Her mother-in-law was wrestling with a pot at the stove, a long-ashed Newport dangling precariously from the corner of her mouth. She turned toward the sound of Liliane’s tapping heels and with a tilt of her head gestured to her daughter-in-law to remove the cigarette from her lips. To her horror, Liliane saw that the ash was about to drop into the pot, so she grabbed a saucer from the table and slid it under the burning ember before plucking the butt from Edith’s fuchsia-colored mouth. Looking into the glutinous contents of the pot, she couldn’t tell whether what she thought was pepper might in fact be ash and was glad she’d eaten dinner with the children.
“Thank you, dear. Lord sakes, I almost forgot to add the cheese. I can’t think why I’m so scatterbrained today. Must be the crowd.”
Must be the gin, Liliane thought as she caught sight of the Tom Collins perspiring on the table. Apparently her husband and son hadn’t been celebrating by themselves.
“Here, let me help you, Edith.” Together they dumped the seafood stew into a chafing dish.
“Well, there. Don’t you look fashionable. Dark colors suit you, dear.”
Liliane smiled her thanks as her mother-in-law continued talking. “Now, there ought to be a spot next to the chicken à la king, but I’ll go with you to clear a place if we need to.”
Liliane hefted the dish and followed her mother-in-law as she tottered down the long dark hall, the orange coal of her cigarette glowing in one hand and the watery remains of her cocktail in the other.
In the living room, Margery was leading Caspar Titcomb over to the makeshift bar. There was no sign of George, and Liliane sighed as she set the dish down where her tray of green beans had been.
“Should we warm that up, Lillian?” Edith asked, pointing to the plate she had just shifted.
“No, Edith, it is a salad.”
“Cold string beans and pickled beets? I never heard of such a thing. Well, leave it to you to come up with something original,” Edith said. She pushed Liliane’s dish to the back of the table, relegating it to the ghetto of pickles and garish Jell-O rings.
“I’ll just tuck this back out of the way so those beets won’t stain anybody’s cuffs,” Edith explained. Her smile might have been the product of a gas pain.
From the corner of her eye, Liliane saw George emerge from the hallway. He was carrying a well-used red cassole wrapped in a heavy kitchen towel. For a tall man, she noticed, he moved well. Must have been the boxing.
“Oh my goodness, George, you didn’t have to bring anything!” Edith clucked. Clearly the notion of a man cooking was rather mind-boggling. “That looks hot—let me just get a pad for the table,” she said, then signaled him to wait and left for the kitchen.
Liliane smiled at the familiar smell. “Cassoulet?”
“I got the confit and sausage from the butcher last week,” he said as he lifted the top. “I’ve had a yen for this since we talked about it, and I even dipped into my store of duck fat since it was a special occasion.”
“Oh la la, I don’t have cassoulet for years.”
Liliane leaned over the crock and inhaled the spicy aroma of duck, beans, and pork. Her eyes closed and her mouth watered, and for one blissful moment she was back with her mother, tossing toasted bread crumbs with duck fat for the top of the dish and helping to slide Maman’s heavy crock into the oven. Two people could scarcely move in that little kitchen, but even with the old-fashioned fixtures it had produced years of feasts under her mother’s direction. She pictured Maman in one of her flowered dresses and chef’s apron, rubbing the big salad bowl with garlic in preparation for the tomatoes and purple-tinged lettuce on the counter.
“Good Lord, Lillian, let the man put that thing down before you fall in,” Edith said a bit too loudly and with a possum smile, as she smacked a trivet down on the table.
Yanked back to the frosty present, Liliane straightened up. All around the room, conversations paused and heads turned; she tried to speak but could think of nothing to say, finally closing her mouth as her face began to color.
George registered surprise, then, fleetingly, that jagged look she’d seen before, as if he’d like to strike Edith, but then in a voice as smooth as cream he said, “A well-made cassoulet is nigh on to an art form—French food for the soul, Mrs. Baines. If someone were to drop into this bowl, there could be no higher praise for my cooking.” He placed the crock on the table and turned to face Edith. She stepped back.
