School to wade through this menu.”

“How about the Hot Roast Beef Sandwich and Gravy?”

“That's a good choice. I bet he chooses that, or maybe the Chicken Fried Steak.”

“Chili, how about chili? Everybody thinks they've got the best chili recipe.”

Mary nodded. “Chicken Pot Pie?” She saw Darlene coming toward them.

Darlene said, beaming, “He says the ham and candied yams.”

Mary and Andi smiled. “Close,” said Mary.

Andi looked at Mary, who nodded. “We'll both have the ham,” said Andi. “And Diet Pepsi, if you've got it.”

Darlene looked sad. “We've only got Diet Coke.”

“That's okay.”

When Darlene had whisked off with the order, Andi spread out one of the maps, looking pleased that she could contemplate the state of Idaho all by itself, not muscled off the map by Wyoming. “We're right over the border, here.” She pointed. When Darlene came with their Cokes, Andi asked, “How far's Salmon from here? Driving time, I mean.”

“Salmon? Well, I'd say four, maybe five hours, about. Is that where you girls're headed?”

They both nodded and sipped their drinks.

“The other side of Pocatello you'd take Twenty-six. That'll get you there. Salmon's real popular. We get lots of people in here in summer that're on their way to Salmon for the rafting. White-water trips. I wonder if they do them this early in the year. I'd've thought the river'd be too swole up to get down it in canoes and those rubber rafts. You wouldn't catch
me
out there in a kayak or whatever them skinny things with points is.” And suddenly, Darlene stopped talking and began to sing: “ ‘Let's take a kayak to Quincy or Nyack—' ”

They were surprised at how light and clear and pretty her voice was.

But then she stopped, embarrassed. “Remember that? Oh, shoot. You're way too young to ever have heard that. It's one of Frank's songs.” She looked at them out of eyes as colorless as water. “That's Frank Sinatra, I mean.”

“Darlene,” said Andi, “you can really sing. Can't she, Mary?” Mary nodded, and Andi went on. “Sing the rest of it. I really like the words.”

“Oh”—Darlene wiped back her hair with a forearm—“I was just fooling.”

“No, go on! It's only us here. Go on.” Andi made a prodding gesture with her hand.

Blushing, Darlene ran her hands down the sides of her dress, as if they were damp. Then she stood straight and sang, much like a child in a recital:

“Let's take a boat to Bermuda,

Let's take a trip to St. Paul,

Let's take a kayak

To Quincy or Nyack,

Let's get away from it all”

And as she sang about trailers and Niagara Falls, Mary and Andi exchanged a wondering glance.
What's she doing here, waiting on tables?
When the song was done, they applauded. Darlene sighed, as if they were all glad that was over.

Mary said, “This should be the Wild West again and you could be the singer in a saloon.”

“Really, Darlene,” said Andi, “you should be on the stage or in the movies. You're better than a lot of professionals I've heard.”

Darlene, her face blotchy and hot with embarrassment and pleasure, thanked them and hurried back to the kitchen.

“I don't think she knows she's good,” said Mary. “Out here in the middle of nowhere. Imagine all of that talent wasted on the desert.”

Andi's face looked transparently pale. After a while she said, “ ‘Wasting its sweetness on the desert air.' That's from a poem.”

“For someone with amnesia your memory's pretty huge. What's wrong, though? You look—kind of ghostly.”

“I have that . . .
gone
feeling.” Andi pressed one hand against her chest, the fingers spread. Her breathing was labored.

Mary thought for a minute that she was ill. “Gone?”

“Haven't you ever had that feeling that somebody's tiptoed in and stolen something really valuable away?”

Before Mary could say anything (not that she knew what to say), Darlene was setting down their ham platters. She stood back and watched over them like a mother waiting to be complimented. They
both told her the food was very good, which Mary was sure it was. She was just too hungry to pay much attention to the taste.

It was Virginia ham, Darlene told them. Ham all the way from Virginia.

Mary wondered why ham from Virginia was better than ham from Idaho or New York or North Dakota, but she was too busy eating it to ask.

Finally, Darlene went away to stand behind the counter and drink from a mug of coffee, and Andi said that maybe she was waiting for them to ask her to sing again. Then they stopped talking to concentrate on their platters, with Andi occasionally casting glances at her Idaho map.

Andi said, “We can make it to Salmon tonight.”

“No
way.
It's already nearly four o'clock and Darlene says it takes five hours and she's probably underestimating. Most people do when they give directions.” Was that actually true? Mary wondered. “It's not a good idea to be spending so much time driving at a stretch.”

Andi was running part of a roll through a small pool of gravy. “Look at all the
non
-driving time we're spending.”

“Well, I don't consider nearly getting shot by some jackass of a government agent exactly a rest stop.”

“We'll have to get a motel room, either that or pitch our tent.”

“Which we don't know how to do. Boy, are we ever losers.” She sighed, leaned her head against her hand wearily. Mary knew her sigh was simply showmanship, like Darlene's. She wondered what was for dessert. She pulled the map around, studied it for a moment, said, “The Salmon River looks like it runs almost side by side with this—no, that's another river. There sure are a lot of rivers. There's the Snake. There's this whole Snake River Plain. I guess we cross it to get over to—where'd she say?”

