On the Right Side of a Dream Page 17
If I didn’t take Mr. High-Up Butt’s offer, I could try to make a go of the inn. There was a little money left to run it but not enough for much of a cushion. If the business didn’t take off, I would have to close Millie’s and sell out anyway. And I’d be right back where I’d started. I tried to focus my thoughts but the loose ends of my life zipped around my head like racing cars.
School was making me feel stupider by the day. My “make or break test” was coming up. I had made up my mind that if I got a C-plus or better on the test, I would see it through to graduation next spring. If I didn’t, I was out of there. It’s not that I wanted to fail, it wasn’t that at all. But I had begun to wonder if I was cut out for the program. The “schoolwork” part was pretty tough on me. Plus, I had to get really used to being on my feet twelve hours a day instead of six. I was, after all, just about the only person in the class over the age of fourteen. The other students were nice, and the ones on my cooking “team” were great, especially the redheaded kid, Marc, who was my biggest fan. But I was still in over my head with the homework and the conversions and trying to figure out how to adapt the formulas to make two loaves instead of three or three dozen éclairs instead of four dozen. It didn’t help that I felt that I was the least “decorated” student in the class. Just hearing some of the others talk about their engineering exploits and chemical experiments, spreadsheets and business projects made me blue. I only had a degree in the school of very hard knocks. So I was already practicing my “I’ve dropped out” speech—the one I was going to deliver to Jess.
The bed-and-breakfast was running nicely (Thank God for Inez!) but Hayward-Smith and I weren’t speaking. It was a diplomatic freeze. He sent messages to me through Williams or Amy Hsu. I saw him a couple of times when I was working at Millie’s but he didn’t speak. And I didn’t either. The hearing, now only two weeks away, couldn’t come soon enough for both of us. And I had four days left on his offer. After my trip back to Ohio, I was just a bit frazzled. That was when Jess reminded me that I was directing the next theme dinner.
“It was your idea, y’know,” he said.
Great. Another self-inflicted wound.
The Sonoma Valley wine night (my idea) was a hit with the up-and-comings from Missoula, the northern Italian night (Jess’s idea) was a complete sellout; we even had folks eating in the kitchen! Capacity for the diner is sixty and there were at least seventy-five people there, but since the fire chief was sitting at the counter, marinara sauce dripping down his chin, we got off easy.
“Soul Food Night” was scheduled just at the time that every other damn soap opera in my life started boiling over. So when Carl backed up the truck on Friday and began carrying in boxes of fish, fresh chickens, cans of condensed milk for the sweet potato pies and, not to be overlooked, brown paper sacks full of collard greens, I was, as they used to say in my great-grandmother’s day, “in a state.”
“Is this some kind of Italian lettuce?” Carl had asked, holding up one elephant ear–sized leaf. “ ’Cause if it is,” he added, flicking at something with his fingers, “there’s a spider sleeping on the underside.” The arachnid fell to the floor and started to make an escape but was stopped by the heel of a size ten-and-a-half Timberland boot.
“Of course,” I told him, trying to keep my composure as the food was being brought in. There was so much of it! “No self-respecting bunch of collard greens would be worth any money at all without a few spiders, some mud, and a lot of grit. That adds to the flavor.”
Carl looked at me doubtfully and finished putting the sacks on the counter.
“I see,” he said. He didn’t know whether to believe me or not. These were the first collard greens he’d ever put his eyes on.
I hadn’t slept much the night before and my stomach was jumpy. I’d had too much coffee but it didn’t work. I was so tired that I was afraid to stop moving in case I fell asleep standing up. Williams had trotted over with another request for Mr. High-Up Butt and I was frustrated because I couldn’t get the hang of the percentage conversions that would be on the test. So as I watched the boxes of food pile up, something close to panic set in.
What was I thinking—agreeing to cook for God knows how many people on Saturday night the weekend before an exam? I needed to have my head examined.
