by J. L. Newton
* * *
I stood in my kitchen with its white walls and its border of coral and turquoise tile. I was nuts about New Mexico and had turned a worn 1960s ranch house into a vision of Santa Fe with Mexican pavers on the floor, a fake adobe half wall dividing the kitchen from the dining room, and carved animals—rabbits, pigs, and donkeys in yellows, pinks, and browns—peering out from bookcases and down from the tops of cabinets. I figured my love for Santa Fe had had its origins in early childhood when I had lived in a small adobe house in the middle of a California desert. Maybe Santa Fe was my early life as I wished it could have been—vibrant, colorful, sensuous—not to mention my current life as I was always wanting it to be.
My daughter, Polly, was at my side stirring polenta in a large white pot. We were going to experiment with a delicious-sounding dish: polenta, dry Sonoma jack cheese, tomato fondue, and lots of cream.
“How’s the polenta going?” I peered over her shoulder into the thickening yellow mush.
“I think it’s ready to go into the pan.”
When I looked at Polly with her corkscrews of long, brown hair and large blue eyes, much larger than mine, my chest filled with light. I loved these evenings at home with my daughter. They were an excuse to be fully human, as I thought of it. When Polly and our dog, Sadie, were there, the house felt full of life. When they were gone, I accomplished far more work, but the two of them haunted the place, making me long for their vibrancy and for their cheerful demands on my attention.
“Okay, let me lift the pot—it’s heavy. Then you can spread the polenta on the jelly roll pan.” I poured the hot polenta onto the rimmed metal sheet and Polly smoothed it into the corners. “Great, I’ll pick the tomatoes for the fondue. Maybe you want to do a little homework now before it gets too late?” I’d mastered the mother’s strategy of suggesting, rather than imposing, tasks.
“Okay, but tell me when the tomatoes are done. I want to help layer everything.” Polly went to her room.
“Go on, Sadie,” I said to the dog. “You go with Polly. Help her with her work.” Solomon and I had given Polly a puppy when we divorced, and now Sadie, a golden retriever of immense goodwill, accompanied Polly back and forth in a joint custody arrangement, spending every other day with me and splitting weekends between me and Polly’s father. Solomon and I had at least worked out a mutually agreeable set of arrangements for our daughter. We were much better divorced than we had been while married.
Nonetheless, I often worried that the divorce had hurt Polly far more than she let on, that there was a wound in her that I could only guess at and never see, and that made me especially glad for Sadie, who was a comforting spirit in Polly’s life. She slept at Polly’s side in both parental houses, her four legs stretching from the top to the bottom of the bed, her tawny golden head commandeering her own pillow. Polly adored her, and she was a true companion animal, a reassuring bridge between the pieces of Polly’s divided home lives.
I opened the dining room sliders and entered the quiet of the yard. Off to the side lay a vegetable garden where full red tomatoes and pale green tomatillos lingered. Black figs hung heavily, like wrinkled pouches, upon the large tree. I could smell their winey ripeness. Song swallows made warbling sounds. A hummingbird whirred in the air feeding on purple salvia, and a bronze monarch silently winged its way past. I listened to the quiet. The garden surged with life, and I was a part of it, receiving and tending to it. But all the while it went on without me. It felt healing after the brutal developments on campus—the meeting with Lorna, the news of the poisoning and of the threat to Tess, and now the troubling idea that my corn bread could have played a role in the Hog Barn incident.
Back inside the kitchen as I heated water for peeling the tomatoes, my anger at Lorna rose to the surface, but in less acute form. I knew women administrators had it hard. No matter what they really thought, they were there to do the bidding of the upper administration, which, on a campus that had once devoted itself to agriculture and then to science and technology, consisted almost entirely of men whose main concern was science. Women administrators were expected to outperform their male peers, but if their ideas failed to accord with those of their superiors, they didn’t last long. They went on “extended leave,” were shuttled to the system’s head office, and sometimes seemed to disappear, their desk cleared off, overnight. One female vice provost who’d been sympathetic to Women’s Studies had found life so difficult that she’d left after only three years in office.
