“Naturally,” he grinned.
“Finally, I’d have the cheese course.”
“Not something sweet?” Corey asked, unconvinced.
I shook my head. “Nope, cheese course. We have an amazing selection of soft cheeses. For me, the runnier the better.”
Corey seemed to consider this. He smiled at me, as if I passed a test.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tish, 1916
Papa opened his shop to great fanfare.
Every day for the past few weeks, we all walked downtown, rolled up our sleeves, and worked hard to be ready. Papa met the purveyors at the back door and we hauled in various cheeses and canned goods. He forced pounds of meat through the grinder, before stuffing it into white casings that waited patiently in bowls of water like snakes. Papa’s black recipe book, stained now with spills and ink, stood open in front of him as he added spices to the sausage meat. That book was his constant companion in those early weeks, but today he handed it off to me to prepare the cucumber salad saying, “Use the recipe that I wrote down in the back. Follow my notes precisely. That is very important. I want everything to be consistent.”
I poured and measured as his notes instructed, Papa’s precious book flayed out before me. I struggled to stay focused on the tedious task at hand. With hopes of opening the doors for the first time that morning, we had begun work just as the sun was rising. The sky was streaked a deep mauve, beautifully distracting. I sliced the cool onion, but gazed out the window at the way the light fell on the theater marquee across the street. It lit it up as if electrified.
I peeled the cucumbers and began slicing them, my fingers itching to sketch or paint instead. Clumsily, I fumbled the cucumber. When I looked down to grab it, I saw that many circular slices had missed the bowl and landed wet on Papa’s book. With a groan, I picked them off the page. The ink below had run, making the recipe illegible. Mama watched as I threw the black-stained cucumber slices into the trash bin. With a look of reproof, she fetched me another cucumber.
“Please be careful,” she said. “That is money wasted.”
“More’s the better, then, that I won’t be working here very much longer,” I muttered under my breath, raking the peeler across the new cucumber, flailing away its green skin.
When I had finished, I took the mixture to Papa for tasting. “Yes, just as I thought, it needs more vinegar. Add just a quarter cup. Then write it down here in my book so that we can be consistent moving forward.” He looked down to where I had laid his book open, the page now a wet blotch.
“What has happened here? Tish! Please pay attention.” He snatched the book away from my space with a sigh. He tended to it like a wounded animal, patting the page dry with a cloth and carefully writing the recipe again.
When I was finished with the cucumber salad, he and I prepared and adjusted the recipes for a few other dishes he intended to offer—tasting, considering, writing down corrections—but he guarded his book carefully against my carelessness. Frankly, I was glad to be rid of it. The sooner Papa got used to doing the tasks the shop required on his own, the better.
A few hours later, content with his recipes for potato salad, coleslaw, cucumber salad, tomato and celery salad, perfection salad, and tuna fish salad, Papa was ready to open the doors to the public. He consulted his book a few last times, then slapped it shut and tucked it into his back pocket. Papa looked around his kingdom. The countertops gleamed and the cold cases displayed the various meats and cheeses on offer. A basket of bread, freshly delivered from the bakery next door, sat on top of the counter. Cans of sardines and tuna were stacked on the back wall. Six varieties of sausage hung in the front windows. Everything seemed perfect—except the tiny fingerprints that dotted the inside of the glass where Oliver stood to watch the street.
“Do you want me to take him home, Julian?” Mama asked.
“No, of course not,” he said, rushing over to shoo Oliver away and wipe the glass clean. “This is a family business. Besides, Laurel, you know that I need you here.” She touched his arm and went to straighten the already straight chairs around the tables.
Though I was happy for Papa and wished him every success, I felt tied to the floor. Now that the shop would officially open, what if I never convinced Papa to let me go West? What if I was forced to stay here forever? I went outside to escape the weight of it all. Above my head, the new sign bearing our surname gleamed. The trolley car dinged on its way by, full of passengers ready for a day at Willow Grove Park. I followed its journey longingly with my eyes and then went back inside to put on my apron.
