by JoeAnn Hart
By the looks of it, Mrs. Gibbons and Mrs. Wolfe, like many women, began their dining experiences with great intentions, starting with salad greens with dressing on the side, fish and rice for an entrée, sauce on the side. But they would begin to lose their inhibitions as whiskey and wine worked their magic, and they let their desires override their waistlines so that their meals ended with outrageous chocolate desserts and multiple coffee drinks with whipped cream. If they didn’t starve themselves so early in the game, they wouldn’t turn excessive later, for which they probably hated themselves, and might even blame her—and by extension, Gerard. Hunger had to be assuaged early so that the meal could be appreciated on other levels. She’d been experimenting with a grilled scallop and seaweed salad for Dr. Nicastro that was low in fat but had a soul-satisfying crunchy sweetness. She would ask them, as her salad experts, to try it for her and then steer their appetites down an even, low-calorie, and enjoyable path. They could end the evening with a fruit ice in a frozen lemon rind, decorated with a single, intense candied raspberry, instead of falling facefirst on a pile of mousse that would make them feel like pigs.
Mr. Quilpe was the head of the Food Committee and considered himself a gourmet—even though as far as she was concerned, he had no tongue, only a devotion to foodie mags. She would cater to his pretensions. She picked up a Saveur from a pile on her desk and paged through it. What would have caught his eye? Something expensive and complicated, and completely out of reach for the rest of humanity. Maybe this Maine lobster tail appetizer with creamy corn and goat cheese tamales? Peeky toe crab napoleon with wasabi crème fraîche? So precious but so Quilpe. She would call her seafood supplier. And as much as she avoided food fads, she would feature some entrée or another covered with mushroom foam, and it would delight him no end.
Hollowell had a digestion so irritable that he seemed to subsist entirely on hot-house grapes, and there was little she could do about him, but Clendenning was a piece of cake. He would order beef, and she would make sure it was fit for royalty. She’d better go check what other cuts she’d need for the weekend before she called the meat man to have him kill the fatted calf.
She swiveled on her stool, and her foot hit a large cardboard box on the floor. “What’s this?”
“A tip!” said Ping. She knelt next to the box and, with elaborate ceremony, presented Vita with a starched white shirt. “That Mrs. Clay carried the box down this morning, huffing and puffing. She said she was moving and that these shirts were too good for Goodwill. Maybe the staff would like them? Ha!”
Vita examined the stiff square of shirt, then opened the box wider to reveal three dozen of them, folded, strapped, and wrapped in plastic from the cleaners. “What are we supposed to do with a bunch of men’s button-downs?” she asked. “And since when are we a charity?”
“They make a good Frisbee,” said Ping, tossing a tight square of shirt up in the air and catching it.
“Size eighteen,” said Vita, looking at the collar. She ran her fingers along the stitching, then over the white-on-white monogram on the sleeve—TIC—Thornton I. Clay. “This shirt must’ve cost a couple of hundred dollars.”
“Let me see,” said Luisa.
Vita flipped the shirt across the counter to Luisa, but she had a bowl of tuna salad cradled in her arms, so she let the shirt skid past her and onto the floor. “Stiff as toast!”
“True,” agreed Vita. “But you wear a shirt like that, people think you know what you’re doing.”
Luisa put the bowl aside and bent to pick up the shirt out of curiosity. “My brothers, they know nothing, but my sister, she works at the day care. Shirts make good smocks.”
“Take them away then.” Vita set off to do a meat inventory but was distracted by the sight of the morning’s produce delivery. Through the slats of the crate she spied a mango the color of sunset and bent to sniff it. She closed her eyes and felt tropical sands sift through her toes. Her new supplier, a young woman just starting out in the business, was more forager than buyer, and brilliant at that.
When she opened her eyes, she caught sight of a shirt sailing through the air. Ping had thrown a shirt to Pedrosa at the sink, who caught it with two wet hands. “Gracias,” he said, his broad face lighting up from this unexpected gift.
Luisa grabbed an armful from the box and, like an Olympic discus thrower, began to fling the shirts around the kitchen, one after another, first to Pedrosa, then to Vita, then Ping, then back to Pedrosa, but in this second round they were laughing too hard to catch them, so the packets piled up on the floor. Ping gave one a kick, and it skidded across the rubber tile like a hockey puck, landing at Dr. Nicastro’s feet, who stood at the door, looking confused and uncomfortable.
Luisa, stifling a laugh, gathered up all the shirts and threw them back in the box, which she lugged to the outside steps.
“Hi, Dr. Nicastro,” said Vita, putting her toque back on and tucking in her hair. She gave his body an approving look and was tempted to squeeze his thigh to test for leanness. “Here to talk about to-night’s dinner?”
Nicastro smiled but felt unsure. “Do I ever want to talk about anything else?”
They both laughed, and the staff made themselves scarce, busying themselves with their designated duties. “I hoped you would stop by today,” said Vita. “I have a scallop and seaweed dish for you to try.” She turned to the walk-in, pushing a crate ahead of her.
