Lovesick (11 page)

When the crowd had dispersed, Butcher and several other men crumbed the tables and checked to see if any cloths needed to be changed. When the men began to eat the leftover food, Butcher asked if they shouldn't return at least some of it to the kitchen so the cooks might taste it. “If we eat all this now, there won't be another slice of pie that ever comes in our direction,” he said. In truth, he wanted to know what the pastry cooks thought of his biscuits. He took his time, scraping trays and stacking plates so he could watch as the women from the pastry room gathered to dissect the biscuits remaining. He could not hear their comments but could discern a general hum of approval. It satisfied him.

It was only a short while before Chef Roland appeared in the main kitchen again. Butcher was not surprised to see the woman from the newspaper following closely, but what was remarkable was that Colonel Claiborne also walked in behind the chef. Butcher had never seen him in the service areas of the hotels. Roland excused himself and went to the table where Miss Virginia's supplies had been laid out for her. He checked things off on a list he carried with him, calling out to make sure what wasn't on the table was in the refrigerator. Butcher noticed that he seemed to be particularly well-behaved. There was no cursing tonight in front of Claiborne. No smashed plates. After all, thought Butcher, the plates really belonged to Claiborne and he might not take too kindly to seeing them tossed against a wall.

The swinging door from the dining room opened slightly, and Miss Virginia entered the kitchen. She was still in her yellow dress, Butcher noted, though she looked worn down from the heat and effort of the day. She seemed to have trouble opening the door, like a child pushing a heavy weight, and Butcher could tell from the flush in her cheeks that she had been drinking.

If she saw him, she didn't let on, but went straight to Claiborne and the chef, her hand extended. “I appreciate so much this courtesy,” she said. “I hope I am not putting anyone out.”

“Not at all,” said Chef Roland. “The kitchen will close at nine, so there will be people here working till then. However, the last hour may be a bit lonely.”

This did not sit well with the newspaper woman. “I don't think it is appropriate, sir, that Mrs. Yeager be left here by herself. Besides, there are rules to follow, and someone has to keep time.”

“I understand that, Miss Crowley, but do you think it necessary to babysit Mrs. Yeager? I think we can trust her.”

Miss Crowley's face flamed red. “I wasn't implying anything like that,” she said. “But . . .”

“I agree with Miss Crowley,” said Claiborne. “It would not be proper to abandon Mrs. Yeager here. We are asking one of these women to become the spokeswoman for my company. She is not applying for a job as a scullery maid.” He looked toward Virginia. “Tell me, Miss Virginia, do you have a companion here with you, someone who might sit here with you this evening?”

Virginia looked back at Claiborne but also let her eyes meet Butcher's, like she had done that morning in the Residence. Butcher knew that she had been aware of him all along. “I am afraid I gave my maid the afternoon off to visit an aunt who lives here,” she said. “She hasn't returned.”

“And the hostesses from the DOC have all gone home,” said Miss Crowley. “They were here all day and will be back early in the morning as well.” Then, as if afraid she would be commandeered, she added, “I must go to the newspaper to turn in my copy from today. I am late now as it is.”

Claiborne considered the situation. “What do we need—someone to tell her when the time is up? That would seem simple enough.” Claiborne looked first to Virginia and then over to Butcher.

“Boy,” he said. “Come over here.”

Butcher walked to Claiborne, the chef, and the newspaper woman.

“What is your name, son?” Claiborne asked.

“George,” Butcher said.

“Can you tell time, George?” Claiborne asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Butcher.

“Well, I hope so, because if you're lying to me, there will be the devil to pay, I can tell you that, George,” said Claiborne, removing a large pocket watch from his vest. He handed the watch to Butcher.

“Now, what time is it, George?”

Butcher looked at the watch face. “It is five minutes till seven.”

