Devil's Food

by Janice Weber

The limo thudded through a lunar-sized crater on the Van Wyck Expressway. On the other side of the partition, the chauffeur shouted that he was going to sue the city. That reminded Emily of something. “Phil, Simon told me that Wyatt Pratt, that awful lawyer, is trying to reach you.”

  “Again? I’ve told her three times to shove it.”

  “Tell her again, would you? What do you think she wants?”

  “Money, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

  “But she’s such a shark.”

  “She’s a piece of cake compared to Simon. Speaking of whom, he’s going to call in the morning. Give me a quick rundown of what happened tonight. I don’t want to make too big a fool of myself tomorrow.”

  Emily reconstructed the evening as accurately as possible, glossing over details concerning Byron: Philippa needn’t know she had spent half the night pacing outside the men’s room instead of watching Choke Hold. “And what about your story, Phil? You’re supposed to be falling in the bathtub now?”

  “As we speak. Ouch! My face!”

  Pulling off the expressway, the limousine entered an unlit, barbwired area: the DMZ between Kennedy Airport and the terrorists of Jamaica, New York. At the terminal, Emily gave the chauffeur Philippa’s bag, instructing him to return it to the hotel at once. “Should I wait for you, Miss Banks?” the confused driver asked. No one had said boo about driving way the hell out here. The lady was not carrying any luggage, so she wasn’t flying anywhere. When had she changed clothes? Why? Aha, she was meeting an illicit boyfriend. At least she had the decency to fornicate elsewhere than the back of his limousine, like everyone else.

  Emily took a hundred-dollar bill from her purse. “No need to wait. Would you mind dropping these clothes off at the hotel?”

  “My pleasure. Thank you very much, Miss Banks.”

  Emily entered the deserted terminal. The arrivals/departures board was blank. No Muzak: Emily’s shoes clicked like castanets as she went to the check-in counter, there to deal with someone nameplated Malunka whose bilingualism consisted of the words hello and go there. She had no idea what to do with Emily’s frequent-flyer card. Emily walked to the rear of the terminal, passing a janitor who looked like Klepp, but fifty times more malignant. His scowl, so unlike the adoring glances she had received all evening, jolted her: This terminal, unfortunately, was the real world. Emily hurried to a rest room and removed all of Philippa’s diamonds. She felt observed, perhaps hunted.

  In the far corner of the terminal, Emily saw four people waiting on dull vinyl cushions. “Is this the flight to Boston?” she asked the white man.

  “I hope so.” He returned to his laptop.

  Eventually Malunka commuted to the counter, collected five ticket stubs, and said, “Bozz-tone.” The group followed her down a flight of steps and into a twelve-seat propeller airplane. Yawing and buzzing, the aircraft took off. Inexplicably demoralized, like Cinderella, Emily got to Beacon Hill around one-fifteen. This had been a long, trying day, accomplishing little, complicating much. Emily had some scotch, glanced through a magazine, then tiptoed to her dark bedroom, grateful that a warm, lumpy husband slumbered therein.

  The bed was empty. Emily stared at the flat sheets, trying to re-create her breakfast conversation with Ross. He knew she was coming back to Boston tonight, didn’t he? Emily couldn’t remember; it hadn’t been a pleasant chat. Was he still working? Lying near death in a hospital? He wasn’t out drinking with Dana. Sleeping with Marjorie? Emily called the office; no answer, of course. So she called Marjorie, hanging up after the hello. Marjorie didn’t sound at all sleepy. A bad sign. Two o’clock! Bastard!

  Emily was dozing on the couch when the lock downstairs clicked. Obviously alive: Ross had better have one hell of an alibi. She glared at him as he came into the living room. Maybe he glared back.

  “Still up, darling?” Ross asked. “How was New York?”

  “It’s past three. Where have you been?”

  “Out walking. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Ever hear of sleeping pills and a warm bath?”

  “I needed to walk.”

  “Again? Where’d you go this time?”

  “Watertown.” That was miles up the Charles River. But he had needed a lot of time to think about trucks driving through windows, dead partners, antidepressant pills, errant wives, and unerrant secretaries.

  “Were you alone?”

  “That’s a pretty stupid question, Emily.”

  “So answer it.”

