Authors: Ruth Reichl
Delicious! (32 page)
“We’re done for today,” he said. “We’d like to come back tomorrow at nine-thirty. That okay with you?”
“Fine. See you tomorrow.”
I waited until he left, then picked up the next letter in the file. The phone rang before I could read it. Sammy. “I find that I have an uncontrollable craving for Thursday’s gnocchi. Would you be good enough to join me at The Pig?”
“Now? I haven’t read all the letters!”
“Bundle them up and fetch them along. We can peruse them after dinner. It will be something to anticipate. Hurry, now; I find that I am extremely peckish.” Giving me no chance to argue, he abruptly hung up.
THE PIG WAS
so crowded that I was halfway across the dining room before I realized that Sammy was not alone. Richard, Jake, and Maggie were all sitting around the table, while Thursday stood near Richard, her hand on his shoulder. As I approached, they all, embarrassingly, turned to watch.
Was it a surprise party? Why were they all here?
Jake stood up. “Look at you!” He pulled out a chair. “I wish you’d gotten the fashion bug sooner. This is quite an improvement on those dreary clothes you used to wear.”
“Great jacket.” Richard reached out and ran a finger down the soft suede.
I was feeling pretty good until Maggie said. “Were you the victim of one of those magazine makeovers? If you ask me, everybody always looks better before.”
“Give it a rest,” chided Thursday. She looked me up and down. “The contact lenses are an improvement. But if you’re going to dress like that, you really ought to do something about your hair.”
Her frankness always disarmed me. “I know. I know. But I don’t have a clue where to go.”
“To Eva, of course.” Thursday pointed to a woman with brightly hennaed hair, sitting at the bar. “She’s the best.”
“Can we please eat now?” Maggie held up her empty plate. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m finding this a major bore.”
“Uh-oh.” Thursday moved toward the kitchen. “Better feed the beast.”
Maggie watched as Thursday walked across the restaurant, eyes narrowing when she stopped to talk to Eva. “Can we move on, please, to
the reason for this gathering? We’re here to welcome the prodigal editor home. Remind me, Jake, how long you’ve been gone?”
“It’s been three months since the great Sammy intervention.” Jake clinked his glass against Sammy’s. “I left the next day.”
“And you have only just returned?” said Sammy. “That was quite the voyage.”
“True.” Jake raised his arms, gathering us all in. “What a racket! I had no idea. I went halfway around the world, and it didn’t cost me a penny; the entire thing was paid for by the tourist offices of the countries that I visited. After Sherman died—”
“Sherman died?” I was horrified. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jake reached both hands across the table to take mine in his. “Billie, I’m so sorry. I should have said something, but I couldn’t talk about it. It felt like I was losing everything I cared about at once. First the magazine and then Sherman.”
I thought back to the conversation we’d had when I offered to take care of Sherman. “Is that why you were so strange? Sherman was already dead, wasn’t he?”
“I’d just come back from the vet,” he said. “I knew if I talked about it, I’d start crying. I’m sorry. I know you loved him too.”
I raised my glass. “Here’s to Sherman: I hope there are smoothies in heaven.”
“With him gone, there was nothing holding me here. I’ve always wanted to go to Madrid Fusion, and that was pretty amazing; all the molecular guys were there. Ferran made a soup that started cold and became increasingly hot as you swallowed it. Then he turned carrots into pure air. This Japanese guy was cooking straw.”
“Straw?” Sammy sounded incredulous.
“Yeah, he smoked it. It tasted terrific. While I was there, I got an invitation to the Hokitika Wildfoods Festival in New Zealand. It really
was
wild. They were featuring live huhu grubs, worm truffles, and possum pie. One of Redzepi’s cooks was there from Noma, doing demos, and he did a recipe that used all 159 kinds of horseradish they have in Denmark.”
The waiter set a platter of oysters onto the table. “New Zealand has the most amazing oysters—big, with that coppery taste of belons—but also kind of crisp. Taiwan was next, and then Singapore.”
“What made you deign to return?” Maggie, of course.
He grinned at her. “The other day I got a call asking if I wanted to do a stint on
Top Chef Masters
, and I thought it might be fun.”