“Good,” said Claiborne, winking at Virginia. “I love me a nigger that can tell the time. Now, George, here is what I'm going to do. I am going to give you this watch, and I want you to go and sit on that stool over there. One of the other boys will run your trays tonight. I want you to sit on that stool and look at this watch, and when it is quarter till ten, then I want you to come and get me in the Gentlemen's Lounge. Do you think you can do that, George?”

“Yes, sir,” said Butcher.

“Colonel Claiborne,” interjected Jocelyn Crowley. “Do you think this is proper?”

“Proper?” asked Claiborne.

“I mean, to leave her here—alone with . . .”

“George,” said Claiborne, waving a hand toward Butcher, “George isn't going to bother anyone, are you, George?”

Butcher knew better than to speak. He lowered his eyes to the floor and shook his head.

But Claiborne was happy to have the attention of those around him and continued. “Because if he dared even so much as sniff in her direction, he knows what that would mean. Besides, we don't employ field hands here, Miss Crowley. George will behave himself.”

Clayton stepped in close to George and spoke in a loud whisper. “Now, if she needs to know the time, she will ask you. But I don't want you to speak to her, to interfere with her in any way. If she tells me you have spoken to her or been impolite to her, then you will be a sorry fellow I can assure you. And don't believe I won't ask her either. Miss Virginia, will it suit you to have this boy serve as your timepiece?”

Virginia hesitated for a moment, but replied softly, “Yes.”

Butcher took his place on the stool with the watch in his hand as Virginia began preparing the pâté. Claiborne, the chef, and the newspaper woman talked for a few minutes before losing interest in her and George. The swoosh of the swinging door carried with it Claiborne's final comment as they departed: “They have to be good for something. I guess a clock is as good a thing as any.”

Butcher sat staring at the floor for several minutes, making sure they would not return. In the main kitchen, he could hear the chatter of cooks as they plated foods, happy to be free from Chef Roland's supervision, certain they would be able to shut the kitchen down a bit early. Butcher remembered those nights from the army, from the kitchen in the Residence, even from the kitchen at Caledonia, after the rush of service had ended and there hung around the kitchen a general easiness.

“My thoughts are all muddled,” Miss Virginia interrupted.

“You've had a long day,” said Butcher. “I could get you some coffee if you want. It might help.”

“Yes,” said Virginia. “Actually, a bit of coffee might do the trick. But you were told not to move.”

“I'll just go to the door,” he said, which he did. He motioned to one of the men in the kitchen, and in a very short time, a coffee service was delivered. He wasn't surprised when she poured a shot from a flask into the cup.

“Miss Virginia,” he said. “There are a lot of steps to this recipe. I'm not sure . . .”

“You know the contest they really need to have,” she said. “Let all these women sit around sipping sherry for an hour, then make them prepare a whole meal. That would be closer to the heart of it, don't you think?”

“If I may say, Miss Virginia, you shouldn't be wasting time on the filling just yet. Remember, the dough has got to chill, and the aspic will need time to clear. And baking time is an hour.”

She let out a tremendous sigh, then turned to face him squarely.

“I can't do it,” she said.

“You have to,” he replied.

“I am tired, George. My head is spinning. I just want to sit down. Maybe I should do to you what Mona has done to me—just withdraw. Make you carry the entire burden for a while. Who has helped me, George? I ask you that. Who has helped me?”

“It's just a little bit more, Miss Virginia. Then it will all be done.”

But he could tell he made no progress with her. “Seriously, George, why don't you make this? You know you would love to. When they cut into it in the morning and they all
ooh
and
aah
over it, then you will know it will be you they are
oohing
and
aahing
over, not me.”

“Miss Virginia, if we were to get caught . . .”

“Who is going to come in here and check on us? The men are out in the Gentlemen's Lounge for the rest of the evening, and you heard that little simp from the paper. She has a deadline. George, this is an opportunity for you.”

She was right. It would be a pleasure to create this final dish, to know that it was his work that was being judged. But it was risky.

