Lovesick (3 page)

“Of course,” said Miss Katherine.

“Thank you, George,” said the director.

George lifted his head and in turning, caught the eye of Miss Virginia. “If you don't mind, I would like to speak to you when we are finished here,” she said.

“Yes, ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen or the boss can come and get me if you want.” Butcher figured she had some baking for him—the first time she ever requested something. But there was more to it. He imagined, or maybe it was just wishing he told himself, that she knew what he was thinking. There seemed to be an instant when their eyes met and she understood.

 

He was right. She did understand. Virginia watched as the cook shuffled out toward the kitchen. How these women bored her. She had to take a small nip of brandy just to endure those mornings the board met to discuss their good deeds accomplished as a result of their good breeding and their well-made marriages. Some of them came from local church groups, some from the YWCA, or the WTCU. One common denominator was that they all belonged to the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Without that birthright, you need not apply.

Women like this perplexed Virginia. She did not understand how they could be satisfied with the profits of a bake sale. It baffled her how they gloated over a mediocre performance at a piano recital by one of their daughters or brooded over the slight if sufficient notice wasn't paid to it in the society column of the paper. It wasn't that she was a stranger to society, wasn't that she hadn't been born to a pedigreed background that even Katherine Fisher admired. No. If asked, she would tell you in great detail about her voice lessons as a girl, how she sang once for the Governor's Ball. She would describe the fabric of the dress she wore to her debutante cotillion, and how she had a silk magnolia pinned at the waist. If pressed, she would tell you that she had been born into one of the better families in South Carolina. Her grandfather, Herbert Blankenship, had been a successful merchant with a large rice plantation near Charleston. He had served with distinction with Generals Gilmore and Beauregard during the War of Secession before being killed securing a victory in the defense of the Charleston Harbor in 1863. She still had in her possession the letter, written in General Gilmore's own hand to her grandmother, describing the nobility and valor of her grandfather's death.

Her father had been granted a full scholarship to the University of South Carolina, and was a prominent attorney until his untimely death. Bad investments and shiftless scallywags had driven her mother to her grave as well. It was a sad story, familiar enough to most of the women she had chosen to associate with. Virginia had crafted it well, perfected the telling of it, so that she grew misty-eyed when she recounted the loss of family, of property, of position. The women would hold her hand, dab at their eyes, and nod in sympathy.

The story was also a lie, a grand fabrication. She had been born Jenny Duff. She had married Henry “Harry” Yeager in 1918. She had taken the name of Blankenship when she read it on a memorial plaque when she had visited Charleston. She also knew Charleston was too difficult a town for her to break into—people knew about your past, could smell your breeding. These dumb clucks in Fayetteville hadn't a clue about who she was, where she really came from. They only knew what she wanted them to know, what they wanted to hear, wanted to believe. So when she had arrived in Fayetteville, let it slip at the hairdressers one afternoon that she was the granddaughter of a Confederate martyr, a member in good standing of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, they were obliged to invite her to tea, to join their clubs, to serve as the escort to one of the endless stream of officers stationed at Fort Bragg.

It was easy enough to blend the lie into the fabric of truth, like a brightly colored thread. And she was experienced enough as an actress to pull off the part. She had run away from the South as a girl—from the poverty, from the drunken wretch of a father who wanted only to beat her until he found her good enough to mount. She briefly joined a circus passing through town, then later worked in a minstrel show. She could sing a little, was quick to learn a routine, and was willing to do whatever she needed. One man, after all, was pretty much just like the next. While working with a traveling vaudeville show, she and her friend Dorothea developed a comedy sketch “School Daze,” which was reported in a paper as being “a cracker!” and she had dreams of perhaps one day even working in New York.

