Devil's Food (7 page)

Emily still hesitated. “What happened to the other chef?”

“Leo? I told you. He disappeared on me. Come on, Major. You said you needed this job. I believed you.”

Ah, why not. It was better than waiting for her husband to come home and beat her to death. “One week,” Emily said. “That’s
it. Now where’s my office? I’d like to go over a few files.”

After several hours, Emily returned to the kitchen. By then, Byron had shouted himself hoarse and Slavomir was moving with
the deliberate grace of the totally drunk. Mustapha, who had arrived at five that morning, had gone home; Klepp was rhythmically
passing a slab of prosciutto over the slicing machine. Chess shredded lettuce. In the dining room, Zoltan was instructing
the staff how to pronounce the evening’s specials. He expected a packed house: There would be no better night this year to
exhibit the summer lovers everyone had picked up on Nantucket.

Diavolina’s first customers trickled in around five o’clock, wanting shrimp and beer. By six, every table was full. Everyone
seemed to be ordering chicken; as Yip Chick’s mountain of
poultry hissed under the broiler, he gradually acquired the hue of a Peking duck. Byron became a swing cook, flying Superman-like
to various stations, defeating catastrophes. The waitrons only screwed up a few orders and the kitchen didn’t run out of anything
but Mustapha’s Burnt Molasses Cake, which Lola was pushing aggressively in the dining room. Emily slaved until midnight, then
stayed another hour talking to Ward about menu changes. She took a cab home, found no messages on her machine, and dropped
into bed, missing Ross dreadfully. After brutal days at Cafe Presto, he would often massage her feet and toes; it was no good
trying to do that sort of thing herself. She watched a Bette Davis movie, drifting off occasionally, waking when she thought
she heard her husband coming in downstairs. When the birds began to chirp, she knew she’d be alone another day.

A
pale yellow haze, anemic with yesterday’s residual heat, enveloped Boston. The sun drifted upward, raising the temperature
of an already molten metropolis. Soon many air conditioners would die. Once again, Emily awoke dull and anxious for her husband.
She was used to him there beside her in the morning; he was part of getting up and facing the day, an unacknowledged necessity
like hot water and electricity, absence of which suddenly turned the simplest routines into unpleasant little ordeals. Her
ankles were swollen, as she discovered with her first step out of bed: too much standing yesterday, then no foot massage.
Emily pulled on some clothes and got the Sunday papers at a newsstand at the bottom of Joy Street. She bought croissants and
fresh orange juice. A steady, salty breeze blew over Beacon Hill, less to cool its inhabitants than to flee a gigantic front
rolling in from the Midwest; perhaps it would all accumulate into a thunderstorm this afternoon. Emily took the news and breakfast
home, ate and tried to
read about the same old earthquakes and assassinations. Even the crossword puzzle irritated her. Where was Ross, damn him?

She went to the garage, inflated the tires on her racing bike, and took a long ride along the Charles River. Rollerbladers
eddied over the Promenade, occasionally slapping joggers with their flailing arms. The owners of expensive dogs on expensive
long leashes paraded grandly along the macadam, perhaps unaware of the traffic they were forcing into the grass. Less expensive
dogs, without leashes, chased ducks and children, yelping when they got hit by cyclists training for the Tour de France. The
putt-putt of pleasure boats sounded lazily over the water. As she passed the marina, Emily checked for Dana’s boat: gone,
of course. He and Philippa were probably screwing each other blind as they drifted toward the Bermuda Triangle. Three days
asea now: Were those two scoundrels cured of each other yet? There was a phone onboard Dana’s boat, Emily knew; for several
moments, she stared toward the harbor, needing her sister, willing her to call. Sometimes the telepathy worked.

As the haze broke, the temperature ruthlessly rose. Emily went home. Still no blinking light on her answering machine; this
time, she did not check that it had somehow become disconnected. She drank a quart of water, hoping to stop the pounding in
her temple. Then she showered and returned to the restaurant.

Brunch was on. Ward stood at the bar watching another football game. She looked as if she had slept in the apron drawer. “Hey
Major! Back for more?” she called, noticing Emily during a car commercial.

“Right. Did you go home at all?”

“I lifted weights instead. More therapeutic.”