“I will sit here by the door,” she said. “And keep watch. Or do you just want to be Clayton Claiborne's timepiece?”

Butcher undid the buttons on his uniform, laying the jacket on the end of the table, leaving him just in his undershirt. “I can't cook in that thing,” he said. “It confines me too much.”

“Try wearing a girdle sometime,” said Virginia, as she climbed onto the stool by the door. “Now hurry. We don't have any time to spare.”

Butcher took a moment to survey the layout of the ingredients for the pastry crust, then began to gather them together. He was transported back to her kitchen in Fayetteville, demonstrating to her the first time how the dish was made. He traveled further, back to Brest, back to the kitchen with Laurent, when he watched and learned the secret of the dish. Outside the swinging doors, the kitchen grew silent as they crew finished their work and slipped out into the night.

How good it felt to have his hands dusty with flour, to feel the soft dough as it gave to the push of his palm. It seemed like only a matter of moments before he had lined the mold with the pastry, filled it with the meat mixture, and put the whole thing into the oven to bake. He poured the aspic through a sieve and marveled at the amber liquid as it cooled. He cleaned up the station, stacking empty bowls and pans in the sink. He knew better than to wash them, however. Knew that task would have been left for someone else.

When the pâté emerged from the oven, he took his own blade from his pocket, unsheathed it, and cut a small hole no larger than a dime in the top so steam could escape. When it had cooled slightly, he would ladle the aspic into a funnel inserted into the hole and then use the blade to reinsert the lid. Unless you knew where he cut, it would be nearly impossible to tell that the crust had been broken. They were nearly there.

He could tell from the way she tried hard not to lean that she was a bit wobbly on the stool.

“Miss Virginia,” he said. “You will need . . .” He hesitated. “You will need a few minutes to gather yourself before I go and collect Colonel Claiborne. You want to look your best when they come to see you.”

“Tell me, George,” she said. “Why did you choose me for this?”

“I told you when I first spoke to you about it,” he replied.

“Yes, that I had a style. But there had to be more to it.”

“Maybe I could sense that you were hungry, that you wanted things beyond what was in front of you,” he said. “I would watch you in the meetings back at the Residence. You wanted people to look at you. I watched how they regarded you. You were not like them. These women do this because this is who they are.”

“And I was putting on a show.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is the truth. I am a fraud.”

“No,” he told her. “Not now. Not anymore. Like you said, today it was you who did all this, who carried all the weight.”

“When we first began, I thought that I could never learn all the steps. I would watch you and see how you did things that seemed so effortless, but when I tried them . . . Well, I don't have to remind you how many things went into the trash. But I learned to love it,” she said, and he could see the truth in her pale blue eyes. “And now I do. I love it. It is a gift you have given to me,” she said. She raised herself off the stool and stumbled. He caught her, held her. She didn't resist.

There was the soft suck of air as the swinging door to the pastry room opened, and then there was the sudden sickening realization that they were not alone. As Butcher released Virginia, they turned to see Wadena Chastain standing full frame in the door. Virginia stepped away from him, but they both knew it was too late. They had been discovered.

Butcher forgot that he was standing in his undershirt with his arms around a white woman. He forgot about his folded uniform jacket. He forgot about Clayton Claiborne's watch in his pocket. He forgot about everything. He simply walked past Wadena. Walked out of the room. Walked out of the kitchen. Out of the hotel into the night.

For a moment, neither woman spoke. Finally, Wadena said, “I came down to see if you might like to join me for a nightcap when you are done. I had my maid mix a pitcher of Brandy Daisies, and I have some sandwiches. I don't imagine you have eaten.”

Virginia turned her attention to the pâté and to the container of golden aspic. “You are so kind to think of me,” she said. “I simply have to ladle this in through the funnel and put it into the icebox to set up for tomorrow.” She tried to spoon the mixture into the funnel, but her hands shook so violently that a great deal of it spilled onto the counter.