That vice provost had taken the concerns of Women’s Studies seriously, had attempted to exert influence on the higher-ups, had seemed to empathize with the program’s sense of being embattled, and had tried, in a discreet way, to be sisterly. I felt her absence. Not that all male administrators were indifferent. I had worked with several who understood and sympathized with the program, treating it with generosity and respect. Thank God, for them. But Lorna, in contrast, had shown little interest in the program and, worse, had seemed determined to use a heavy hand. Telling us that only big departments would survive. It stung more when coming from another woman.
I plopped the tomatoes into the pot and watched them boil. Cooking soothed me, turned my thoughts to more harmonious matters. I thought of how cooking connected me to one of my oldest friends, Miriam, whose dinners, however simple, had always seemed so elegant. It was Miriam who had instilled in me a passion for cooking and Miriam’s dining rooms—some golden yellow, some aubergine—that had inspired me to use color in a bold and thoughtful way. Soon, I realized, it would be the sixth anniversary of Miriam’s death—from a brain tumor at only thirty-four. Perhaps that’s why she’d been on my mind so much lately, Miriam—and the nagging sense that I could have done more for her in her illness. She’d lived on the other side of the country, in rural upstate New York, and though I’d sent her money every month, if I’d called or written more often … Remorse clutched me in its grip. At least, I’d finally made the long journey to see her, had cooked pepper steak in cognac sauce according to her exact instructions, had stayed up with her talking, laughing, and drinking wine until long past midnight. It had been like old times. A week later, quite suddenly, Miriam was dead.
“Polly,” I called, at last, “I think we’re ready to layer.” I cut the firmed polenta into strips. Polly lay one strip in the buttered baking dish, I spooned on the tomato mixture, and Polly added the shaved dry Sonoma jack. We repeated the process until all the polenta strips were used. I poured cream over the top and slid the dish into the oven. The kitchen began to smell of bubbling tomato, melting cheese, and baking corn, though now the very smell of corn, in all its sweetness, brought me back to the corn bread in Peter Elliott’s hand. Was it the corn bread I had made for the reception? Had someone put it to a dark purpose and, if so, how would I find out? I struggled to keep the disconcerting thoughts from diminishing my usual pleasure in the kitchen.
Oven Polenta, Tomato Fondue, and Sonoma Jack Cheese
Polenta
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
½ medium onion, minced fine
1 cup large cracked polenta (Golden Pheasant if possible)
1 tablespoon coarse salt
1 teaspoon cracked black pepper
4 cups boiling water
Tomato Fondue
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 medium shallots, minced
1 medium garlic clove, minced
1½ pounds tomatoes (peeled, seeded, and finely chopped; about 3–4 medium tomatoes)
1 tablespoon tomato paste
¼ bay leaf
1 tablespoon sugar
Salt and pepper
Other Ingredients
6 ounces dry Sonoma Jack cheese, shaved (must be dry and the quality is important)
1½ cup heavy cream
Assembly
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Melt butter in an ovenproof pan. Add the onion and sauté over low heat about 5 min
utes until translucent.
Remove from heat and add the polenta, stirring. Add salt and pepper to boiling water and pour it over the polenta, mixing lightly. Bake in the pot for 30 minutes until the polenta is firm but liquid enough to be spread.
Spread the polenta on an oiled 10 by 15-inch jelly roll pan, smoothing the top. You should have a ½-inch layer. Cool and refrigerate, covering the top. May be done two days in advance.
Place butter and olive oil in skillet over medium heat. Sauté shallots about 5 minutes until translucent. Add the remaining ingredients and simmer 20 minutes. Salt and pepper to taste and remove bay leaf.
Butter an 8-inch square pan and smear the bottom with some of the fondue. Cut the cold polenta into 8 strips about 7½ by 3½ inches. Place the first strip against one side of the dish. Spoon fondue along the side that touches the edge of the dish. Sprinkle cheese onto the line of fondue. Overlap the next polenta strip so that it just covers the line of fondue and cheese. Proceed until you have used all the strips.