“I brought along a bottle of wine from the Banyuls to go with it. Can I get you ladies a glass? I think Cap took it to the bar.”
“I don’t drink wine,” Edith replied. Then, because she was apparently still sober enough to realize an effort at graciousness was called for, she added, “But thank you, George, that’s awful thoughtful. You’ve made this quite the feast.”
By the time Caspar waved his corkscrew in the air to motion Liliane over to the bar, conversation had returned to normal, and Edith was halfway to the kitchen with Margery in tow. George took a glass of wine and excused himself to mingle, leaving Liliane to chat with Caspar.
The wine was hearty, slightly sweet and spicy. She rolled each peppery mouthful around her tongue and inhaled deeply whenever she lifted the glass to her mouth. Caspar was sipping his usual Scotch and telling her a funny story about tipping cows with Agnes when they were teenagers. George worked his way around the room, chatting, but Liliane caught him looking her way; she took a mouthful of wine and handed her glass to Cap for a refill.
Margery emerged from the kitchen with a dish of creamed spinach and announced that dinner was served. Though she wasn’t hungry, Liliane took a portion of cassoulet and small helpings of several other things she had no intention of eating. She slipped off to a wooden chair in the corner to keep her plate out of sight. Over the years she’d become adept at sliding uneaten food into the trash. Her first mouthful included perfectly cooked white beans and tender chunks of duck leg and spicy sausage that could only have been handmade. The crunchy bread crumbs on the top complemented the rich mixture below that was redolent of garlic and spices—maybe a bit too heavy on the cloves for her liking, but only just. She chewed slowly, sipped her wine, and nodded her approval to George’s inquiring look from across the room.
The party guests moved around the table and filled, then refilled, their plates. They settled in the living room, perching on chair arms and footstools or standing in small groups with their drinks temporarily set aside.
Uncle Denton and his wife, Doris, took seats on either side of Liliane and asked about Mason and the children between bites.
“My God, these beans are out of this world,” Doris said as she mopped up the last of her cassoulet with a slice of buttered bread. “Now, is this a French dish, Lil?”
“Um-hm. It is our tradition for the cold weather.”
“I’m gonna get the recipe from that George fella—right after I get just a scrid more,” she said before striding toward the table. With Doris out of his hair, Denton shifted his seat closer to Liliane and leaned in close enough to peer down the front of her dress.
“Got a new joke for you, Lil,” Henry’s brother said with a grin so wide the gap from his missing bicuspid showed. “How does a girl from Wonsqueak Harbor let you know she’s done having sex?”
Liliane shrugged.
“She says, ‘Get offa me, Daddy, you’re crushing my cigarettes!’” Denton guffawed. “Reynard Fletcher told me that one.”
“Cochon,” Liliane muttered.
“Come again?” Denton smirked, blissfully unaware he’d just been called a pig. “Didn’t think it was too funny, huh?”
“Perhaps it lose something in the translation,” Liliane said, desperate to get away. She held out her empty glass. “Would you pour me just a little more of this delicious wine, please? Merci.”
He took her glass reluctantly, and as soon as he was across the room she stood up with her plate, intending to leave it in the sink.
The weak light from the kitchen trickled
into the hallway, and Liliane could hear voices as she got closer.
“… honestly, you’d think she’d never seen a bowl of beans before. For God’s sakes, do all Frenchies make such a fuss over a meal or is it just her?” Margery simpered.
Liliane stopped.
“I couldn’t say, but the whole damned family’s that way,” came the response from Edith. “You know what it’s like when they come to visit, eating oysters raw and cooking lobsters on a grill. Last time they were here that uncle of hers took a lobster and cut it in half right down the middle—while it was still alive! I couldn’t even look at it, let alone eat it after that.”
“Well, I suppose her mother made that dress for her. Just as tight as can be and plain as dirt if you ask me. But I’m sure all the men like it just fine.”
Liliane’s free hand stroked the blue wool, then found its way to the silver swallow brooch over her heart. Her index finger traced the long tail feather and rested on the point at the end.