“You’re a good girl, Tish,” Papa said patting my arm, “when you focus on your work. I need to be able to count on you to help me run the business.”
“But Papa,” I began. Dread was rising again in my throat.
He held his hand up. “No, not today. I will not hear a single word about painting or mountains or oceans today. Today we open the shop, as a family.”
I nodded. Papa donned his apron, put on his white butcher sleeves, and straightened his bow tie. “All ready to open the doors to Hess’s Delicatessen?”
We were. Ivy stood unenthusiastically behind the register, surely counting the days until she was married and wouldn’t have to work. I unbuttoned and folded up the sleeves of my blouse, silently counting my own days left here at the deli. Papa turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN and went behind the counter to stand vigil.
●●●
It took about a half hour, but soon word spread on the street and customers trickled in. We began taking orders. I sliced a half pound of roast beef. Mama wrapped six sausages. Ivy called out the orders when they were ready and collected the money. Oliver was underfoot the entire time, but overall quite well behaved. The voices of the customers filled the shop and we were doing a bustling first day of business.
Things quieted after lunchtime. Papa let out an audible sigh and wrapped his arm around Mama’s shoulders. He was grinning.
The bell on the door chimed and Papa straightened up. He greeted the lone customer, a man in a white shirt and bow tie, his hair parted down the middle.
“Just open, did you?” the man said.
“Indeed, just this morning,” Papa said.
“Well, welcome to the block. I’m George Howerth, the barber next door. I believe you have met my wife and daughter. My apologies for not stopping in sooner.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Howerth. Julian Hess.” Papa wiped his hand on a rag and offered it to Mr. Howerth. Oddly, the gesture was not returned. Papa let his arm drop.
“Yes, Hess, is it? I saw the sign. Are you German?”
“Yes,” Papa said warily. “From the Schwartzwald. That’s the Black Forest. Have you heard of it?”
“No,” Mr. Howerth stated. The word fell flat onto the floor. He crinkled his nose as if catching the scent of something foul.
Papa plowed on, his pride beginning to falter, “Really? It is quite beautiful there. This here is my wife, Laurel, and our children Ivy, Tish, and Oliver.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Howerth’s smile was thin. I wondered how a girl as boisterous as Virginia ever came from such parents. As if conjured, Virginia appeared in the doorway.
“Oh Tish, the shop is wonderful!” she cried, walking around the counter to the back side with us.
“Virginia, please,” Mr. Howerth said. “Come out from behind there this instant!” Then to Papa, “Pack me up a pound of pastrami.”
“How about some sausages? We made them right here; old family recipe. Our gift to you, one neighbor to another,” Papa offered, trying hard.
“No. That won’t be necessary. Just the pastrami.”
Mama turned and began to fill his request. Papa’s fingers were flexing, his arms tight at his sides. Mama lightly touched Papa’s shoulder, words unspoken between them but conveyed nonetheless. Papa wrote up a ticket.
“Would you like to start a tab?” Mama asked, her voice perfectly friendly and smooth. “Since
you are right next door and will likely come in often, we would be happy to bill your total at the end of each month.”
“That certainly won’t be necessary,” Mr. Howerth said. He held his hand out for the receipt, considered it, and then took money out of his billfold. The clang of the register’s drawer echoed through the silent store. Mama handed him the paper-wrapped meat.
“Well,” Mr. Howerth said, “best of luck in your new business venture.” His insincerity was thick.
“If you enjoy the pastrami, please feel free to recommend us to the customers in your shop,” Mama called to Mr. Howerth’s back as he walked silently out the door.
Virginia looked at me and smiled sadly, shaking her head. She turned to my parents and said, “It really does look great in here! I’m starving! Can’t wait to try your pastrami. See you soon!”
When she left and we were alone in the shop, Papa smacked the counter with his rag.