Andi pulled the map around, propped her head in her hands, and studied it. “Look at this; it's like some kind of fairy tale. Listen to what's in this Snake River Plain: there are lava beds, craters of the moon, a crystal ice cave—”

“It sounds like—what's his name? Tolkien, someone like that.” It wasn't the first time Mary had been surprised by Andi's innocent enthusiasm, even though she was probably three years older than Mary. And at their ages, that was three light-years. “I want some dessert.”

They called Darlene over and asked her to run down the list of pies. They'd settled on pie because if they asked for the
entire
dessert menu, they might be here for another hour.

Darlene highly recommended the coconut custard. “That's my all-time favorite,” she added.

Andi said she'd have that, and Mary said she'd have the apple pie à la mode.

As Darlene was taking the pies off the shelves of the refrigerated unit, the cook came out from the kitchen, having finished his stint, apparently. No one else had come in. He poured himself a mug of coffee and stuck a toothpick in his mouth, ready to socialize.

Darlene brought the pie and waited for them to sample it. Andi closed her eyes as if in ecstasy after she took a bite of the coconut custard. Mary thought that was overdoing it a little, but she'd come to realize Andi was pretty much of an overdoer. Perhaps she did more to make up for the less of that past she couldn't remember. Mary settled for saying her apple pie was very good. Darlene went back to the counter, poured herself more coffee, and lit a cigarette and said something to the cook. They both laughed.

The cook was, actually, wearing a white chef's hat but had pushed it in and set it back on his head as if he hardly had time for that nonsense. He was leaning on the counter, supported by the weight of the hand that wasn't holding the mug. As the truckers had done, he rolled the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

The cook called over, “How'd you like that ham?”

They both answered simultaneously with “Delicious” . . . “Really good.”

“That's Virginia ham, there. Real sweet and fine. Tender.”

Mary wondered again about those Virginia hogs.

“Not like some of your Texas or even Iowa hogs. Tough as old boots, some of them.”

Again they acknowledged the tenderness and taste.

“Darlene says you girls is going to Salmon.” The cook's voice was loud anyway, and when he raised it, it was close to a bellow. He was one of those people who acted as if everyone around him was deaf.

“That's right,” said Mary.

Andi licked the custard from her fork and said, “We were thinking we could maybe get there tonight—”

“No,
we
weren't.”

The cook fairly bellowed, “To-
night
? Whatcha got there, a Batmobile?” He gave a honking laugh, appreciating his own joke.

“I told 'em it'd take them five hours,” said Darlene. She was leaning back against the pie shelves.

Looking round at her, the cook said, “Shoot,
six
hours, at least. Guarantee you won't make it in
five
.”

The cook sounded like one of those people who'd haggle every detail and never allow his opponent any points at all.

“Well,” said Darlene, “Idaho Falls is only three hours—”

“Idaho
Falls
? You got them girls going through Idaho
Falls
?” He flapped his hand at her. “Listen, you girls want to go through Pocatello, then—”

Darlene was insistent. “I told them
that
; of course I told them Pocatello.”

“Yeah, well, it's
after
Pocatello, somewheres between there and Idaho Falls they want to turn off. Forget just where—” He slapped the counter. “No, I do remember. Blackfoot. You want to get off the interstate at Blackfoot, go northeast to Challis. Anyway, it'll all be signposted:
CHALLIS
.” Here he drew a banner in the air with his thumb and forefinger.

“We appreciate your help,” said Andi. “Both of you.”

“Just don't you go to Idaho Falls, that's all.” He sounded quarrelsome and defensive, as if they'd been persistent in their intention to go to Idaho Falls. “Don't get on Twenty-eight, either. Darlene here's got you going through the Bitterroot and Beaverhead Mountains.” As if Darlene would do anything to sabotage their trip. “Hell—pardon my French—you're halfway into Montana you go that way. Not that Montana ain't worth seein'. You thinking of goin' to Montana? Butte, now, that's a real nice town—”

Mary thought that now he was off on his imaginary trip, joining them for what she bet would have all of them driving north through Montana into Canada and, from there, maybe straight up to Alaska. She smiled. It was fun to picture the four of them, driving along, having little quarrels
over the best way to go. (
“Let's take a boat to Bermuda / Let's take a trip to St. Paul.”
) Mary suddenly felt saddened.

Andi was gathering up her maps and saying they'd better leave. “We've been here over an hour,” Andi whispered, as if she didn't want to hurt the cook's feelings, and the waitress's, by appearing to begrudge them this time. She brought Darlene over with a wave of her hand.

“Let me just add this up,” said Darlene, “and I'll take it over to the register for you.” She made notations with her pencil, tore the check from the pad, and put it on the table. “He might be right about the best route; I've only gone up to Salmon once, but he's been there lots. It's been real nice talking to you.” She looked from Andi to Mary. Her eyes, her voice, were wistful.

As they paid at the register (Darlene could as easily have taken the money at the table, but there was a certain ritual to these transactions), the cook was watching, not because he didn't trust the waitress; he just wanted to be one of them, in on the party. “You like the pie?”