Uncertain how to respond, Emily went to the kitchen, where Klepp, Chess, and Yip Chick grunted a hello. Mustapha was off,
observing the sabbath, while Byron worshiped the flesh in Provincetown. Emily glanced over the incoming orders as Chess juiced
oranges and Yip Chick attacked another mound of chickens. “Where’s Slavomir?” she asked.

“Puking his brains out,” Klepp replied, looking up from his
omelettes and pancakes. “He generally overdrinks on Saturday night.”

The wretched dishwasher soon shuffled back from the bathroom to resume his duties. Brunch passed lethargically, as did the
afternoon. Diavolina’s patrons were content to chew quietly as football, America’s Sunday opiate, pounded across the television
at the bar. During the midafternoon lull, Emily devised new menus, tested a few recipes. When the sun eventually set and her
husband had still not called, she went to the bar. “Gin, please,” she told Ward. “One ice cube and two olives.” She glanced
at the television just as the quarterback got sacked.

Ward could guess that her new chef’s anemia had nothing to do with Diavolina. “Thanks for coming in,” she said, placing a
large glass in front of Emily. “You inspire the kitchen.”

“How so?”

“You take their minds off of killing each other. Now they’re all trying to figure out how to kill you instead. I’m deeply
grateful.”

Not sure whether or not Ward was kidding, Emily tossed back her gin. For a few minutes, she watched chunky humanoids on television
slam into each other. When a beer ad interrupted that phony war, she stood up. “When does the monk with the mushrooms show
up tomorrow?”

“Six, six-thirty. He’s usually first.”

“I’ll be here. Good night.”

A few men at the bar watched her leave. “Yours?” one of them asked Ward.

“For a week,” she replied, dispensing beer.

“Looks terrific. But can she cook?”

Ward guffawed softly. “Does it matter?” She half turned her attention back to the football game.

Once again, Emily returned to an empty, accusing house. Fear for her husband’s safety had given way to a thought-obliterating
panic. She was lying on the couch, swollen legs upraised, when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, darling,” Philippa said. “Did you get to the country this weekend? So stinking hot!”

“No. Ross had a job in Montreal” Emily replaced an ice bag over her forehead. Her skull felt thick and hot as a cast-iron
skillet. “Where are you?”

“Lost at sea. Aren’t we, smoochkin?” For a few moments, Philippa’s voice became smeared and gooey. Then her mouth returned
to the phone. “You and Ross must come to dinner with us tomorrow night.”

Emily sighed. “Dana’s still married, Philippa.”

“Did you hear that? She says you’re still married!” Again Philippa’s voice became momentarily overmushed. “So! How about it,
Em?”

“Did you hear me? I said Ross is away. He might be away for a week, for all I know.”

“Then let’s the three of us go out.”

“I have a new job,” Emily replied. “I’ll be working late.”

“You mean you’re not at that nice little cafe anymore?”

“No, I’m in the South End now. A place called Diavolina.”

“What a cunning name! Have you ever eaten at Diavolina, poopsie?” Phil and Poopsie conferred at length. “Dana says he knows
it well. Let’s meet there.”

“You’ll have to eat without me. I won’t get out of the kitchen until eleven.”

“So we’ll come around nine-thirty. We probably won’t be getting out of bed until noon anyway.”

Emily remembered Ross’s comment about needing Dana in the office Monday. “Your boyfriend does plan to go ashore tomorrow,
doesn’t he?”

“Of course! I’ve got interviews. Ouch! No pinching, bub-bala!” Philippa dropped the phone. “Sorry, Em. It’s so beautiful out
here. You should see the stars. And all these little sailboats bobbing on the water. What did you do all weekend?”

“I told you. Worked.” Emily felt like crying: Suddenly, ferociously, she missed Guy.

“When’s Ross coming home, poor thing?”

“Tomorrow, I guess.”

“Are you all right? You sound a little funny, Emily?”

“Just tired.”

Philippa knew better than that, even with Dana in her lap. “What is it, honey?”

“Nothing. Just the heat.”

They talked a little about Philippa’s latest movie, a little about maybe meeting next month in Paris. After hanging up, Philippa
stared at the reflection of the moon upon the waves. Emily’s flat voice had disturbed her. “Something’s wrong there,” she
said to Dana.

He kissed her knees. “Maybe she needs a lover.”

Philippa turned abruptly away; for the first time, he had irritated her. “Maybe she’s got one, you fool.” She continued to
study the moon-dappled water, ignoring him, as his lips grazed her long legs.

