by Alice Duncan
“A Japanese restaurant?” Aunt Vi said. She aimed an interested glance at me. “You didn’t have any Japanese food when you went on that trip with Harold, did you, Daisy?”
I’d brought Vi back a Turkish cookbook, and every now and again she actually prepared something from the book. Although it sounds impossible, since Vi is an expert cook and, if she were a man, would be called a chef and make a heap more money than she did, her attempts at Turkish cookery sometimes didn’t live up to the original. Perhaps that’s because she couldn’t get all the proper ingredients or something.
“Nope. We had French food, Egyptian food, English food, and Turkish food, but no Japanese food.”
“What do they eat in Japan?” asked my mother, whose name is Peggy, should anyone want to know.
Sam shrugged. “I’m not sure. Lots of rice. And something called . . . um . . . terra-something. Some of the guys at the station have eaten there, and they liked the terra-whatever-it-is. Oh, and they really liked the fried vegetables.”
“Fried vegetables?” asked Vi, looking skeptical. “You mean they fry green peas instead of boiling them or something like that?”
“Interesting,” muttered my father, whose name is Joe, forking up some buttered peas as he did so.
“Not like that,” said Sam, whose brow furrowed in concentration. “I wish I’d paid more attention, but from what I gather, they dip the vegetables in some kind of batter and then fry them. Then you pick ’em up with your fingers and dip them into some kind of sauce.”
Vi’s eyes went round. “They eat with their fingers?” Vi, who was very strict about table manners—mine in particular—seemed shocked.
“No,” said Sam. “They eat with chopsticks, like Chinese people do. The guys at the station ate with their fingers because they couldn’t handle the chopsticks.”
“Now that makes sense,” said Pa, patting his mouth with a napkin.
“How interesting,” said Ma, who was the least adventurous of my whole family when it came to comestibles. I could tell she was prepared to endure dining at a Japanese restaurant, but she didn’t plan on enjoying it. But she’d enjoyed Mexican food when we’d eaten at a wonderful Mexican restaurant in town, and she’d liked the Chop Suey Palace on Fair Oaks when we’d gone there.
We didn’t dine out very often, mainly because folks like us just didn’t. We could neither afford to do so, nor was it necessary. This was especially true since we had Vi. For instance, this evening, she’d prepared a simply delicious meal of pork chops, potatoes thinly sliced and baked in a pan with butter and milk—I think Vi called them scalloped potatoes, but I’m not sure—the aforementioned buttered peas, and some of her feather-light dinner rolls. I’m pretty sure she’d made extra rolls at Mrs. Pinkerton’s house and brought them home for us. In effect, Vi had two jobs: cooking for Mrs. Pinkerton and her family, and cooking for us. I’d have felt sorry for her if she didn’t seem to enjoy her work so much. You can bet we enjoyed it, too.
“I don’t know,” I said after a pause and a bite of pork chop. “I might like to try using chopsticks, if somebody would teach me how to.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Sam, frowning. “I don’t know how to use ’em. Anyhow, if the Chinese and Japanese are so smart, how come they didn’t invent forks and spoons?”
“Evidently,” I said somewhat stiffly, “they didn’t need them because they can use chopsticks.”
Sam rolled his eyes again, and I bridled.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Sam Rotondo. Mrs. Bissel has a Japanese houseboy, and I’m going to ask him if he’ll teach me how to eat with chopsticks. I’ll show you.”
“Daisy,” said my mother in that voice. I felt like doing some eye-rolling of my own.
“I’m not arguing,” I said, in hopes of mollifying her, although this ploy seldom worked. “I’m just curious to see why it seems so hard for everyone who isn’t Chinese or Japanese to eat with chopsticks.”
“It probably isn’t, if you know the trick,” said Pa, always easygoing and sensible.
“You’re probably right,” said Sam.
“Well,” said I, “if I can get Keiji to teach me the trick, I’ll be happy to pass along the method.”
“Thanks,” said Sam.
I could tell he didn’t mean it. In spite of Sam, we decided that our trek to Miyaki’s would commence the following week on Saturday evening. Sam said he’d pick us all up at six o’clock.