“Julian, please,” Mama said.
“I have been in this country for twenty-five years. I have an American family. I work and live in America.”
I felt cold. This was the first time I had experienced anyone showing anything other than respect to Papa. I could see the pain on his face, the frustration mingled with fallen pride. He had worked so hard to get to this day, years at the Navy Yard, years of dreaming. My face flushed in embarrassment for him, for us. The newspaper headlines were saying awful things about the Germans, but we weren’t them. Papa was making sausages here, in Willow Grove. He had nothing to do with the assassination of that Archduke or the war that was tearing Europe apart.
“It’s all right, Papa,” I said. “One taste of your pastrami and he’s sure to recommend the shop to everyone who comes in for a haircut.”
Papa fixed a sharp eye on me but said nothing.
“Let’s get back to work,” Mama said. “The afternoon rush will be here before you know it. Folks will want something when they come in to the park for the fireworks.”
We all quietly resumed our tasks. Our first day of business was successful, but somehow tainted. From then on, I never heard Papa tell anyone he was from Germany. When asked, he answered that he was from Philadelphia, new to Willow Grove, but happy to serve the fine people of the town. People surely knew, though. Our surname—the name of our shop—broadcast it out.
We worked hard those first few weeks, figuring out our rhythm and responsibilities. The sooner the shop was a staple in the community, a well-running delicatessen popular with regulars and day trippers, the sooner I could leave my parents to it. I focused on the shop, for my sake, but also for my father.
●●●
On Mondays we closed early, and this Monday’s weather was particularly gorgeous. I raced through my preparations for Tuesday’s business day, wiped down the counter, and slapped the soapy mop around the floor.
“I’m all finished! I’m going to the park to paint a bit, Papa!” I hollered back to him. Without waiting for his approval, I secured my hat, grabbed my satchel, and raced out into the sunshine.
The street noise didn’t muffle the bird songs and I felt my spirits lift with each step I took away from the delicatessen. Headed for the park, I passed Mr. Howerth’s barber shop. He hadn’t come in again, and I pushed past his windows in refusal to let him dampen my day.
The trolley trailed me as I walked up York Road. A mass of people disembarked and we all walked as one toward the entrance to the park. Once inside the gates, I serpentined along a garden path. It was lined with boxwoods. Their herbaceous fragrance greeted me at every curve. Around a bend, there was a small pond with floating water lilies. Behind it stood a willow tree, its long wisps of branches blowing in the breeze and brushing the grass below.
I settled on a bench. I had brought along two small pieces of particle board that had separated jars of olives in the last delivery. Making one my canvas and one my palette, I squeezed out phthalo green, veridian, and raw sienna from their tin tubes. Couples strolled by, arm in arm, and I could hear the tinny carousel song chiming in the distance. It all fell away as the willow tree began to appear on the board. My brush rendered the tiny leaves, shadows in the bark, and highlights on the branches. Soon I was happily lost inside the painting.
I worked until the afternoon light turned orange. Sweat slicked my brow and strands of hair escaped my hat. I tamed them back and stretched my back into a deep arch. I rolled my neck around to loosen it. What a pleasant afternoon. How I longed to spend each afternoon like this, painting out in the open air, rather than stuck behind a deli counter, making silly mistakes and displeasing Papa. Of course, leaving forever to paint would displease him infinitely more than a broken jar of gherkins or a wasted mess of cucumbers. Free labor, no matter how clumsy, seemed, for now, to be his highest priority.
My fingers were spattered with the colors I had used, and I gingerly propped my painting up against the back of the bench while I prepared to go. I wiped down my brushes and packed up the tubes of paint. With a firm zip, I closed my satchel and began my walk home.
I wound around the paths slowly, knowing it was nearing supper and sure that Mama would want my help in preparing it. I was in no rush to be back in a kitchen again and stopped a few times along the way to appreciate the gardens and pick out future painting sites.