“I may not know about Paris fashion, but I know a hoochie dress when I see one.” Edith continued, “Poor Mason would just die if he saw her falling all over that George and making a fool of herself in front of everyone. The other day Winnie Partridge saw them in the Foodland together. Thick as thieves and practically drooling on each other. I will never know why Mason had to go and waste himself on her when he could’ve had his pick of the nice girls right here in town. No wonder he stays away as long as he—”
The grope came out of nowhere. Denton must have crept up behind Liliane to deliver her drink and decided to collect his tip in advance. When she felt the unexpected hand on her ass, she jumped and jammed the point of the swallowtail into her finger, dropping her plate in the process. She spun around and shoved Denton hard against the wall, knocking the wine from his hand and sending the glass crashing to the floor on top of the shattered plate.
“Never touch me. Never. Do you understand what I say?” Her voice was an animal snarl, her mouth barely open when she spoke.
Behind her, Edith and Margery were pushing through the narrow kitchen doorway.
“What in God’s name?” Edith squawked.
“I just tried to squeeze by. I didn’t mean nothing by it, nothing at all,” Denton mumbled as he rubbed his shoulder and backed down the hall.
Liliane turned to face the two women.
“Lillian, what’s the matter, dear? Are you all right?” Edith asked. Behind her, Margery stood with her hand over her mouth.
Liliane flipped a sliver of plate off her shoe but made no move to clean up the mess at her feet. She said, “We are done now, Edith.”
She turned and walked away from the kitchen, through the silent living room, and toward the front door. George stood next to the bar, following her with his eyes, clearly knowing better than to move. Caspar walked her to the foyer and helped her on with her coat.
“Drive you home, Lil?”
“No, thank you, Caspar. I am fine.” She leaned in, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and walked out the door into the bitter black night. It was still sleeting.
* * *
Liliane locked the kitchen door, scuffed into her slippers, and sat down at the table with the Scotch bottle and a glass. The ember of her cigarette was the only light in the house.
“It’s very difficult to be the stranger, Liliane.”
Maman’s words returned to her, years after leaving France with her lovely baby boy and brand-new husband. Like the Baineses, the family of Liliane’s father had been less than thrilled when he brought a new bride home from the decadent Riviera to their little town in the middle of nowhere, moving her into the apartment above the garage he ran with his brother. Growing up, Liliane hadn’t really been aware of any friction between her father’s family and her mother, but after the war, Uncle Jean had been all too willing to shift the well-deserved taint of collaboration from himself to the sister-in-law he’d always resented.
Liliane brushed away a tear and buried her face in her hands as the image of her mother, dragged through the hissing, spitting crowd and into the square to have her head shaved in front of the entire town, replayed itself again in her mind. She’d always believed Maman had done nothing wrong. It had only been the kindness of a German motor-pool officer, the one with the sad smile, whose wife and young daughter were somewhere in Dresden hiding from the bombs, hopefully still alive, that kept them from going hungry. If Maman accepted food, it had been to keep her child, and her husband’s family, alive. If she’d taken comfort, who could blame her? The only real collaborator among the Bertrands was Uncle Jean, who’d happily worked on German staff cars and trucks in exchange for the occasional beer or loose cigarette.
That night, nine-year-old Liliane left her stricken mother at the kitchen table, took up her sewing scissors, and cut off her thick blond braid, presenting the yarn-bound plait to her mother, who took one look and shouted, “Foolish girl! Never make yourself a target again. Ever.”
Still, they had managed to attach the hair to a head scarf to avoid further abuse on the road and slipped away the next night, heading back to Antibes with nothing but their few clothes, Maman’s sewing bag, and a photo of Liliane’s father.
Liliane drained her drink down to the ice. She blew her nose, stubbed out her cigarette, squinted at the illuminated face of the clock over the sink. Unable to make out the time, she stood and stepped closer. Ten-thirty. Outside, the heavy night pressed down on the white ground. The evergreen branches sagged under the snow, and the delicate, leafless birches curved earthward with the weight. How long before the thaw? she wondered. Two months? Three?