The next day, Saturday, my father and I took Spike for a walk around the neighborhood in the morning. We got home in plenty of time to make some pork-chop sandwiches with the leftovers from last night’s meal, and we had them on the table when Ma got home from her job a little after noon.
I rested for a while after lunch, preparing myself for the séance ahead. Not that séances in themselves were very tiring, but they did go on for a long time, and then people wanted to talk about them afterwards. I generally didn’t get home until quite late. Then, on Sundays, I had to get up early to go to church, where I sang alto in the choir. So a nap was definitely called for. Spike enjoyed our nap, too. I don’t think my mother approved of Spike sharing my bed with me, but ever since Billy’s passing, she hadn’t objected.
When I woke up, I went to the closet and surveyed my choices for the evening. I’d taken out Billy’s clothes about six months prior to that day. I couldn’t bear to do it for a long time, and I still had them packed away in the basement. I knew I should donate them to the Salvation Army so that some needy person could use them, but . . . well, I just couldn’t. Yet. Maybe someday.
Anyhow, I had lots of clothes to choose from since sewing was one of my primary occupations when I wasn’t raising the dead. I made clothes for the whole family. One year I even made matching Christmas shirts for all of us, including Spike. The memory of that Christmas now made me sad, so I stopped thinking and perused my wardrobe.
“Oh, bother, Spike. It’s probably going to be a warm evening, so why don’t I choose something lightweight?”
Spike wagged his tail, as if he thought my idea a splendid one.
I reached in and took out a black silk evening dress I’d made from a bolt end bought for a song at Maxime’s Fabrics on Colorado Boulevard. It had short sleeves and a tubular shape to the hips—which was the fashion and the reason women were supposed to be skinny and “boyish” in those days. I had qualified for several months after Billy’s death, but had regained some of my curves. To disguise them, I’d made a gray silk over-bodice with a slashed V-neckline that reached to my hips. The skirt to the dress had layers. It was a very pretty ensemble, but somber.
The pattern, which I’d copied from a Worth model I’d seen in a fashion magazine, showed the overbodice with a frilly bow where the V ended, but frilly bows were too frivolous for a sober-sided spiritualist. I aimed to pin some black flowers there. Altogether, the outfit would be perfect for a warm June evening.
With pale face powder, black earrings from Nelson’s Five and Dime, black shoes with pointy toes bought on sale at Nash’s Dry Goods and Grocery, and my dark red hair smoothed into a severe bob, I’d look every inch the pale and interesting spiritualist. I’d also be comfortable. Attempting to be all those things at once could be difficult, but I generally managed.
I laid out everything on the bed and went to the kitchen to see if I could help Vi do anything.
“Set the table, will you, dear?” said she, peeking at something in the oven that smelled really, really good. Whatever it was brought back memories of Turkey.
“What is that in the oven, Vi? It smells divine.”
“It’s from that cookbook you brought back from Turkey. Eggplant with lamb and tomatoes.”
“Oh, my! I’m so glad you’re enjoying the book.”
“It’s fun to try new things every now and then, and the market had nice eggplants and tomatoes. Mr. Larkin ground some lamb for me. If we like it, maybe I’ll try it on Mrs. Pinkerton and see how she likes it.”
For the record, Mr. Larkin was the butch
er Mrs. Pinkerton used. Well, in truth, my aunt used him, but only because Mrs. Pinkerton told her to. That was all right. Mr. Larkin knew the ways of the world, and when Vi was buying for our family, he charged her about a third what he charged when she bought for Mrs. Pinkerton. Was that unfair?
Naw. Mrs. Pinkerton could afford to pay more than we could.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
Frowning, Vi shut the oven door and reached for the cookbook, which lay open on the kitchen counter. She puckered her brow and said slowly and carefully, “Patlican musakka. Well, I don’t know if that’s how they pronounce it in Turkey, but that’s what it’s called.”
“Hmm. However it’s pronounced, it sure smells good.”
“I’m so glad.”
Her smile was a mile wide, so I knew she meant it.