“Must be nice to be Jake Newberry.” You couldn’t blame Maggie for being bitter. “I can cook circles around you, but nobody’s invited me on any swell jaunts. You think it’s got anything to do with the fact that I’m a woman?”
“You think it’s got anything to do with your wicked tongue?” A shadow crossed Jake’s face, and he held up his hands. “Sorry, that was mean. I shouldn’t have said it.”
“No,” said Maggie. “You shouldn’t have.” She took an oyster, squeezed a lemon, tilted back her head, and swallowed.
We ate oysters in an embarrassed silence until Sammy turned to Richard. “And you, sir, have you unearthed any new disasters to capture with your camera?”
Richard picked up an oyster, jockeying for time. “Actually, I have. The guys at the firehouse on Great Jones Street have been letting me go with them. I don’t shoot them working, but I take pictures after the fires are out. I like what’s left, the drama at the end. I’m calling the series ‘Material Memory,’ and I think it’s going to be my next show.”
Endings, I thought. Destruction. He could even find beauty in that. I wished again that I could see the world through his eyes, if only for a moment.
Thursday arrived with the gnocchi, and we drank more wine. By the time she brought out a suckling piglet, peace had been restored, and the voices wove themselves around me, comforting as a cocoon. I looked around the table, thinking how lucky I was to have these people in my life.
At ten-thirty, Sammy stood up and made a great show of yawning. “I must toddle off now.” He gave me a significant look.
I obediently got to my feet. “Me too,” I said. “I’ve got an early appointment.”
“And a later one too.” Thursday slipped a piece of paper into my hand. “Here’s Eva’s address. I figured you could go on your lunch hour, so I told her to expect you at noon.”
WE TOOK THE LETTERS
back to Sammy’s and settled on the sofa, where we could read them together.
A
UGUST
23, 1945
Dear Mr. Beard
,
V-J Day was so exciting! We were all so happy that the war was finally over! I can hardly believe that everything went so wrong so fast
.
I’d been working with the Crop Corps, but when we heard the news, everybody put down their tools and headed into town, as if we’d made some secret plan. There were people standing on every rooftop, and toilet paper was strung everywhere, like a crazy Christmas in August. It felt like a party. When it started to get dark, we all headed home, but there were huge traffic jams and it took forever. Horns were honking and people were dancing, and the crowded bus felt like another party. Still, I wished it would move faster; I was afraid Mother would be home worrying about me. But when I got there, she was sitting in the kitchen, crying in the dark
.
At first I thought that the telegram man had been there, but it wasn’t that. Mother said that when the announcement came, everyone in the factory shouted with joy. But then the public-announcement system went on again, and the voice said, “Take everything with you. We’re locking the doors.” None of the women understood
.
Mother asked the supervisor, who reminded her that they’d all
signed pledges promising to give up their jobs when the boys came back. “But they aren’t back!” I said. Mother said it doesn’t matter—they’ve built too many airplanes, and now that the war’s over they’re no longer needed. The government’s canceling all the contracts and the company’s laying all the women off. When there are jobs again, they’ll go to returning soldiers
.
Mr. Beard, I’m so confused. I know it’s right for the brave men who’ve served our country to get their jobs back. But what about the women? Don’t they deserve a chance too? Women like Mother kept everything running; don’t they count now that the war’s over? Mother lost Father, and now she’s losing her job. It doesn’t seem fair
.
I know that if Father were coming home, he’d expect to go back to the bank. If that were the case, and if I were being honest, I guess I wouldn’t be thinking about the woman who’s been doing his job for the past few years. But now I do wonder about her and what she’s going to do. Maybe her husband isn’t coming home either; maybe she needs the job
.
Mother tells me not to worry; she says we have enough money to see us through, at least for a while. But if Mother doesn’t find work soon, I think we’ll have to sell our house. I don’t mind so much, but it seems hard on Mother, losing everything all at once
.
I thought that when the war was over times would be better. Father is still only presumed dead, but I’m sorry to say I’ve given up hope. I feel as if there’s a huge gulf separating me from all the lucky people in the world; they have so much to look forward to
.
Your friend
,
Lulu
“That’s exactly how I felt when Genie died,” I told Sammy. “Like nothing good was ever going to happen to me again.”