* * *
As Liliane lifts the box of ammunition from the drawer, something stirs in the yard. At first she thinks it might be a bear, but then she sees it’s a man, bent low, wading through the snow, too heavy to be Caspar. George Lawson stops three strides from the back steps, looking directly at the kitchen window and cradling a bottle of wine. Can he see her in the dark? She doesn’t know whether she wants him to or not.
He waits there like he has all the time in the world. Then he turns and with his free hand grasps the trunks of three bowed birch trees, each in turn, gently shaking off the thick burden of snow. Liliane watches as, one by one, the slender silver trunks straighten and arabesque toward the night sky. She drops the shells in the drawer and flicks on the light.
TWO-STEP (HIDE YOUR EYES OR LIE)
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Marlene, Earlie was “not having a good time. She only thought she was.” Cora’s voice, snapping through the line, made Marlene feel like she’d been stung, and she jerked her head away from the phone.
Marlene tried to figure out the difference between thinking you were having fun and actually having it, but she couldn’t see any. Scarcely pausing to draw breath, Cora continued to criticize the notorious behavior of their sister, who’d been dancing with some of the young people at a wedding reception the night before. As always, Earlie’s husband was mostly to blame. “… and once she and Millhouse get drinking, I don’t even like to think what they get up to, but not a bit of it’s good.”
Her verdict rendered, Cora turned her attention to the other wedding guests. All seemed to be guilty of something.
Marlene switched the phone to her other ear and pictured Cora thrusting her narrow jaw even farther forward than usual. She imagined Cora’s bones grating, like mis-shifted gears in a rusty pickup, the meager upper lip disappearing behind the hard, chapped ridge of the lower one. Strange how little was left of the pretty teenager Cora had been. Could it really be twenty years ago?
Marlene hated it when Cora was cross; it flustered her. She reminded herself to think before she spoke as she watched the tail of the cat clock over the stove swing from side to side. With each tick, its buggy eyes shifted in a knowing leer.
Having ripped the wedding guests to shreds, Cora returned to the subject of their sister and her disgraceful exhibition. When she paused to draw breath, Marlene said, “Earlie was just blo
wing off steam’s all. That’s what parties’re for. I doubt anyone noticed or cared.” She said it even though they both knew most of Wellbridge had seen it, and anyone who wasn’t already looking had certainly taken notice when, from the bar at the back of the hall, Millhouse Moody hollered, “Shake it, Mumma!” so loud he nearly drowned out “Super Freak.” Marlene smiled at the memory.
“Well, she looked like a damn fool wiggling her fat fanny in front of the whole town.”
While Cora enumerated their sister’s many personal failings, Marlene thought back to Cora’s lurching, joyless fox-trot with her husband. Once the dancing started, but long before the party turned raucous, Wayne had cajoled his wife out onto the floor. From the moment he touched her waist until the last plink of “Jolene” faded, and Dolly finally gave up begging that red-haired hussy not to steal her man, Cora fought to lead, resisting Wayne’s direction at every step. It hadn’t resembled dancing so much as one of those all-in wrestling matches on TV. At the last chord, Millhouse grinned at Marlene across a tableful of empty glasses and pantomimed striking a bell. “Ding! Three rounds, no decision.” Did they even think they were having fun?
“I used to love dancing. Guy was so light on his feet, he could even lead me,” Marlene said. “I miss him, especially at parties when—”
“Well, I can’t believe they played that horrid song at a wedding,” Cora interrupted, then went on to attribute the unfortunate preference for filthy music to the groom and his family. The bride was blood.
Marlene swallowed the end of her sentence and allowed herself to think of her husband, dead just over two years in a car crash. Poor Guy. Never anything but a hard worker, he deserved to have a drink from time to time, though of course he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel, especially in all that snow and ice. At least he hadn’t hurt anyone else, just wrapped his Chevette around a tree and that was it. She ran a corner of her apron over her eyes and reminded herself it was best to concentrate on the good times, like Doc Norden said.
The Northern Reach Page 10