So I set the table feeling almost happy that night. I hadn’t been truly happy for what seemed like forever, although I did experience moments of joy. Like when Vi used the cookbook I’d brought her because she felt like it. My feet were happy, too, when they trod upon the gorgeous Turkish rug I’d bought for the dining room. In other words, while the love of my life had taken himself out of it a year earlier, the rest of us slogged on, sometimes whether we wanted to or not. And every now and then life lost its bleak grayness and took on a less maudlin hue. If I liked lavender, I’d say it was lavender, but I don’t. Soft peach, maybe.
Evidently my mother and father had been taking naps, too, because they were both rubbing their eyes when they walked into the dining room.
“Something smells really good,” said Pa.
“It’s from that Turkish cookbook I got Vi last year,” I said proudly.
“Quite savory,” said my mother. She wore a doubtful expression, however.
“It’s eggplant and tomatoes and ground lamb and . . . oh, I can’t remember.”
“Lamb?” Ma perked up slightly. “I love it when Vi fixes leg of lamb. Maybe I’ll like this.”
“I tell you, Ma, the food in Turkey was better than anyplace else on that lousy trip. Including France, which is supposed to be the culinary capital of the world.”
“Really? What do French folks eat?” asked Pa, looking as if he were really interested.
“Snails,” I said, and laughed when both of my parents drew back, appalled.
“Daisy!” said my mother in a shame-on-you voice.
“It’s the truth. I read about it in National Geographic, and Harold told me so, too. They cook the snails in butter and garlic, and people say they love them.”
“I don’t think I could eat a snail,” said Pa.
“I don’t think I could either,” I agreed. “But I’m sure they eat other stuff as well. According to Harold, they use a lot of different kinds of sauces.”
“Hmm. I can’t imagine how a sauce could make a snail taste like anything but a garden pest.” Ma went to the linen drawer and got out some napkins, which she laid under the forks on the table. We weren’t formal at home, but we still used napkins and a tablecloth during dinnertime. Habit, I guess.
“You have a séance tonight, don’t you, Daisy?” asked Ma.
“Yes. At Mrs. Bissel’s house, although I think she said Mrs. Pinkerton is going to attend, too. And Mrs. Hanratty.”
Pansy Hanratty was the reason Spike was such a well-behaved dog, because it was she who’d taught his obedience class. I liked her a lot, in spite of her mother, who’s a snooty southern belle misplaced here in California. Her son is Monty Mountjoy, a current favorite cinematic heartthrob and a very nice man. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I learned that Monty Mountjoy had emerged from the womb of Pansy Hanratty, a horse-faced woman with a deep, booming voice that always sounds rather like a foghorn. You never knew where genes would take a person, did you?
“That should be interesting,” said Pa, chuckling. “Is Stacy still behaving herself?”
“As far as I know,” said I, not really caring one way or another, except for Mrs. Pinkerton’s peace of mind. Stacy could fall off the edge of the world for all I cared.
“Daisy!” called Vi from the kitchen. “Will you come here and take out the salad?”
“You bet!” I couldn’t wait to get my teeth around that delicious-smelling dish currently languishing in the oven. Vi had made a nice salad of fresh greens to go with it, along with some of her melt-in-the-mouth bread. We’d have had rolls again, but we’d eaten them all the night before.
Vi’s eggplant, tomatoes, and lamb dish was every bit as tasty as it had smelled as it cooked, and we devoured the whole thing. There wouldn’t be any leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch, but we could make do with whatever Vi fixed for dinner, which we took at noon on Sundays. I’m not sure why, but lots of people did the same thing. Another tradition, I suppose.
After dinner, Ma and I washed the dishes. Then I fed Spike and retired to the bathroom to do a little washing up of myself and my face, making sure to slather on the cold cream Harold Kincaid had directed me to use.
“You have to use the cream, Daisy. You don’t want to get wrinkles, do you?”
At the time he said that, wrinkles were about the last thing about which I even thought, much less worried. However, after the first, hideous pangs of my grief over losing Billy had subsided a bit, I began once again to care about my appearance—as a spiritualist. As a regular human being, I still couldn’t work up any energy to prettify myself. Still, I used the cream. Harold had actually brought me some from the studio where he works as a costumier.