She had been married briefly in the hullaballoo of the war, but that had been a marriage of necessity for her. Harry Yeager had been crazy in love for her, following her around like a sad puppy at the entrance to the hotel where the vaudeville company was quartered when playing his town. Poor Harry had believed all the claptrap they sang back in those days: “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” “Pack up Your Troubles,” and “It's a Long Way to Tipperary,” even though she knew he didn't have the slightest notion of where Tipperary could be found on a map. Harry Yeager had come around at a time when she needed him, and so she married him, and sent him off to war. She promised she would “keep the home fires burning,” and he was dippy enough to believe her. And he did her the greatest of all services. He got himself shot in the head on the riverbank of the Marne. He had provided her with a small income accorded to the widow of a war hero and a small degree of respectability that granted her admission to military bases. But there were thousands of women in her situation, and she was not content to just make do on what she had. Not willing to be a face in the crowd of war widows.

So when they were playing Charleston, and Dorothea told her that she was breaking up the act to get married to the colored ventriloquist, it came almost as a flash from the sky to her. She would reinvent herself. Take the parts that were respectable enough and add to them, like a potter making a bowl. A vessel. Yes, she would create a new self, and she would be the vessel for her. And so Jenny Yeager née Jenny Duff became Virginia Blankenship Yeager of the Charleston Blankenships.

When the meeting had ended and the women had said their good-byes, Virginia had the director lead her to the kitchen to see the cook. He was chopping vegetables for a stew or a soup, she couldn't tell which.

He stopped chopping as they entered, wiped his large hands on a cloth tucked into the right side of his pants.

“George,” said the director. “Mrs. Yeager has a small matter to discuss with you.”

“A favor really,” said Virginia. “I am entertaining tomorrow evening. And I was hoping I could get you to make a pie for me. I will pay you for your time and materials of course.”

“Is there something special you want?” asked Butcher.

“As a matter of fact, there is.” Virginia paused to look at the director. “I don't need to bore you with my baking requests. And I am sure you must have a thousand things that command your attention. But I do thank you for your assistance.” She extended an ivory-gloved hand to the director, who, understanding he was dismissed, excused himself. “Now, where was I?” she continued.

“You have a request,” said Butcher.

“Yes,” she said. “I have a small bag of pecans that I was hoping you might be able to turn into a pie for me. My friend Major Gleeson is a great fan of the Karo pie, and he will be joining me tomorrow night for supper. I wanted to have something special, and I know that sometimes you make things for the ladies.”

“Did you bring a plate to bake it in?”

“No. Did I need to?”

“Most times they bring their own dish.”

“No,” she said, understanding the implication of what he said. “I am happy to give you credit for the pie, George. Major Gleeson is not courting me for my baking expertise. I'm afraid I am really a terrible cook.” She smiled at him, and Butcher was impressed by this small confession. “About the best I can do in a pinch are salmon croquettes with mustard sauce. Fortunately, tomorrow is Friday, so I will be able to get by with fish for supper.”

Butcher thought of the rows of canned salmon in the pantry. It was abundant, cheap, and he served it for dinner every Friday night. “Did you bring the pecans?” Saying the word, Butcher noted the difference in the way they each pronounced it: She had said
puh-kahn
with the emphasis on the second half of the word; he had always called them
pea-cans.

“No, I wanted to make sure you could do it for me first,” she said. “I can have my girl bring them around this evening if you need.”

“That'll do,” he said. “I'll pick the nut meat after supper tonight and roll out the crust in the morning. She can pick it up sometime after lunch. If she comes around three o'clock, it should still be warm for supper.”

“Thank you so much,” she said. “That is very generous of you. And how much will I owe you?”

“Six bits,” he said. “That should do.”

“And I'm sure it would be a bargain at twice that.”

