Lovesick (9 page)

Butcher could tell from her face that there was more.

“She's a liar, Mr. Butcher. She don't care for no one but herself.”

“But why are you telling me this?” Butcher asked.

“When she drinks, she talks. Doesn't remember what she tells me, what she says. She laughs about how you think she is just going to hand over half that prize money. That once she gets it, she is free and clear all the way to California.”

Butcher wondered why the walls of the café didn't fall away from him, why the buildings around them didn't suddenly crumble from their foundations. He had taught this woman, trusted her.

“Don't say that, Miss Mona. I worked with her. Partnered with her. She knows she couldn't have done any of this without me.”

“But now she can. And if she wins, I swear you won't see nothing of her but hind parts and elbows.”

Butcher wanted to throw the ceramic mug against the wall, watch it smash. “She owes me,” he said.

“She owes us both,” said Mona.

8

aspic . . .

When Virginia woke, Mona had already set out a breakfast tray for her—just coffee and a roll. Her two day dresses hung on the back of the closet door: One was a simple yellow shirtwaist; the other was a lilac summer dress, pleated in the front and with capelet sleeves. On the dresser lay a faceted blue glass brooch and earrings she planned to wear with the summer dress, a multicolored flowered rhinestone pin to wear against the buttercream shirtwaist. Which to wear? She quickly decided on the yellow. It was straightforward enough for a day of cooking, but still would set her apart from the mob. She had also purchased an embroidered pleated bib apron to show her practical mindedness. Though everything depended on her performance today, she was not nervous. She was ready. Mona sat in the chair by the window, drinking coffee, staring mindlessly out the window.

“What time is it? How long do I have before I need to be downstairs?”

Mona stopped staring, checked her watch. “It's just past seven. What time do you want to leave?”

“I would like to be in the kitchen by eight-fifteen at the latest. I would like a chance to get everything ready so I can use all the time allotted. The popover batter must rest for as long as possible before I bake them. I assume they will want us to start as close to eight-thirty as we can.”

“I have your clothes ready for you. I would think you would want the yellow today.”

It irritated Virginia that the girl knew her so well. “Yes, the yellow for today. I will save the lilac for tomorrow. It fits me nicer across the bosom and will show up better in photographs.”

When Mona didn't say anything, Virginia continued, “I am sure they will want to photograph the winner.” She pointed to the coffee on the tray. “Bring me my coffee here. I will have it here in bed.”

Mona set the tray next to the bed and poured the coffee in silence.

“You don't think I can win this, do you? You probably don't want me to win it.”

Mona walked back to the window and flung herself into the chair.

“Out with it,” said Virginia. “I know you have something on your mind. An opinion on the matter. Get it out. I don't need any distractions today.”

“I think you could win. Mr. Butcher taught you well. I know if you win, then you gonna toss me on the road like a sack of trash.”

“I would never just turn you out, Mona. I would help you get established somewhere. But you are nearly grown. And I have my own life.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Virginia sipped her coffee. “This is awfully bitter.”

“That's because there isn't any hooch in it.”

Virginia put the saucer on the night table delicately. “I should come over there and slap the blue Jesus out of you. You have no right to speak to me like that. No right. But I have other fish to fry today. I told you I would set you up. I do not need permission from you to have my own life. I looked out for you—I didn't have to do that.”

“Didn't you?”

“No. No, I didn't. And you don't have one ounce of gratitude for the sacrifices I have made for you.”

Virginia struggled not to cry. She refused to lose her composure. To lose this battle. But the girl was just like her in that regard—resolute in her stubborn steadfastness. Finally, Mona spoke. “You will have two and half thousand dollars,” she said. “How much you planning to give me?”

“I hadn't thought of an amount. Perhaps five hundred dollars. That would seem a generous sum.”

Mona looked at her as if pondering the amount.

“Maybe I would have it all,” said Mona.

“You must be crazy,” Virginia said, throwing off the bedcovers, jumping to the floor. “All of it? Why would I go through all this? Learn all this? And then hand the winnings over to you.”

“How fast did the major leave when he thought I was your daughter? How long they gonna let you wear the white hat when they hear about me?”

“You would do that? You would take it all from me.”