But, you know, cooking is not only a job; it is my passion. I can work on meals for hours—chopping, browning, stirring, and frying—and forget about the time. I sing while I cook, I talk on the phone, I joke with Jess, I listen to Mignon’s latest romantic drama, and the food simmers on. I am like a painter, only the pots, pans, and plates are my canvases.
This time was no different. Once I got started, I forgot about everything else and felt just fine.
I grabbed up a sack of collard greens and began to pull out the bunches so that they could get washed. Another little spider saw its chance to get away but I got him. Dumped the greens into the sink and started washing. One of the bunches was tied up with a white twist that read “Putnam County, Georgia.” That was where my mother had been born. I smiled, remembering her soft, gentle accent and spirited yet ladylike manner. And time flew from there.
“Are we feeding the Jolly Green Giant?” Jess asked in dismay. Every available inch of counter space was full of food.
“No,” I answered him, giving the gravy one last stir. “But Mountain’s family is coming. Does that count?”
That seemed to pacify Jess. Mountain’s family would make the Jolly Green Giant look like he shopped in the petite department. The menu was brown, white, green, orange, and warm all over. There was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans cooked with jowl. The collard greens simmered gently in a pot large enough for me to take a bath in, and I’d seasoned them with Kentucky ham hocks the size of the state of Montana itself. A delicate corn pudding sat on the counter, cooling, and the sweet potato pies were hidden because Carl had threatened to steal one. There was macaroni salad (just a little tease for spring), cole slaw, peach cobbler, and, of course, fried perch and catfish.
“I don’t eat bottom-feeders,” Jess told me as he sniffed at them. When he thought I wasn’t looking, he tore off a tiny piece and stuffed it into his mouth.
I swatted him away.
“Then get your pointed nose out of there and don’t drop boogers on them,” I said. “Besides, genius, these are farm raised.”
There was a simple yellow cake with chocolate icing, and apple crisp, just like the kind I’d had at Champion Junior High School when I was a kid.
We opened the doors at five-thirty as usual and by eight o’clock, there was hardly a crumb of corn bread left.
Jess had called in the troops—Mary, Mignon, Carl, and even Randolph—to serve dinner. It’s a good thing. I think that half the town was there, and folks from Mason, plus my whole team from cooking school. Marc didn’t stop grinning the whole time he was shoveling greens into his mouth. And there’s something else that I noticed.
I’m going to stick my neck out on this one. Sopping is an art. You either know how to do it, or you don’t. I was raised by Southern parents so we know how to sop even though Mother said it wasn’t polite. Daddy ignored her and sopped anyway. Sopping is the art of taking a piece of bread, preferably a biscuit or a roll, and scooping up the juices on your plate, whether gravy, butter, or pot liquor. (Don’t tell me you don’t know what pot liquor is because I do not have time to explain that right now.) I happen to think that this is an art form. New Englanders, Midwesterners (unless they have Southern roots), and people from other parts of the country just don’t do it right. We won’t even talk about Californians. There’s no little finger in the air, no theatrics, or fancy finger work. You hold that piece of baked carbohydrate in your paws and scoop up the liquid with meaningful hand motions. You can’t be wimpy about it and you can’t put on airs doing it. Like I’ve said, I always felt that Southern folks knew how to sop; it’s in their blood.
But now, I think I’m wrong about that.
By eight-thirty, Jess went to lock the doors. We were just about out of food! Williams managed to slip in just as Jess started to turn the key.
I was standing over at Mountain’s table. (He has a table now.) He and Amy were wrapped around each other like always and I was teasing them about picking out the babies’ names before there was a wedding. I knew I was in trouble when they asked me, with serious expressions, what I thought of the names “Taylor,” “Tricia,” “Thomas,” and “Spring.”
The place was noisy but Williams is an expert at adjusting the volume when he clears his throat. I heard him. He was standing right at my elbow.