 

That afternoon, he had just cut out the biscuits for dinner and had brushed them with buttermilk. There was a soft knocking at the door and he looked to see a young woman standing there—Miss Virginia's maid, he assumed. He opened the door and held it to keep it from being blown back by the breeze. The woman had no hat or scarf, even though it was still cold, and she wore a cheap cloth asparagus-colored coat. When she looked up at him, he realized she was no more than a girl really—sixteen, maybe seventeen at best, so young to be in service. But working for a white woman of even moderate means would have to be better than what she had left behind. What surprised Butcher more than her age, however, was her beauty. She was a mulatto, possibly octoroon, and her skin held only the slightest tint, like coffee with cream. Her features were delicate, refined, and she had soft greenish brown eyes, which made him think of an unripe pear. She held a small, greasy paper sack in front of her like an offering.

“I'm from Mrs. Yeager's,” she said. “I brought the pecans for the pie. Are you the baker?” Butcher could see that she wore no gloves, her legs were bare, and she shivered with the cold.

“Come in here where it's warm,” Butcher said. He took the sack from her and looked inside. “I reckon there's enough here,” he said. “But it'll be more Karo than nut meat, that's for sure.” Butcher nodded to the stove. “I have fresh coffee if you want.”

“No,” said the girl. “I have errands to run. She will be wanting to know where I am. She's anxious as a cat today. She's spent all afternoon laying out her clothes for tomorrow evening. I'll have to be home in time to help her with her bath.” Butcher thought she looked too young to be so haggard.

“This must be an important dinner,” said Butcher.

“She thinks the major is going to propose to her. Take her away from here. He's got a commission to take him to Missouri.” Panic flared in her green-brown eyes—it was obvious she had spoken too quickly.

Butcher smiled to let her know he was not a threat. He offered her a cruller that he had saved for himself from breakfast. She took it and began nibbling on the corner of the fried dough. “What's your name, anyhow?” he asked.

“Mona,” she said.

“Mona what?”

“Just Mona.”

Butcher figured she thought he was trying to make a pass at her, probably had men of all races pitching her. “Well, Miss Mona, the way I see it, we're all trying to get someplace else from here.”

“I hate it here,” she said. “Hate it. Wish we never had come here. Nothing here but rednecks and shit-kickers.”

“And where was you before you was here?”

“Around.”

“Well, that covers a lot of ground.”

“I've lived in the North,” she said. “That's where I was born. I plan to go back there when I'm able. Or maybe West. Missouri is at least a step.”

“So, you reckon she will take you with her if she gets married?”

“She better.”

“Then I best make sure this is a pie that'll do the trick. Sprinkle a little magic into it so the major goes crazy in love. So crazy he will fall down and roll on the floor and beg Miss Virginia to marry him and go with him to Missouri.”

The girl flashed a slight smile at him. Butcher wanted her to know that she need not fear him. “There may be a scarf here I can loan you to help fight this wind. Folks is always leaving stuff behind.”

“Thank you, no,” she said. “I can bear it.”

Butcher could tell even this simple kindness was not lost on her. “You tell Miss Virginia I'll have her pie ready for you to pick up by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. . . .”

“George Butcher,” he said, bowing down toward her. “But friends all just call me Butcher.”

“Three o'clock,” she said. “I will see you then, Mr. George Butcher.” As she opened the door to leave, she gave him another smile—this one fuller, which made him suddenly scared and excited and sad all at once. And as the door closed behind her, he could hear her call out, “And thank you for the doughnut, Mr. Butcher. Butcher, the baker.”

3

Karo pie . . .

It was after six the next evening when Butcher arrived at Miss Virginia's house. He had the pie ready by three, made a fresh pot of coffee, and even dished up a bit of the rice pudding he had made for the evening meal in anticipation of the girl's arrival. He had remembered the shy smile of the girl when he offered her the cruller and wanted to make her smile again. Nothing more. But she never came. Not at 3:30, not at 4:00, not at 4:30. Dinner for the men was from 5 to 6, so he busied himself with the final preparations, though his mind was only half on his job. He had been stood up. They had ordered a pie from him and then just sloughed him off. It made him mad. Though he was able to glean most of the ingredients from the pantry of the Residence, he had to use his own supply of Karo and vanilla. He had put so much into this pie—it
mattered
to him that she like it—this was more than just the money. He wanted to impress her with it. Show her what he was capable of. What he was worth.