I was admiring a wild rose bush when I saw him. It was Ellis. He was on another path, shoulders and chest leading the way. He struck a strong profile and I liked how confidently he walked. I froze, unsure if I wanted him to see me or not. He was intriguing, but his boldness was also intimidating.
Perhaps he was heading to work. Perhaps he was late. Perhaps he was meeting someone. I knew so little about him and found myself wanting to know more.
Just then he looked up, as if called by my thoughts of him, and he saw me. His steps hitched up a bit and a small smile parted his lips. He waved and I waved back, a timid little one from my waist. Ellis looked around for a way to walk over to me, but our paths were separated by a large patch of greenery. After a moment’s thought, he stepped over the little stanchions meant to keep visitors off the grass and marched through toward me. This was exactly what I liked, and didn’t like, about him.
“Hello,” he called as he neared me. He stepped over the stanchions and off the grass onto the path next to me. He had left a row of footprints in the perfect lawn and I ached to move away from the evidence lest a park police officer happen by. I nodded in greeting, picked up my painting, and started walking slowly away down the path.
“Tish, please wait,” he said, quickening his pace to catch up. “How are you? It’s nice to see you.”
“And you.”
“I’m on my way to work. You?”
“I had the afternoon free so I decided to come here and paint for a while.”
“You have paint on your cheek,” he said, pointing.
Embarrassed, I let go of the painting with one hand and cupped my cheek to hide it.
“Just a bit of green,” he continued, and then reached out to touch me.
I pulled back, almost in reflex, though the thought of his hand on my face sent a thrill through me. He reached out again and I lowered my hand, letting him wipe at the paint. The skin of his fingers was rough, but his touch was gentle.
He frowned. “I think it is dry.” Then he looked down at the particle board hanging at my side. “Can I see what you were working on?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that willow tree over there.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t demean your work. Please, may I see?”
I held up the board, image out, in front of my chest like a shield. I held my breath. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what Ellis had to say. He seemed to be so brutally honest, and I suddenly feared that he wouldn’t like my work. Ellis turned his head from side to side and put his chin in his hand. As he considered my painting for what felt like an interminably long time, I vacillated between being eager for his praise and brazenly ambivalent. I needed him to love it. I didn’t ca
re if he didn’t. Oh, of course I cared. I cared more than I was willing to admit. I couldn’t wait a moment longer for his critique.
“Well?” I spat.
He just laughed. “It’s wonderful.”
“Thank you.” I exhaled the words. Pleasure and pride brought a smile to my lips. I walked further down the path and he tagged along like a puppy at my heels.
“You are quite skilled. Do you intend to sell these to save money for a transcontinental ticket?”
He remembered my plans. “Perhaps. And I am working at my father’s delicatessen as well. As soon as business picks up, I’m sure he’ll be able to pay me and I’ll save up enough to go.”
“And how about when you get there? You’ll need enough for room and board. And food, too.”
“I’ll have enough. And if not, I can always get a job out there.”
Ellis ran his hands along the tops of the bushes that lined this part of the path. A chuckle escaped his lips.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s just that I’ve been living the type of life you are talking about—moving from place to place, trying to find work as I go—and it isn’t that simple. It is gritty and hard. Jobs aren’t necessarily easy to find, nor boarding houses. You won’t have your family to fall back on once you are out there. Painting won’t…”
“I know that!” I said, cutting him off. “I’m not a fool. You think because I am a woman that I am incapable of surviving on my own. You are just like him!”
“Like who?”
“My father!” I quickened my pace toward home.
“Now wait a minute,” Ellis said, matching my runaway speed. “This has nothing to do with you being a woman. I’m trying to be realistic.”
“I’m going,” I said, setting my lips. “And there isn’t anything you or Papa can do to stop me.”
“That may be true when it comes to me, but I can think of a few ways your father could stop you.”
“Such as?”
“Hmmm, let’s see. First, maybe never agrees to pay you a salary.”
An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor Page 7