“Yes, Mr., er, Williams?” I could not get the hang of calling him by just his last name.
“Mrs. Louis, ma’am,” Williams said solemnly, his eyes darting around the diner at the chomping jaws. “Mr. Hayward-Smith has asked me to pick up a dinner for him. His finance meeting went long. May I see your menu?”
I was having so much fun that I didn’t suppress a smile. Shrugged my shoulders.
“Sorry, Mr. Williams, our menu is done for the day. We’re just about out of everything. There’s not much of a choice now. Wish you hadn’t waited so long.”
I could tell that Williams was practically starving to death. The hungry look he had on his face told me that the super-sized cup of black coffee he’d gulped down this morning was the only nutrition he’d had all day.
“I see . . . well . . .”
“Have you eaten, Mr. Williams?”
I thought I saw the man blush.
“Er, no, ma’am,” he answered.
I wiped my hands on my apron, excused myself from Amy and Mountain, and headed toward the kitchen.
“Have a seat, Mr. Williams, I’ll see what I can scrape up from the bottom of a pot. For you and for Mr. High-Up Butt.”
“Ma’am?”
I heard Jess chuckle behind me.
“Don’t have much. Just catfish and collard greens, I hope that’s OK?”
Mr. Williams looked panic-stricken when I said that. Probably never had a collard green in his life. But when he finished eating twenty minutes later, I knew that catfish and collard greens were just fine with him. After the first few bites, he abandoned the prissy way he had of dabbing his mouth, tucked the white napkin under his stiffly starched collared chin, and dug in, face first! I didn’t realize that such a skinny man could eat so much, so fast. I even heard him burp. Well, belch.
His normally waxy-looking face reddened. And then he smiled. He doesn’t look as much like Dracula’s uncle when he smiles.
“Oh! Excuse me, Mrs. Louis,” he said, embarrassed.
I might be wrong but I think that when I had my back turned, Mr. Williams licked his plate clean. There wasn’t a spot on it. Talk about Jack Sprat.
We sent him off into the cold Montana night with a plate for Mr. Pointy-Nose High-Up Butt: catfish, collard greens, corn pudding, and three rolls. And one slice of sweet potato pie for dessert.
Jess and I watched him trudge down the walkway into the parking lot, where one of Mr. High-Up Butt’s black-on-black Suburbans was waiting.
I turned over the “Open” sign and Jess and I headed back to our guests. The diner was still three-quarters full.
“Juanita?” I was headed to the counter to get a glass of water while I could still take a minute. I turned around.
“What?”
Jess had a sly smile on his face that was threatening to break into a huge Kool Aid–sized grin.
He paused for a second then he spoke.
“You didn’t put anything in Hayward-Smith’s food. . . . Did you?”
I beamed at him.
“Humph!” I snapped my fingers. “I’m glad you mentioned that! I must call Inez and remind her to put more toilet paper in the bathrooms. We were a little short the last time that I was there.”
Jess’s eyes rolled upward.
“Heaven help us,” he said, grinning.
“No, darling. Pepto-Bismol, not heaven,” I said.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
I never in my life have pulled an “all-nighter.” Now, I’ve stayed up all night, I have definitely stayed out all night, but I have never, ever been fully conscious and sober from sundown to sunup and spent the time studying.
There is a first time for everything.
“Hey, Juanita! Study session at my place tonight. Wanna come?” It was Marc. “I can quiz you, you can quiz me, and we can get Olympia to help with the conversion tables. Larry Barrymore and Karen are going, too.”
Olympia was the “girl” who had an engineering degree. It was probably a good idea to have her help but just being in the same room with her made me feel dumber than a basket of boulders.
“Aw, she’s OK,” Marc assured me. “It’s not like she smacks your face with it or anything.” A small frown flickered across his forehead. “Not often, anyway.”
