by J. L. Newton
The slave recipe for “Sawsidge” was similar to the recipe for the andouille version. And, later, I would learn that the cuisine of Gullah Geechee freed slaves, who lived on the islands near Savannah, included a good deal of Georgia shrimp. That spicy shrimp and grits I’d fallen for, far from being a recently minted cuisine, had deep roots in slave cultures of the past. What had seemed “new” to me in Atlanta was in fact old. What had seemed hidden in Savannah appeared on its menus. It was similar to the way ancient Native peoples lived on at Arbor State—in the name of its creek, in many of the arboretum’s plants, in the soil that had once served as burial ground, and in the worldviews of Native American colleagues, some of whom, like Frank Walker, still cited their ancestors from a thousand years ago. The lives of an oppressed people could deeply shape a dominant culture. Even when those far-off lives were covered over, their presence continued like a kind of haunting. Turning that into a coherent essay was a challenge. But the idea of food and haunting haunted me.
It was late afternoon by the time I got up from my desk. I was tired of shrimp and grits and longed to go for a walk. I let myself into the garden, where a Delta Breeze had given the day an autumnal feel. Fall was a time of year I loved. As a child, it had meant going back to school and getting away from a lonely situation at home. As a teenager, it had meant release from a series of dreary summer jobs—selling clothes in a local shop or working for Sears Service Company. School had been my life and love, and its association with fall remained strong.
I thought of my date with Wilmer and of his physical reserve. Maybe I would call him and suggest a walk together. It would be a less formal way of being together and maybe he’d feel more at ease.
“Wilmer,” I said on the phone, “it’s Emily Addams. It’s a beautiful day right now. Would you be interested in a walk on the greenbelt?”
“I’ll be right over.”
* * *
The greenbelt path wound its way through gently rolling lawns, then along some open fields, occasionally planted with tomatoes, past a large pond, surrounded by trees, and then through grassy mounds again. Wilmer looked especially appealing in a black T-shirt and light-colored pants. It pleased me that he had a sense of style, that he hadn’t worn the usual khaki shorts and vapid polo shirts that were so common. As we walked along the fields, I saw a black bird with a flash of red and yellow swoop down to rest on a telephone wire.
“A red-winged black bird,” Wilmer said.
“Are you a bird-watcher?”
“Yes, my ex-wife and I did a lot of bird-watching. And so did the man she ran off with.”
“What went wrong?” I couldn’t help asking. I was finding Wilmer attractive.
“I guess I was away too much. Math is competitive. You have to get your work out there, go to conferences, present at universities. I thought she was happy to be home with the kids.”
What would I have felt in the wife’s situation? Maybe I’m different, I thought. I have my own career. But a doubt lingered.
“So, she was lonely?”
“I guess. I went to Buenos Aires for six months to study with an expert in chaos theory. I wanted her to come too, but she didn’t want to take the kids out of school. When I came back, she’d met someone else.”
Wilmer’s eyes looked moist. So there was pain for him. Maybe that explained his caution. We’d reached the pond where a large black lab, muddied and swampy from its swim, was shaking water all over a girl holding its leash. Sadie had often done the same to me.
“I know something of what you feel,” I said. “I was furious with my ex-husband for most of our marriage, but when we separated, losing the family was such a blow that I kept thinking I should be admitted to a hospital.” It seemed I was crossing some divide with Wilmer. He was a man who felt deeply but kept it under wraps. I felt myself liking him, feeling a connection. I bonded with those who’d lost someone dear to them. I’d lost Miriam, after all, and my family with Solomon and Polly, and before that I’d been the child of distant and hardly ever present parents.
“How competitive is mathematics?” I said, steering us back to lighter grounds.
I wasn’t sure just yet how much personal revelation Wilmer, who was looking pained, would find comfortable.
“Very, and it extends outside the math.”
“How so?”
“Some of my colleagues are really into biking, and they like to outdo each other. I used to keep up with them. I used to ride for three hours and then carry my bicycle up five flights of stairs.” Wilmer laughed ruefully. “But my knees are getting bad, and, now, younger faculty whizz right past me. I’ve stopped riding the bike to school.”
“That’s a shame,” I said. “I mean about the competitive culture of mathematics.” Wilmer looked wistful. It wasn’t the first time I was glad to be part of a more communal campus group like my own. “I love the greenbelt.” I tried again to brighten our conversation. “What a wonderful idea to connect neighborhoods with hills and paths and fields. And Sadie loves the pond. She won’t go into the swimming pool, but she swims in the pond. It’s hard to get her out.”
“She can probably feel the bottom of the pond as she goes in. Knowing she has some solid ground to return to lets her take chances.”
“You’re right.” I often felt that way myself. My childhood had left me without a solid grounding in familial love, and I sometimes wondered how I would have felt in times of stress had I had that emotional foundation—as I assumed other people did. I was curious about Wilmer.
“What was your family like?” I asked.
“My father left us when I was a small child, though not before trying to kidnap me. I grew up with my mother.” Wilmer looked into the distance.
So there had been family trauma for Wilmer too. No wonder I felt drawn to him.
“How about yours?” he asked.