“No. No, I wouldn't,” said Mona. “I would leave you five hundred dollars. As you said, it would be a generous sum.”

 

Virginia was still shaking slightly as she stepped into the kitchen, a jar of apricot preserves cradled in her apron, which was folded on top of the popover pan. She balanced the pan in front of her awkwardly—this would have been one thing that Mona could have done for her, help her carry this gear down to the kitchen. Several of the women including Wadena had colored maids, so it would not have been inappropriate. The poorer women were assisted by daughters, nieces, sisters, friends. Virginia felt as if the air whispered about her as she made her way to her designated station. In addition to the cooking supplies, she also carried a small clutch purse, containing only some powder and lipstick and her flask. She found one of the women from the local DOC, a hostess, to help her tie her apron in back. Who knows, thought Virginia. It might even work to her advantage—she knew the story would be repeated: “I tell you, she had no one at all to help her.”

It was just past 8:30 when Roland came in, shooed the maids and relatives from the kitchen, and gave them their starting instructions: “We had a walk-through yesterday, but if you forget something, please ask me, or ask one of the pastry cooks from the hotel here to help you find what you need. Do not just go off rummaging. Not all of you are using an oven, so you shouldn't have to share. So let's begin. I judge that it is nearly a quarter till nine, and since there is not a clock in here, I will also serve as the timekeeper. You are all probably a bit nervous, and not used to cooking in such a big space, so we can round up to nine o'clock. That means your presentations won't be until eleven. I will give you a countdown at each hour, then half hour, fifteen, ten, five minutes.”

“Would any of you like to pray before we begin?” asked Inez. “I thought it might be a good idea for us to come together as sisters and have a brief prayer. I would be happy to lead.” The women joined hands in a circle in the center of the room—Virginia flanked by Neelie Bryson and Martha Humphrey. From the way she prayed, Virginia judged Inez to be Holiness. She asked Jesus to give fire in the ovens, not only for their biscuits, but also for their souls. She asked Jesus to help them stir their batters with a joyous heart. Virginia prayed that Inez be eliminated after the first round.

When she went back to her station, she remembered what Butcher had told her, how he made her practice each recipe in the same way he told her he had practiced with his gun as a new recruit in the army. The steps were nearly automatic now—a pleasant distraction from the encounter with Mona. She heated the milk slowly on the stove, stirring it gently, then removed it from the burner to cool just before it came to a boil. She dropped soft butter into the hot milk so it would melt. In a large mixing bowl, certainly larger than any she had used at home, she sifted together flour, salt, baking powder, a touch of sugar. She made sure to first scoop the flour into a cup until it overflowed and then leveled it off with a knife. Butcher had reminded her again and again of the importance of this step—too much flour and the popovers would be tough. Too little, they would collapse. Next, she beat together eggs, and when the milk had cooled, she stirred them in. She then combined the milk and the eggs with the flour into a relatively smooth batter. “The lumps will even out,” Butcher had told her. “Don't want to overbeat it. Nothing wrong with a few lumps.” Finally, she added a small splash of vanilla, something Butcher claimed was his own trick. “It gives 'em just a touch of mystery. Like the perfume you wear. Don't quite know what it is, but it is pleasant.” It surprised Virginia that he would speak to her so personally, but knew he felt the food allowed them such intimacies. Now Virginia had to let the batter rest. “Forty-five minutes minimum,” said Butcher. “An hour if you can stand it. But remember, the pans have to heat first, then they have to bake for forty minutes.” Virginia counted backward from eleven o'clock. The extra fifteen minutes would allow her to leave the batter to rest for the full hour. It would also provide her with ten full minutes on either side of the baking to fill the pans and then to put them on the plate.

Most of the women busied themselves with a test batch of their biscuits or pancakes or waffles. Some were obviously frustrated with the scale of the kitchen, off balance. She watched Wadena drop a circle of dough into the sizzling oil in the cast-iron fryer on her stove. “This flame is too hot,” she said to no one in particular. “It'll burn the outside and leave the inside raw.”

Virginia motioned to the hostess who had helped her before. “My batter needs to rest before I can bake,” she said. “I thought I might take a minute to walk out in the lobby.”

“Do you need someone to assist you?” the woman asked.