Guy Witten had had a rotten weekend. No Emily, no life: It was that simple. He had been in love with her for years, in bed
with her for one glorious night, and now she was gone, pretending that Niagara could just evaporate. She was thinking too
much, as usual, fanning her guilt until it charred their smallest bliss. Now the saint had returned to her husband, sacrificing
Guy on the fatuous altar of fidelity: Did she really prefer Ross and his drawing pencils? Stupid woman! Her even stupider
husband didn’t have the slightest clue what she had been feeling for the last few years. Husbands preferred to interpret a
midlife surge in cosmetic, undergarment, and hairdresser bills as feminine pride rather than horrific desperation. Just because
Emily didn’t complain, Ross probably thought she was content. But women were never content. When they were twenty, they wanted
rich husbands and grand careers. When they were thirty, they wanted superb children. But when they were forty, ever so slightly
beginning to fatigue as husbands and children and careers wandered away from them, that genetic discontent became a roaring
blaze, melting sanity, gutting caution: Then they were quivering perfection. Emily was, anyway. Guy sighed, wanting her terribly.
She was perfect in bed, all soft yawls and sighs, an
exquisite mesh of perfumes. Why were the most provocative women always married? To bores? Deep down, did they really want
to be left alone, resuscitated every so often by an eager, disposable lover? How insulting.

Guy spent most of the weekend at Cafe Presto interviewing replacement chefs, all inferior in talent and pulchritude to Emily.
He finally settled on a Swedish woman with the vivacity of a rolling pin. On Sunday, eviscerated, he went fishing. Early Monday
he was back at Toto’s Gym working off half a case of beer. Guy’s chin was touching the mat for his ninety-eighth push-up when
an instructor brought the phone over. “It’s your lady.”

He grabbed the handset, relieved and overjoyed, bleeding to touch her again. “Good morning.”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Emily said.

Only four words lasting one second, yet her voice had transmitted the necessary data: This was no kiss-and-make-up call. He
clipped his voice accordingly. “No problem.”

She crunched into business mode. “Have you been speaking to Ross lately?”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Why?”

“I think he knows.”

“Acting strange, is he?” This time there was such a long silence that Guy knew he had made her cry: agony. “What happened,
sweetie?”

“He left without a word on Friday and hasn’t called since. He never does that.”

“Where’dhego?Tokyo?”

“Montreal. I don’t know which hotel. Neither does his secretary, or so she says.”

“Is she covering for him?”

“Oh come on!”

He closed his eyes: Even her screeches balmed his soul. “We’ve been careful, Em. No one knows.” She didn’t hang up; maybe
there was still hope. “What have you been doing all weekend, worrying about it?”

“I’ve been working.”

“You found a job already? Why you little weasel. Where?”

She sniffled. “A place called Diavolina. In the South End. Ever hear of it?”

“It’s awful.” They were lapsing into ambiguous, uninterpretable silences. He had to get off the phone before he totally lost
control. “I miss you, baby,” Guy said. “Let me know if the old man doesn’t come home.” He hung up.

During the night, the heat swelled and the electricity failed. Emily awoke in a sweat, glanced at her flashing clock radio,
and swore: Monday was off to a tardy start. Hastily combing her hair back, hardly bothering with makeup, screw the power dressing,
she arrived at Diavolina shortly after six o’clock, as the clouds began spitting raindrops on sunburned commuters. Byron was
at the back of the kitchen already swallowing his third cup of coffee as he finished today’s crossword puzzle. Yesterday’s
sun/surf had burnished his tan and bleached his hair; a few more days on the beach and he’d look like a negative of a scarecrow.
“Good morning,” Emily said. “How was Provincetown?”

“Great. I haven’t been to bed yet.” Byron turned to the arts section and read the caption beneath a large picture. “Hey! Phil’s
new movie opens Friday! I’ve got to see that.” He held the paper up. “Your resemblance is quite remarkable, you know. Have
you ever thought of being a body double?”

Emily took the paper away from Byron. “Do you like her?”

“Philippa Banks? I adore her! She’s made beach movies an art form!” Byron flexed his sagging biceps. “I used to be in beach
movies myself. The muscle man in the bikini. Now I prefer doing the soaps. You don’t catch as many colds.”