Drizzle cream over all and bake until the top is golden and bubbly, about 35–40 minutes.
Adapted by permission of Gary Danko from Lee Bailey’s California Wine Country Cooking (New York: Clarkson Potter/Publishers, 1991).
Chapter 3
The next day, I was pushing at the door of the women’s bathroom on the second floor of Haven Hall when Isobel Flores-Rivera strode around the corner. Isobel, professor of Native American Studies, maintained a whirlwind of a schedule. She often directed her department, closely mentored her students, sat on multiple college committees, chaired the Latina Council, and helped out at the Native American university nearby. Even with that schedule, however, you could trust Isobel to get things done. I liked that kind of person. I was known as a workhorse too.
Isobel’s strong-featured face, surrounded by long, dark hair, looked for the moment, like a thundercloud about to open.
“Emily, I was coming to see you.”
“Come in with me. I have to go.” We entered the bathroom, and I peered carefully under the two stalls. The room smelled sharply of cleaning liquid, but no one else was there. I quickly used one of the toilets.
“What’s up?” I asked, washing my hands and drying them on one of the university’s scratchy brown paper towels.
“The police came to Frank’s office this morning.”
“Frank? What for?” Frank Walker, a retired professor and an elder in Native American Studies, still came to his office and was uncommonly vocal politically. He made a habit of e-mailing the entire campus, including the top administration, about the university’s increasingly corporate values, about the real meaning of ecology, and about injustices at Arbor State, of which there were many. The administration never followed his advice, as far as I could tell, but he had an integrity they had to admire. He was well known on campus and treated with respect.
“Attempted murder it would seem.” Isobel scowled. “Did you hear about Peter Elliott in the Hog Barn?”
“Yes, I did. So they don’t think the poisoning was accidental?” I felt the darkness reenter my bosom.
Isobel shook her head.
“Seemingly not or why would they have questioned Frank?”
“Why on earth did they question Frank?”
“He was up before dawn on Monday morning heading toward the creek and the arboretum for his meditative walk, and someone, I don’t know who, saw him near the Hog Barn.” Isobel’s face tightened. “Of course, it would be one of us they’d suspect. They take our land, and then they treat us like we’re the invasive species!” It was rumored that the university had been built on Native burial grounds.
“Corn bread was found in Peter’s hand,” I said. “Had you heard about that? I’d brought some to the reception Sunday evening before Frank spoke.”
“Was that yours? It was good.” Her face softened briefly. “But there can’t be a connection between your corn bread and Peter, at least not through Frank.”
“The police might think so, however.” I folded my arms and leaned against one of the bathroom’s pale tan walls. It felt uncomfortably cool through my thin blouse. “Frank and Peter went at it on that panel about GMOs last spring. Peter completely took the corporate line. And Frank argued at length about how corporations steal Native knowledge and plant materials and then patent what they do with them and make massive profits. ‘Bio piracy’ he called it, another way of occupying what Native Americans had first.”
“But they questioned Frank because he’d been seen near the Hog Barn, not because of some panel on GMOs.”
“You’re right. Someone would have had to tell them about the panel, though I can’t imagine who. Did they ask Frank about the reception?”
“They drilled him about where he’d been for the last twenty-four hours. And when he told them about the reception, they asked him if food had been served there, and when he said yes, they questioned him about corn bread. He remembered the corn bread but didn’t know who’d made it. They didn’t tell him why they’d asked. Now, I see the connection.”
I stared down for a moment at the bathroom’s beige-tiled floor. Frank had grown up in a dingy Southern California town, but he’d had a strong connection to rural life. He liked to recall how baby ducks had followed him, how he’d loved plants and other living things, how he’d felt a child of nature. He was a poet and a visionary and, though, like everyone, he had his eccentricities, I’d always known him to be generous and open to working with others outside his own program. Now, my corn bread might have put him in an awkward, even dangerous, spot.
“Isobel.” I looked up at her. “Did you have any bad effects from eating the corn bread?”