I suppose it helped. But, shoot, I was only twenty-two. That was too young for wrinkles even if I didn’t use the stupid stuff. However, Harold knew better than I how cinema stars kept themselves looking good, so I bowed to his experience.
Then I went to my room, where I got all spiffed up to visit Mrs. Bissel in her lovely home on the corner of Maiden Lane and Foothill Boulevard in Altadena, a darling little community just north of Pasadena. After I powdered my cheeks and nose and used a little mascara on the old eyelashes, I darkened my eyebrows with a stick of eyebrow pencil I’d bought at Nelson’s Five and Dime. Eyebrow pencil was fairly new on the market, and I didn’t much like spending my hard-earned money on makeup, but my job called for it. Anyhow, eyebrow pencil was ever so much better than what I’d had to use before, which was coal, and extremely messy.
Feeling daring for some reason, I drew a line under my lower lashes to see if it would create a dramatic effect and discovered the line to be rather too dramatic, so I rubbed it with my finger, thereby creating exactly the look I’d been seeking. And by accident, by gum!
Then I stood back to examine myself in front of the cheval glass mirror in the bedroom. And I grinned. “Boy, Spike, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was a real spiritualist.”
Spike wagged his tail in approval. I picked up my black bag—into which I’d packed the one cranberry lamp and candle I allowed during a séance—departed the bedroom to bid farewell to my family, and drove up the hill in our lovely Chevrolet to Mrs. Bissel’s house.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Mrs. Bissel lived in a huge three-story mansion with an expansive front porch and a terraced front lawn that spread from the house to the street. The whole place was fenced and gated. She also owned all the property from her house west to Lake Avenue, the main north-south street in both Altadena and Pasadena. She had a couple of horses, although I don’t think anyone had ridden them since her children had grown up and left home.
If you wanted to, you could park on Foothill Boulevard and then walk a mile or so from your car to her front door, but mostly everyone parked in the back, where there was a wide circular driveway surrounding a patch of land with a monkey puzzle tree in the middle. That tree was extremely odd looking, and I understood the name because its bark might have been a jigsaw puzzle, the way it would break away from the trunk in little pieces. It wasn’t easy to get to the puzzle pieces, however, because of its gigantic, prickly leaves that could spear
a person’s skin if that person wasn’t careful.
By the time I arrived at the Bissel place, several cars were already parked there, so I found a good place for the Chevrolet, got out, sucked in a deep breath—séances weren’t difficult to conduct, but they could be emotionally trying, especially in those days, when people tended to ask me if I’d been in recent communication with Billy—headed for the back door, and rang the bell.
Hilda Schwartz, the German girl whom I’d helped gain legal asylum in the United States, used to work for Mrs. Bissel, but she’d married a few months earlier. Now Keiji Saito, the house-boy about whom I’d told my family, answered the door. He smiled when he saw me.
“Good evening, Mrs. Majesty.”
“Good evening, Keiji. Have all the ghouls gathered, or are there more to come?”
He chuckled. “I think everyone’s waiting for Mrs. Pinkerton to arrive. Otherwise, they’re all here. You going to wake the dead again tonight?”
“Sure am. Say, Keiji, could you help me learn how to use chopsticks?”
His eyebrows lifted. “How come you want to learn how to use chopsticks?”
“A friend is taking my family and me out to dinner at Miyaki’s next Saturday, and I want to surprise everyone with my deftness with the old chopsticks.”
“Oh, yeah. My uncle owns Miyaki’s. Their food’s pretty good, although we never eat like that at home. We generally eat rice with fish sauce, which white folks don’t like much.”
Made sense to me.
“But sure, I can help you with the chopsticks. Not that I’m great at them, either. Heck, I was born in the good old US of A, and I don’t take meals at home very often any longer, now that I have this job.”
Interested in both of these pieces of news, I asked, “Where were you born?”
“Hawaii. My uncle moved to Pasadena first, and he wrote to us to say we should come here, too.”
“I had no idea,” I said, trying to remember exactly how Hawaii fitted into the United States.
Keiji must have run into ignorant people before, because he said with a grin, “Hawaii’s a US territory, Mrs. Majesty.”