“I understand.” He said it with such compassion that I knew he really did. “That was my experience over Christmas. I felt I had made a false turn and was now doomed to the dark side of the street. Despair is
a terrible ailment.” There was a short silence, and then Sammy cleared his throat. “Is there another letter?”
“Four,” I said.
He took my hand. “Not another word until we have read them all.”
D
ECEMBER
9, 1945
Dear Mr. Beard
,
We’ve had no news from the government, and I’m beginning to wish they’d declare Father dead. Is that a terrible thing for me to say? I know it’s horrid, and I don’t think very highly of myself, but my main concern is Mother. All this uncertainty is hard on her. Yesterday, while we were washing the dishes, Bing Crosby came on the radio, singing “White Christmas,” and Mother stood at the sink and just burst into tears. It made me remember the last Christmas before the war, when Father came home with the radio; it was a present from his boss. When he turned it on, “Chattanooga Choo Choo” was playing, and he bowed to Mother and said, “Madam, may I have this dance?” Then he twirled her around the kitchen until they were both laughing so hard they ran out of breath and had to stop. I know we’re just two little people in Ohio and that they have many things to worry about in Washington, but it’s mean of them to keep us in the dark
.
Mother’s still looking for a job, but with all the returning soldiers she’s had no luck. She comes home so discouraged every night, and although she tries to keep it from me, I know she’s terribly worried about money. The other night I invited Mr. Jones to dinner, and when Mother saw that I was planning on stuffed pork chops, her mouth got tight and she said that just because rationing was over it didn’t mean we can afford meat. Still, she put on a nice dress and even some lipstick before he came, so I don’t think she was very upset
.
Your friend
,
Lulu
J
ANUARY
6, 1946
Dear Mr. Beard
,
I hope you don’t mind; I took the chocolates you sent from Paris to the Cappuzzellis’ when we went for Christmas dinner. At first Mrs. C. didn’t want to take them—she said you meant them for me—but I told her they’d taste much better if we all shared. Good chocolate’s still impossible to get here, and they were such a treat!
Mrs. C. invited Tommy too, but he had to stay home with his family; it’s their first Christmas together since before the war. She also invited Mr. Jones. “So sad, a bachelor man, all alone at the holidays,” she said. Then she patted my cheek and added that she didn’t think he’d be alone long
.
After dinner, we all went to midnight Mass at St. Anthony of Padua Church. Mother doesn’t have a great regard for Catholics, and I was surprised when she agreed. But the church was beautiful, all marble and lit by candles, and Mother closed her eyes as she listened to the choir. In that moment her face was peaceful, the way it used to be before Father left. I said a little prayer then, just for him
.
So it was an almost-happy Christmas after all. I hope yours was too
.
Your friend
,
Lulu
F
EBRUARY
4, 1946
Dear Mr. Beard
,
We’ve sold our house. It happened so fast! Mother decided that, with housing so short, selling would be the patriotic thing to do. She put a notice in the paper, and the next morning there were lines of people at the door
.
Next week we’ll move out of Elizabeth Park Valley into a little apartment over in North Hill. We were very lucky to find a place to rent, even a small, dark one, and I try not to let Mother see how unhappy I am. But the rent is low, and the kitchen has modern appliances (although I’m not sure how I feel about that new electric stove). Mr. Jones says I’m welcome to use his kitchen anytime I like
.
I know that, come spring, I’ll miss my garden. Tommy says I can plant one at his house, but that would mean putting up with Joe, who just gets meaner all the time. And I’m not so sure Mrs. Stroh would like it; now that we’re poor, she’s not nearly as nice to me
.
I like knowing you’re back in New York. Maybe someday we’ll finally meet? Then again, maybe we’d better not. What if we found out we didn’t like each other after all?
Your friend
,
Lulu
A
UGUST
1946
Dear Mr. Beard
,
Television! You’re going to be on television! I can hardly wait. Mr. Jones has a television, which is a lucky thing, because Mother would never allow me to go to a bar, even to watch you. She and Tommy and I—and as many of the Cappuzzellis as can fit into Mr. Jones’s living room—are going over to watch
I Love to Eat.
Isn’t it strange? I feel as if we’re finally about to meet
.
I’ll write the minute the broadcast is over
.
Your friend
,
Lulu