When he could see the line for dinner beginning to dwindle, he handed over the finishing duties to the crew. It would be easy enough for them to finish up without him. He spoke to the director about the pie, telling him he wasn't sure if he had been supposed to deliver it. That maybe he had gotten things confused.

“George, now, that is very careless of you. These women ask very little from us and give us a great deal in return.”

Butcher apologized for his mistake and said if he could have the address, he would run it over to them. “It will be in time for dessert,” he said. “And I have kept it warm on the rack.”

“Yes, take it to her,” he said, handing him the address on a paper torn from a yellow pad. “And you should not charge her for it. Tell her that is your way of making amends.”

The route was familiar enough. To get to Haymount, he walked past the Old Market, which though not built for slavery, certainly witnessed the buying and selling of slaves on its steps. Now, farmers pulled wagons there to sell vegetables. Butcher walked there several times a week to see if there were any bargains; often, he was able to get a better price because of the quantity he could afford. It had taken him a while to find the house, though. She didn't live on one of the broader, more prominent streets like Hay or Green like most of the other “Miss Anns,” but was back a couple of blocks on Arsenal. As he studied the numbers, looking for the correct one, he held the pie wrapped in a kitchen towel and could feel its warmth in the chill evening.

He thought it strange that though it was already getting dim, there were no lights on in the front parlor. He walked to the back door, expecting there to be lights. But there were not. He was sure he had the correct address, so he knocked on the door. He could hear a rumbling as a chair scraped against the linoleum. An orangish-colored lamp came on, and through the glass of the door Butcher could see Miss Virginia walking unsteadily toward him. She had on a garishly colored satin robe, like something out of a Charlie Chan. When she opened the door, Butcher couldn't believe it, but she was definitely blind drunk.

“Miss Virginia, it's me, George from the VOA. I brought you your pie.”

It took a moment for the words to register with her, but then she realized who he was. “Shit. The pie,” she said, smoothing her hair back from her face. “Well, might as well bring it in.” She pushed the screen door open for him and then stepped back into the kitchen. He followed her inside. She turned on an overhead light and the sudden glare of the bulb overhead drew everything in sharp angles and shadows. He looked around on the counters to see that dinner had been started, but abandoned.

Miss Virginia walked back in with her pocketbook open, digging for her change purse.

“How much did you say?”

“Six bits.”

She handed him a dollar, then waved with the back of her hand. “You can keep the extra for your trouble.” Then, pointing to the pie, she said, “Put that anywhere. Throw it in the goddamn yard for all I care. The queen declares there will be no need for pie tonight. No need for dessert, no need for dinner. It's all ruined.” Then she fell into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and began to cry. He could tell she was not a woman used to crying, and her breath came in quick gasps as she tried to hold back the tears but couldn't. She put her hands up to her cheeks as if she could press the flow back into her eyes, and when that didn't work, gave up, laid her head on the table, and sobbed. It was as if she had forgotten he was standing there not four feet away looking at her—or that she didn't care.

He let her cry. He went to the stove and made coffee. He knew she would need some. He also wondered where the girl was, why she wasn't here. By the time the coffee had percolated, Virginia had stopped crying. She raised her head, running her hands through her hair, and then wiped her nose and eyes with the sleeve from her gown.

“Where's Mona?” she asked.

“There wasn't anybody here but you since I got here.” He set the coffee cup down in front of her.

“The little bitch better keep her head low if she knows what's good for her. A millstone.” Then louder, to no one: “A millstone.”

She noticed Butcher again. “I must look a fright. Why is it no one ever thinks to put a mirror in the kitchen? If you would like to have some coffee, please help yourself. There's some milk in the icebox if you take it light,” she said. “If you don't mind”—she pointed to an open bottle of hooch on the counter—“I think I could use a bit of ‘sweetener' in mine.” He handed her the bottle and poured a cup of coffee for himself. She sighed, then more to herself than him, said, “She made a real mess of it.”