I studied with the “kids” until midnight, drove back to the cabin in Jess’s truck, and went to bed. I tried to go to sleep but my eyelids wouldn’t close and my brain wouldn’t turn off. I felt like a VCR stuck in eternal fast-forward.
Well, shoot, if I’m going to be up, I might as well be studying, I grumbled to myself as I slid out of the warm bed and into the cold darkness of the room. Shivering, I put on my robe, and then put on Jess’s robe, too. With my head scarf and thick wool knit socks, I know that I was quite a sight.
“You talking to me?” Jess’s voice came from beneath the covers. He wasn’t awake, just repeating De Niro’s lines from a movie.
“No. Go back to sleep,” I told him.
“Hold on to your matchbooks, fellas, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
Jess makes no sense at all when he talks in his sleep—just misquotes lines from movies that he’s seen. Somehow he’d mixed up Taxi Driver with All About Eve.
I headed to the back bedroom and clicked on the light. Dracula raised his big head and opened one eye.
“You go back to sleep, too,” I told the dog, sighing. My brontosaurus-sized charcuterie textbook was open. The print was the size of a microbe but it came into focus when I slipped Jess’s reading glasses onto my nose. I was the only student in the class who needed reading glasses. Just one more reminder that I was probably too damn old to be staying up all night—partying, studying, or anything else.
Am I too old?
Is that the question or the answer? my conscience asked.
I studied until my head was too heavy to hold up anymore. Napped for an hour, got up, showered, and got ready to go to school. I still felt dumber than a basket of boulders. But there was no turning back now.
“Whoa! You look wrecked!” Marc exclaimed as I slid into my seat. His eyes were bloodshot, too, but if he’d been up all night, he sure looked a whole lot better than I did.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said to him.
The other students had bleary eyes, puffy faces, and wrinkled clothes. They had been up all night like me—studying and worrying. Only Olympia appeared unaffected. She looked as if she had just come in from the Yellow Cactus Spa in Sedona after having the all-inclusive special.
Marc and I exchanged looks.
We hated her.
“How was the test?” asked Inez later that day.
“Don’t ask,” I told her. I had already jotted down my “I quit” speech on the back of the telephone bill envelope.
“I see,” Inez replied, nodding sympathetically. “I know it will turn out,” she added. “Y
ou are a smart woman, Juanita.”
Not as smart as Olympia, I said to myself. I took the chores list from her and went to work. Maybe inhaling ammonia while I cleaned the bathroom would help me forget.
“Who’s in?” I called over my shoulder as I headed down the hall checking off the items that I had to do.
“The Swensens have gone but Gwen already prepare the Mauve Room, is ready for the Florida couple. They’ll be in tomorrow morning. Señor Williams is upstairs and Miss Hsu is in Missoula on business for your favorite person.”
Speaking of my favorite person . . .
“Where is he?” I asked. I wasn’t in the mood for him today. I blinked my eyes a couple of times. They were still burning from the lack of sleep. Better get some eyedrops. Check towels, unpack new sheets, and call SW Montana Electric . . . a few seconds passed before I realized that Inez hadn’t said anything. I turned around.
She had a funny look on her face, a combination of confusion, thoughtfulness, and humor. In other words, her face was screwed up in a strange way.
“Something wrong with him?”
Inez shook her head as she slipped the strap of her gigantic purse over her shoulder.
“Nada . . . pero . . .” Now, she was frowning. “Funny thing. Señor Hayward-Smith, he eats breakfast now. I fix him a waffle and bacon. And . . . I thought I heard him talking to someone . . .”
“Probably Williams.” My attention returned to the list of things I had to do.
“No, Señor Williams, he was in the pantry, ironing a shirt. I checked.” Inez shrugged her shoulders as if she was trying to throw off something. “Maybe it was the cat he was talking to. The Siamese, he has come out of hiding.”
Since Millie died, Asim had taken to hiding in the strangest places. You would hear him howling sometimes but you never saw him. Now that was an animal that needed a pet shrink.