“No,” said Virginia. “I can find my way. I just want to get some air.”

“I'll stay close at hand,” said the hostess. “Don't want to leave it unattended for too long. I will just keep an eye on it for you till you get back.” Virginia was a bit surprised by the implication that someone might tamper with her batter. Would she do the same if given an opportunity? Turn the heat up so high under Wadena's doughnuts that they would crisp like cinders? It frustrated her she wasn't free to return to her own room, but she did want to find a private spot for just a moment or two. Long enough to take a sip if her nerves demanded.

As she made her way from the kitchen into the dining room and lobby of the hotel, she was reminded of the theater, the world backstage where everything was orchestrated chaos and noise, while out front, there were no signs that anything beyond these walls even existed. People sat chatting, sipping coffee in the lobby, reading the
Constitution.
She thought briefly about slipping into the Ladies' Lounge but knew it would be crowded with the friends and families of her competition. She hesitated in front of the door when she saw Clayton Claiborne emerge from the Gentleman's Lounge. He motioned to her to join him.

“Miss Virginia. This is a surprise. I would expect you to be in the kitchen making something . . . delicious.”

“I hope it will be,” she said. “I am making popovers. And I brought some homemade preserves to serve with them. But the batter has to rest a bit. Gives the dough time to relax. I thought I might as well do the same.”

“Delightful,” he said. “If you have a moment, I would consider it a great privilege to have you sit with me for a visit. I will order a beverage. We have coffee, tea—I can order something cool for you if you prefer.”

“What would you be having?” Virginia asked.

“Well,” said Claiborne, “I must confess a fondness for the Ramos Fizz. But I don't want to tempt you with spirits if you are not so inclined.”

“A Fizz would be perfection,” she said, removing her gloves.

Claiborne motioned to one of the colored workers nearby—Virginia was relieved it wasn't George—and told him to bring the drinks. “And be snappy about it,” he said. “My friend has only a short time with me.” After the man had left, Claiborne turned to her. He was still as homely as she remembered, but seemed oblivious to the fact; she also thought him to be a bit of a fop, like a gentleman's valet in a Ginger Rogers comedy. She knew it didn't matter what he looked like or how queer he was—all that mattered was who he was. “As a young man, a dear friend of the family took me to New Orleans for an extended visit over Carnival and Mardi Gras. I can still see the boys at The Stag Saloon mixing up batches of Ramos Fizz all day and night, shaking and shaking those shiny metallic urns till I thought their arms would fall off or they would turn into butter like Little Black Sambo. It may just be the fondness of memory for certain places or times, but I do sometimes enjoy one in the morning when I do not have business concerns.”

The server returned almost immediately with the drinks. After he set them down, Claiborne asked, “Miss Virginia, how long do you have for this break?”

“I really should be back at work no later than quarter till ten.”

Claiborne took his watch from his vest and addressed the waiter: “Boy, what is your name?”

“Matthew, sir.”

“Matthew, I assume you can tell time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, Matthew, I am going to have you stand over there where I can see you, and I am going to give you this watch to hold. And when it is twenty-two minutes till ten, not a minute before or after, then I want you to bring the watch back to me. Not a minute before or after—otherwise, there will be the devil to pay.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Matthew had walked to the other side of the room, positioning himself beside a potted palm, Claiborne retrieved his drink. “They have to be good for something,” he said. “I guess a clock is about as good a thing as any.”

“By why twenty-two minutes till the hour?”

“I like to give them an odd time to tell,” he said, smiling. “You would be surprised how often they get it confused.”

“And then . . .”

“Makes the day a bit more interesting. But Matthew's a good boy. Smart as they come. He won't make a mistake.”

“You know him. . . .”

“I know all the staff at my hotel,” he said. “White and colored. But they don't need to know that, do they?”

He raised his glass to her: “You understand, Miss Virginia, that should you win this contest, you and I will be working very closely together.”

“Yes, I suppose we would,” she said. She could not discern the direction of his remarks, wanted to get out in front of them, avoid an awkward encounter. After all, he was one third of the voting—hell, he might even hold all the cards for all she knew. She sipped her drink. The gin floated through her on a cloud of white froth. “This is delicious,” she remarked.