  “Of course I was alone. Who else would be with me?”

  She shrugged. “Marjorie.”

  “I spent the whole day with the woman. I wasn’t about to spend the whole night with her as well. You don’t think there’s anything between us, do you?”

  An infuriating question, one that accused the accuser. Emily despised Ross for even asking it; a real man would have either confirmed or denied the original allegation. She decided to change the topic. Were Ross innocent, he would not leave the issue of Marjorie unresolved. “Why couldn’t you sleep?” she asked.

  Her heart sank as he said, “Digging out from Dana is much more complicated than I thought. He hadn’t told me much about his projects this past year. We were more or less doing our own thing on opposite sides of the office. Just like an old married couple.”

  For a moment, Emily gave up on Marjorie; the subject, like low tide, would always return. “Did he ever tell you about a chapel he built for the Benedictines? I saw it today.”

  Ross rubbed his sore feet. “Vaguely. It was a job for Joe Pola. Dana probably gave the project to an apprentice then tacked on a few finishing touches. Looked like a spaceship with a steeple, right? How’d you come across it?”

  “I was visiting the monastery that supplies Diavolina with mushrooms. There it was on the side of a hill. Why would anyone commission Dana to build a church?”

  “Why? He was a great architect, Em. One of the best.” Ross sighed, reminded of the fall of an empire, and of the woman who had destroyed it. His voice soured. “How is your dear sister?”

  “Awful. You were right. She was making up that story about falling in a bathtub.”

  “Oh? What really happened?”

  “She got beaten up by a dentist. Her face looks like a blueberry.”

  Ross burst into metallic laughter. “First a bathtub, then a dentist!” After a while, sensing his wife’s fury, he quieted down. “How was your little escapade in New York?”

  Emily told her tale, omitting Byron, whose connection to Dana still smoldered. So Ross heard mostly about Simon, a man he would never meet, and Choke Hold, a movie he would never see. Damn! She yearned to tell him about the poor sous-chef, about the marauding lawyer Wyatt Pratt, Philippa’s battered face, that chapel in the middle of nowhere, the Peace Power Farm, hell, even about Marjorie. But all current events seemed to spring from Dana dying in her restaurant, on her watch. It was a no-win situation and would remain so for a long time. Perhaps she should move out for a while, get away from her husband and this garroting guilt. She was no longer sure that he loved her, or she him. They were old, true friends, maybe more. But they were weary.

  Emily stood up. “Oy, I have to be back at work in three hours.”

  “Why don’t you quit that job?” Ross asked suddenly.

  She studied Ross’s small, stockinged feet. Years ago, she used to play with his toes. “Because I have nothing else to do, my dear.” Emily went to bed.

  8

  After two hundred minutes of unfulfilling sleep, Emily rolled slowly out of bed. The Choke Hold gala was over; time to return to Diavolina. Her body felt like cement and her thoughts clung gooily to the inside of her forehead, like silt after a flood. On the other side of the bed, Ross didn’t budge, so Emily reset the alarm for seven, dressed, and left the house. Although the brisk morning air and painfully brilliant sunshine revived her, she knew that the system would crash around noon; at her age, pulling an all-nighter was about as invigorative as inhaling fr
om an exhaust pipe.

  As she walked into the kitchen at Diavolina, Klepp was finishing his toast. “Good morning, Major. Glad I’ve got some company today.”

  “No one else is here?”

  “We are alone, madame. Shipwrecked. Have some coffee.”

  Emily poured a cup. “Where’s Byron? He usually opens the place.”

  “You got me. Maybe he’s still at his grandmother’s ninetieth-birthday party. A fine story. I don’t think he remembers that day he took off last winter to attend his grandmother’s funeral. Obviously, she rose from the dead.”

  “He took a personal day,” Emily said. “Why don’t you leave it at that. How did it go here yesterday?”

  “Super. Except for Ward. She went on a small drinking spree. That lady’s reminding me more and more of our dear departed dishwasher.” As Klepp was bringing his cup to the sink, Mustapha came in. “Bonjour, Dwight! You’re late. Should have had your apple pies in the oven by now. Don’t tell me your sunrise service went overtime again.”

  Mustapha neatly tied his apron. “It did. Three whole minutes, I think. Where’s the sous-chef?”