“No, and I didn’t hear of anyone else who got sick.” She turned on the tap and began to wash her hands, slowly, as if they too might be polluted.
“Then if it was my corn bread, it wasn’t food poisoning. Did someone put something in the corn bread I left and then feed it to Peter?” The corn bread had been meant as an offering, a contribution to the community represented by the gathering. Had someone turned it to a bad end? To me, providing food was a gesture of hospitality and eating it, an act of trust. I’d always thought of sharing meals as a way of bringing people together across the things that otherwise divided them. But now, the whole meaning of my gift might have been turned on its head. Feeling weak, I rested my heavy turquoise purse on the ledge in front of the bathroom mirror.
“I should go to the police and tell them I made it.”
“I would.” Isobel dried her hands on another rough towel. “There might be more bad corn bread out there, and maybe the police will tell you if the corn bread they found had the ingredients you used. Remember, we don’t know yet that it was your corn bread. Lots of people make corn bread. I make it with blue cornmeal or with cranberries. The Iroquois boiled theirs.”
“This had caramelized onions and goat cheese.”
“I’ll have to try that.”
Both of us looked in the mirror. Isobel smoothed her bright turquoise T-shirt over her black skirt. She was fond of colors that threw her dark eyes and hair into vivid relief. She wore no makeup and didn’t need it. I powdered my nose and reapplied my eyeliner and lipstick. For some reason my makeup always disappeared after a few hours, making me look disturbingly pale.
“So the police suspect Frank of being involved. It’s hard to fathom.”
“Since they questioned him, I guess they do. But, if it was your corn bread—I’m telling you this as a friend—everyone at the reception is now a suspect.”
I sighed out loud. I’d worked hard over the years doing my part in bringing the women’s and ethnic studies programs together, and now a simple, friendly act on my part had placed people I cared for under suspicion.
“Keep me posted, will you?” I said. “I’m going to tell the police and see if there’s a match.”
Isobel and I were now close, although once that hadn’t been true. Isobel had taken me to task publicly, painfully about
my interpretation of a film involving Native Americans. Most distressingly, it was a reading with which I had assumed Isobel would empathize and agree. For at least a year she’d been impossible to approach. But I’d kept trying and finally confronted her and explained the reading, and Isobel had understood what I’d been trying to say. For that year, Isobel said, her strategy had been to react to everything that offended her with anger, but now her strategy had changed.
Since that time I had come to cherish Isobel not just as someone who had a powerful presence and got things done, but as someone caring, large-hearted, and full of life, as someone skilled in the healing arts. Once, when I had been upset over a hostile administrative move, Isobel had taught me how to dissipate my anger.
“Imagine a line from you to the person you have anger toward. Imagine a light burning up the line. Imagine a flash at the other end.”
I was going to have more and more use for a practice like that—or so it seemed.
* * *
I sat at my desk with no appetite for class preparations. After Isobel’s revelation about Frank Walker, I had to think about the gathering I’d attended on Sunday evening. The Native American reception had been held in a large seminar room in Bauman Hall. I remembered that one wall of the room had been colored a soft coral and that one of the long walls had been painted with a mural showing folk-like pasturelands, sheep, and cows. Faculty in Animal Science, where the seminar was located, had a sense of playfulness that I appreciated. The few times I’d been to Bauman and had had to ask directions, male faculty had answered me and guided me in a friendly, even jolly, way. I thought that caring about animals might have made them extra friendly to living species in general. Perhaps, men like that had been at the center of the university’s traditional communal spirit.
There had been candles in the room that evening, giving it a soft, inviting bloom, and Isobel had smudged me soon after my arrival with a smoldering bunch of dried grasses that smelled of sage. Smudging was offered to everyone who attended gatherings like this. It was a way of asking the plant spirits to cleanse you of negative energy. Isobel had first waved the sharp herbal smoke to the four directions, calling for blessing and protection, and then she had fanned the smoke around me as I faced her, passing the wand back and forth, starting at my feet and moving upward.