“I was isolated as a child. My mother never bonded with me, and since my parents taught dancing seven nights a week, I barely saw them. I was never rooted in a sense of family.” I glanced at Wilmer who was looking concerned. “I think that’s why communities and other kinds of connections are so important to me.” Wilmer looked at me kindly as if we had suddenly become friends. Then, we were silent for a moment.
“Some real thought went into planning this greenbelt,” I said at last. “It’s one of the things I really like about Arborville, the mindfulness that went into creating some of its communities.” We had reached another soft patch of rolling lawn. “In the early evenings, whole families come out to walk. Once I saw a man and a woman followed by two children. The two children were being followed by two dogs, and at the end of the line I saw what appeared to be the family cat.” Wilmer and I both laughed. I was glad to see he had a sense of humor. “I’ve never seen a cat trailing behind a family like that. It was sweet, but unusual for a feline.”
I told Wilmer about my encounter with the man in red at the farmer’s market.
“Are you sure he’s homeless? There are a lot of odd characters on our campus.”
“That’s true.” I liked the way Wilmer opened up new perspectives. There was something familiar about the man in red, but try as I might, I couldn’t think what.
We finished our greenbelt walk where we’d begun, at my front door.
“That was a good walk,” he said.
“Yes. Something to drink?” I asked as I opened the door.
“Water would be good.”
I poured two glasses for us. Wilmer stood close to me as we drank and chatted for a few minutes.
“I should let you get back to work,” Wilmer said. There it was again. Was he going to leave me again without so much as a handshake?
Wilmer stood before me, sweaty but broad shouldered and still stylish in his black shirt, and on an impulse, half-mischievous, half-friendly, I put my arms around his shoulders to give him a modest hug. Suddenly, Wilmer was kissing me. We stood there kissing for a long time and then moved to the couch. His body was slender and wir
y. He obviously spent time in the gym, and he smelled pleasantly of Old Spice. We sat there together for a long time. After the pain of my divorce, it was delicious to be in a man’s arms again. Later, we got ourselves more water.
“This is a surprise. The first time we went out you didn’t even touch me. What happened?”
He blushed.
“I’ve only been dating for a few months and I’ve met some cautious women. One woman I dated let me have it when I touched her. She had some issue about being touched. I know you’re a feminist. I didn’t want to insult you too.”
“There are many kinds of feminists. I like to be touched.”
Wilmer smiled broadly with something more than relief.
“That’s good to know.”
* * *
I dressed in my gym clothes, picked up my gym bag, and got in the car. Although I’d taken a long walk with Wilmer that afternoon, it was the night of my kickboxing class at a gym on the eastern edge of town, and I never missed it. The instructor, a young woman with a shiny, black ponytail, was small but well-muscled and wore a two-piece, hot pink leotard which showed off her amazing abs. She often discussed her social life with the class, commented on the color of her students’ toenail polish, and worked us so vigorously that we had to mop up the floor from our sweat. Her workouts were the hardest I’d ever experienced. It surprised me what my body was willing to do under my instructor’s cheerful, hard-driving spell.
Since I was only an average kickboxer, I stood in the middle of the large square room, in which a mirror covered the entire front wall. The more advanced students—those who could do a roundhouse kick while tucking one foot beneath them and leaping into the air—stood to the left. To do a plain right roundhouse you had to lean over the left foot. Then you lifted your right leg at an exact right angle from your body, turned your pointed right foot so that the top of it—but not the toes—would contact the bag, and then extended the right leg forcefully, smacking the bag with all your strength. The roundhouse maneuver was difficult enough without the jumping.
A woman in her twenties stood to my left, slender with long reddish hair and a skilled boxer. She worked at Arbor State, and I sometimes wondered what fueled the fierceness of that long red ponytail whopping back and forth. She’d mastered the roundhouse with the leap and came at the bag like a character in a martial arts movie, her left leg folded, her right leg flying into the bag. My own left foot stayed firmly glued to the ground even when I tried to think it upward. I consoled myself by thinking it was probably a wise foot, that it knew more than I did.
Half the class consisted of grueling repetitions: left front kick, pivot, right roundhouse. Then right front kick, pivot, left roundhouse, repeat, repeat, repeat. Next, pummeling the bag, right cross, left cross, and jab over and over. Then squatting against the wall to work the stomach and the thighs. Finally, down to the floor for push-ups. Twenty, then twenty more.
“You can do it,” the instructor called out. She was pushing her own body up and down, up and down with ease. These sessions left me exhausted although they were an excellent way to work off my frustrations with the university.
After class, I walked into the parking lot, the cold air shocking my sweaty body like a Nordic plunge. I’d parked my car on the far end of the darkened lot, and as I walked toward it, I noticed a dark blue van, the very kind of car that had followed Tess. My stomach contracted. There are lots of blue vans, I told myself evenly. But I hurried toward my car just the same. Looking into the rearview mirror, I started the engine. The red-haired boxer appeared briefly in the light of the doorway and then moved in my direction. I relaxed and began to back out. As I turned toward the exit, the fierce boxer reached the blue van and disappeared. Was she the owner of the van? Could an employee of the university be a member of Save the Fields? Was that what lay behind her intensity with the bag? There are lots of blue vans, I told myself once more.