Butcher wasn't quite sure what to do. It wasn't unusual for white women to talk in front of him as if he were a dimwitted child or a pet, acting as if he were incapable of comprehending the matters about which they spoke. He didn't collect information as some of the help would do; it made him uncomfortable to hear such intimacies. Still, he imagined this might be useful to him—she was vulnerable, approachable.

“With your friend, the major.”

“The major—I'm afraid I won't be seeing any more of him. Jesus, what a crumb he turned out to be. Yes, he's given me the kiss-off, I'm afraid. I can tell you one thing, George, whoever said ‘honesty is the best policy' was full of hooey.”

Butcher laughed. “The way I've seen it, is the one who owns it is the one who says what it is. The rest of us just play by their rules.”

“Yes,” she said. “We are not the ones to make the rules—I am sure you know that better than most.”

“I'm sorry about the major,” Butcher said. “The girl, Mona, told me you two were going to be married. Said she hoped you was all gonna leave here.”

Fire flashed in Miss Virginia's eyes. “She told you that, did she? Well, she had no right. And the little bitch certainly managed to gum up the works so that wouldn't happen.”

Butcher remembered what the girl had said about not being left behind. “Has she run off as well?”

Miss Virginia laughed. “God, I couldn't get rid of her if I wanted to. She's hiding around here somewhere.”

He didn't say anything, gave her an opportunity to continue. The shot of whiskey had relaxed her so the words poured out as if she needed to tell them.

“It's complicated, that's all. You see, Mona is the daughter of a dear friend of mine, a woman now deceased. Her father didn't want anything to do with her. He couldn't raise a child. Dorothea asked me to take her. I couldn't refuse.”

“I thought she was your maid.”

“She is my maid,” said Virginia. “It is an arrangement. I care for her. I provide for her. She cooks for me, for us. Runs errands. You do understand I cannot travel around with the mixed-race child of my dead friend without some reason. That much would seem to be obvious.”

Butcher thought about it. It made sense. It wasn't right, he knew. But it did make sense. A light-skinned girl like Mona would have a hard time of it on her own, unable to claim her mother's race, not really part of her father's. Maybe this woman had done the best by the girl that she could.

The whiskey and coffee had begun to put a bit of color into Virginia's cheeks. She pulled her robe close up around her throat. “Mona insisted that I tell the major the truth about her so that if he and I did get engaged, there would be no question about her coming with us to his new post. I agreed. Now look what that got me. Everything ruined.” She sighed again and smiled. He could tell she had regained herself. “I am sorry to have been so . . . expansive . . . in my emotions. I trust . . .”

“This is none of my business,” he said.

“Thank you. Thank you for bringing the pie. I am sure it is delicious. I am sorry it will go to waste.”

“I can cut you a slice. It might do you good to eat something,” he said.

“Perhaps,” she said. “I haven't eaten anything, and it doesn't look like I'll be getting dinner.”

He turned away from her as he sliced a piece, larger than he should have, and lifted it gently from the pan to a plate.

“Then I should let you get back to the Residence. I have no idea what time it is. I am going to take a hot bath to soothe my nerves.”

But Butcher wasn't done. He knew this was the time. When he saw her again with the ladies, she would never acknowledge what had passed between them, knew she might possibly be steeled against him even. It was now or never.

“Miss Virginia, there is something I would like to talk to you about.”

“Yes, George. What is that?”

Butcher set the pie down in front of her. He knew the pie was perfect, could feel it as he rolled the dough that morning, could smell it in the roasted edges of the pecans as he took it out of the oven, could sense it in the slight
give
of the thickened syrup and sugar and eggs as he sliced the piece for her. “I was wondering if you ever thought that you might want to be ‘The Lady in the White Hat'?”