  “Staring at you,” Klepp replied. “All right, let’s get to work here. I have some terrific ideas for lunch, Major. Listen.”

  Two more prep cooks arrived as Klepp was detailing a masterpiece involving beets, turnips, and tongue. Finally Emily stood up. “Sounds great,” she said, waving as a supplier arrived. “Do it.”

  As she was meeting with the old woman who made biscotti, the phone rang. Klepp answered. “It’s your sexbomb sister, Major. Sounds highly agitated.”

  Emily went to her office and picked up the phone. “What’s up, Phil?”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me,” her sister almost screamed. “I made a complete ass of myself!”

  Philippa’s agitation was contagious. “What are you talking about?” Emily screamed back.

  “Oh Christ, you are thick! The police just left! They wanted to know all about your wannabe actor friend who dropped dead last night! That guy Byron! The story I made up had more holes than my fishnet stockings!”

  “Byron’s dead?”

  “Would you mind telling me what happened? In detail? The police are coming back in half an hour to grill the shit out of me!”

  Emily slumped onto a chair, fear swelling into panic. “What did they tell you?”

  “Nothing except that Byron died in the men’s room. They’re expecting me to fill in the details. Rather impossible, of course. Crap! I knew it was too good to be true!”

  “Listen,” Emily said. “Simon and I were in the lobby before the show. I was signing autographs and he was schmoozing the sponsors. Byron and his friend Jimmy came up to me expecting to be introduced to Simon. You know all about that, of course,” she added sarcastically. “Anyway, Byron stood with a thumb up his nose while Simon tried his best to ignore him. We had a drink, the lights went off, then we all had to go into the theater. The movie started and next thing I know, Byron is being carried out. He happened to be sitting right under my balcony so I had a good look. I left—”

  “You left my movie? How could you do that?”

  “Don’t get me started, Philippa! He wouldn’t have been there at all if you hadn’t egged him on!” Emily resumed after a moment of hypercharged silence. “Two ushers carried him to the men’s room. Jimmy went in with them. I waited outside. After a while, Simon came down to get me. Before we returned to the balcony, he checked out the situation and told me that Byron was all right. Liar.”

  “He was just trying to protect you. Me.”

  “Very touching. I’ll never forgive him.”

  “Emily, be fair! Lying’s his job! Anyway, you were supposed to be concentrating on other things. What happened then?”

  “Nothing. We watched the rest of the movie. I never saw Byron or Jimmy again. After the raffle and a few dances, I went home. End of story.”

  “Hmmm, I guess things aren’t as bad as they seem,” Philippa commented relievedly. “The story I gave the police was pretty much the same as the one you just gave me.”

  “Not bad? What about Byron? He’s dead?”

  “Em, that’s water over the dam. What I have to do now is sic the cops on Simon. He knows more about this than I had thought.”

  “Did you at least ask what Byron died from?”

  “No, I forgot. The interrogation caught me totally unprepared. Quite cheeky, now that I think of it. I should lodge a formal complaint.”

  “You do that, Philippa. Then everyone in the world will know you got beaten up by a dentist.” Emily hung up as Philippa began sputtering indignantly.

  She was sitting motionless, hand still resting on the phone, as Ward came into her office. The manager wore sunglasses, a bad sign, and sweatpants, a worse sign. Six feet away, Emily smelled beer, cigarettes, and Listerine. The bright pink lipstick added a nice professional touch, though.

  “Where the hell’s Byron?” Ward fumed. “This is the last time he gets a personal day from me. Somehow it always expands into a hangover day as well.”

  “Can’t Klepp run the show?”

  Ward squinted keenly at Emily. “What are you trying to tell me, Major? Ah, let me guess! That last phone call! Byron fell ten thousand feet out of a birthday balloon! He’s not coming back.” When Emily did not reply, Ward rushed to the desk. Now the odor of soiled clothing mingled with her other aromas. “You haven’t killed off another one of my crew, have you?”

  Emily returned Ward’s even stare. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you like to hear about my visits to our suppliers yesterday? Or would you rather go home and take a shower?”

  “Neither.” Ward grabbed the phone and punched in a number. “I keep getting Byron’s answering machine. Something’s wrong. I can smell it.”