Driving home in darkness, I wondered whether kickboxing could really be a form of self-defense. My uneasiness about the poisoning and now the man in red had prompted me to engage in fantasies of how I might use it, how I would strike an attacker with a left front kick to the stomach and then follow the front kick with a totally surprising roundhouse from the right. Would my body remember the moves I’d so often practiced? I hoped I’d never have occasion to find out. What I did know was that after a long walk with Wilmer and a kickboxing class as well I’d sleep soundly that night.
But at 3:00 a.m. the sharp brring of the phone broke through my slumber.
“Hullo,” I said groggily. There was only silence on the other end.
Wild Georgia Shrimp and Grits
5–6 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
2 cups thinly sliced Vidalia onion (about 2 medium onions)
1¾ cups half and half
3½ cups chicken broth, divided
1½ cups stone-ground grits (Riverview Farms recommended)
½ teaspoon granulated garlic
½ teaspoon granulated sugar
1 tablespoon finely chopped garlic
1 cup chopped andouille sausage (about ¼ pound)
1 14-ounce can chopped San Marzano tomatoes
½ pound fresh Georgia shrimp, peeled and deveined
¼ cup finely chopped assorted herbs (oregano, thyme, marjoram, and parsley)
Kosher salt and finely ground pepper
In a large sauté pan, heat 2 tablespoons butter over medium heat and swirl to coat the bottom of the pan. Add onions and heat until they start to soften, about 5 minutes.
Reduce heat and let the onions cook 20 minutes without stirring. If the onions start to brown, give them a quick stir and reduce the heat. After 20 minutes, stir the onions and continue to cook, stirring only occasionally, until the onions have caramelized.
In a large saucepan, bring the half and half and 2 cups chicken broth to a boil. Slowly, whisk in the grits and return to a boil. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook the grits about 30 minutes over low heat, stirring often. If the grits become too thick, add a little half and half or broth. When the grits are done, they will be soft and creamy but a little al dente.
Season the grits with granulated garlic, a pinch of sugar, and salt and pepper to taste. Add 1–2 tablespoons butter.
When the grits are cooking, add the garlic to the caramelized onions and increase the heat to medium-high. Cook until garlic is fragrant, about 1 minute.
Scrape onion mixture to the side of the pan and add the sausage. Let the sausage cook for 5–7 minutes, turning to brown on both sides.
Add tomatoes and remaining chicken broth and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer. Allow mixture to reduce and thicken, about 10 minutes.
Add shrimp; cook until just curled and opaque, about 4 minutes. Stir in the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter, herbs, and salt and pepper to taste.
Adapted by permission of Ron Eyester.
Chapter 8
I stuck my hand in my purse to find my keys, stabbed my finger on a lurking pencil, and raked through an unpleasant combination of loose change and crumbs until I grasped the thick ring and finally entered my office. I really did need to stop storing half-eaten scones in my purse, no matter how well wrapped. But other thoughts were pulling at the edge of my consciousness. Who had called me in the middle of the night? A wrong number? Someone harassing me? And why? I’d been alone in the house the evening before. A house full of glass. Sliding doors in the main room opened to the yard, as did French doors in my bedroom and in my study on the other side of the home. I loved the light they provided during the day, but at night, alone, they sometimes made me feel edgy. It was easy to break through glass.
Seeking something else to absorb my attention, I sat at my desk and turned on the computer. It was probably a wrong number, I told myself. Let’s see if the calls continue. There was an e-mail from Tess: “My turn to be questioned.” My throat constricted as I tried to think about the logic the police might be pursuing. Tess hadn’t been at the rec
eption, so the police must be following another thread. Tess, of course, had been on the panel, but, once again, I wondered if the police were aware of that. And, if they were, what kind of murderous motivation could they have attributed to someone as wholesome as homemade bread? Though lately, I had to admit, even innocent things, like pigs and corn bread, had taken on sinister associations. Still, while Tess was forthright and passionate about her views, she was also rational. She’d argued with Peter, and her manner had been forceful, but she hadn’t been confrontational like Juan Carlos. Maybe, the police were questioning people who were interested in GMOs or maybe they, like me, were fishing for leads.
There was also an e-mail from Grace Chen, another colleague in Women’s Studies and a professor in Asian American Studies as well: “I have something I’d like to talk to you about. Could we meet as soon as possible? It would be best to meet face-to-face.”
“I’ll be right up,” I typed. I walked up the back stairs to the third floor where Asian American had a long row of offices.
* * *
“How are you, my dear?” Grace said, as she ushered me in. “Let’s sit on the couch.” Grace, with her oval face and glossy black bob, had somehow made room for a blue plush sofa and a coffee table across from her desk. A vase of peach-colored lilies stood on the table, and there was a blue figured carpet on the floor. It was like the living room of your favorite aunt, I thought, or of your therapist. I’d been to several therapists over the years. It also reminded me of Miriam’s living rooms, which were always offbeat but elegant and comforting. A white couch, large blue printed pillows, flowers—often white peonies.