  Emily did not have the courage to confirm Ward’s suspicions. “Give him another hour,” she said. Then the phone rang. Emily cringed as Ward picked it up.

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Ward said. “Where’s your boyfriend?” She listened a moment, then cried. “How is that possible? When? Where? How did he get to New York? What for? Who?” Awful silences interspersed the questions. Finally the squawking on the other end of the phone ended. “Thank you for telling me,” Ward said rather calmly, “Let me know if I can help in any way.” After hanging up, she turned to Emily. “You know what that was all about, don’t you.”

  “Not really.”

  Ward considered that a moment. “Well, I’ll tell you. My souschef is dead.” She walked toward the door, then paused. “And you’re fired. Get out of my restaurant. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  She left.

  Tossing dirt on my husband’s coffin was the greatest triumph of my life. The soft spritz of earth against steel was like a slap in the face, waking me from a long sleep; at that moment, I knew I had finally won. Free at last! I had not felt so ecstatic, so alive, since—since the day I married him. But that was many years, many women ago, and I was an innocent bursting with love and dreams. And he was so handsome.... May you rot in hell, my dear. I will not mourn you at all. I’ll keep your money, of course: I earned it, cent by cent, every time you crawled into bed at two in the morning smelling of another woman’s soap, and I pretended to be asleep. I earned it when you stopped bothering with even that courtesy and came home reeking like a goat, then had the gall to pat my bottom before you turned out the light, oh so grateful the sleepy little woman was there warming your bed, keeping your house, depending on your talent and largesse. Made you feel like a hero, didn’t I? You would need to feel noble, of course; every louse does. And you would need to believe that you were cleverer than I, that I suspected nothing because you eventually came home every night, so tired from work, poor fellow. It all comes out in the end, you see; I finally did collect a dime for every time I bit my tongue, smiled, and allowed you to continue your pathetic little charade. Now that you’re dead, I lie awake at night wondering why I let you get away wit
h it for so long. Pure laziness, perhaps. I didn’t want to leave my house. You were hardly in it anyway. And, after the first coupledozen of your whores, I truly didn’t care how clever or noble you thought you were. I didn’t care whether you smiled or cried, bumped your head or met the President, as long as you left me alone. An intelligent woman can always find ways to keep herself busy as she waits and hopes for her husband to die. In the beginning, every time you came to bed tinged with another woman s perfume, I bought myself a nice piece of jewelry. Soon I realized that I had no place to wear it all, so I joined arts councils and hospital boards, where I noticed many other women with clever husbands and heavy jewelry. I saw how artfully they used their worthless spouses1 names to get what they wanted: money for a new dialysis machine, support for an exhibition ... and I saw how they kept themselves terrifically fit for their lovers. I learned, and kept my own secret garden. You never had a clue, of course. The possibility of your own inadequacy never crossed your mind.

  My house feels so different now that I know you’ll never be intruding again. You won’t be clunking around the bathroom at two in the morning, just when I’ve fallen asleep. Your girlfriends won’t be hanging up when I answer the phone. Best of all, I’ll never have to hear you call me darling or love as you make excuses for missing dinner. Good riddance, dear. The only thing about you I’m going to miss is my birthday present, or should I say, your annual gesture of atonement. But now I can buy my own. This year I might throw myself a party instead, invite all my friends. Or I might go to Europe. I’m certainly going to redecorate my house. I’ve been waiting for years to get rid of your awful den and that billiard table. I might even get rid of your dog.

  Just one thing puzzles me: Now that our farce of a marriage is history, I don’t understand why I’m not sleeping better. Somehow, I still feel robbed. And I keep seeing Philippa Banks every time I shut my eyes. You loved her much more than you ever loved me, didn’t you? How could you help it? She’s a beautiful woman, really, so confident, almost godlike. But she should never have gone out to dinner with Dandy Dana. I caught that slut fair and square. Removing her would amuse, perhaps heal,me; I dont want anything you cherished to remain. A widow’s bitterness burns forever; and I’ve always had a terrible need for revenge. Now I’ve finally got the money to support the appetite. “Don’t you dare touch her!” I can almost hear you scream from the grave. Ah, how you make me laugh, my dear. Go feed the worms.