“What’s this?” Nicastro, with difficulty, bent to pick up a shirt overlooked by Luisa.
“I bet that would fit you like a sausage casing,” said Vita as the metal door closed behind her. From inside, her words continued to echo. “Take it, we’ve got plenty.”
Nicastro examined the custom label from Hong Kong, the careful hand stitching around the collar. It wasn’t new, but it had hardly been worn, still in its pristine packaging from a good hand-laundry in Chinatown. He looked at Ping and tried to erase the terrible thought that passed through his mind. Maybe Phoebe was right about Vita fencing goods.
Even as he tiptoed out, he wondered about the salad and was never so miserable in his life. When Vita came out of the walk-in, he was gone.
“That’s strange.” As she stood there, looking at the kitchen door continue to swing, she stuck her hand under the plastic wrap and chose a succulent scallop to chew on.
Chapter Twenty-one
Taking a Mulligan
THE BOARD of Governors met in the library, with moonlight reflecting off the open casement windows. The varnished globe, sitting in its filigreed iron stand in the corner, seemed to visibly swell with the heat and humidity, expanding its crack. No one, save Clendenning, wanted to be there. The temperature was too hot, the subject of giving Gerard the boot too uncomfortable, and the day’s news about the Clays just too juicy.
“Please.” Using a wooden mallet, Clendenning rapped the table once, with meaning. “May we get started?”
“It’s unbelievable,” hissed Regina Wolfe as she pulled herself to the table. “Marshall told me the FBI found the Clays’ Porsche at a private airstrip in New Hampshire.”
“You think you know people, huh?” whispered Arnold Quilpe, whose profile was so patrician it could have been struck on a Roman coin.
“There’s no knowing anyone, apparently,” she said, and shook her head in wonder. “On Saturday night, they bought a round at the bar as if all were rosy with the world.”
“I heard they played golf yesterday,” said Linzee Gibbons, leaning in. “Knowing the whole while that the court was going to hand down indictments this morning.”
“You’ve got to give them credit,” Regina said. “I mean, it was considerate not to upset others with their bad news.”
“Bad news?” snapped Palmer Stillington. He leaned back in his Jacobean chair, then let it fall forward again, like a stomping beast. “You don’t call what they did bad news, you call it theft. Once this is all out in the open, the Admissions Committee will have something to answer for.”
Cle
ndenning rapped the table again to keep Stillington from lathering and get the talk off the Clays. “Let’s get started.” It was he who had rashly put them up for membership five years before, being an initial investor in Clay Realty Trust. But according to the indictments, they’d been selling more trust than realty. This put not only Clendenning’s own investments into question, but also the Club’s. Before the meeting, Gerard had nervously revealed the Clays’ outstanding receipts, upwards of $18,000. They had even charged new clothes at the gift shop on their way out the door.
The group of six finally settled down, rearranging their drinks in front of them. The roll call was taken. Present were Regina Wolfe, Arnold Quilpe, Palmer Stillington, Linzee Gibbons, Eugene Hollowell, and their leader, Humphrey Clendenning. Absent were Peter Weber, bareboating on the St. Lawrence Seaway; John Payson, at his summer place in Blue Hill, Maine; Maggie Fenwick, home babysitting a new grandson; and Helen Clay, whereabouts unknown.
Clendenning cleared a dry throat. “At issue this evening is the question of Gerard Wilton’s suitability as manager of the Club.” He began to read from the papers in front of him, which listed the blunders he believed Gerard responsible for, from the plate of halibut on his lap (“inability to properly train waitstaff”) to the eyeballs in the road (“inability to properly implement plans”) to the present horror of demonstrations at the gate (“inability to contain controversy in a proper manner”). While he rasped on, the board members could not sit still, twisting and turning in their stiff chairs. None of them minded voting when it came to authorizing funds or some other mindless procedure, but when it came to matters of consequence, they could be reluctant to act.
Clendenning finished, then looked up and eyed each person at the table before asking Vice President Hollowell to make a formal motion.
But before Hollowell could open his mouth, Linzee Gibbons spoke. “Surely the Bellows shooting wasn’t Gerard’s fault,” she said, fluffing up her blond bangs. “And look what a fantastic job he does otherwise. God knows I’ve had my misgivings about the man, but I think he’s just coming into his own. The service lately has been stellar.”
“He’s exposed us to ridicule and censure,” said Clendenning. “I want him out.”
“I agree with Linzee on this,” said Arnold Quilpe. “We can’t switch horses midstream. If you’re still all het up about him in a few weeks, we can revisit it later, after Labor Day.”
“I won’t have my family’s summer disrupted by a change in management.” Palmer Stillington stood up, his round face puffed and mottled. He leaned on the edge of the table with both soft hands, his fingers white, and through his small teeth, dyed yellow from tobacco, he spat his warning. “I’ll sue the entire board if you vote for his removal. And you in particular, Clendenning.”
Clendenning, understanding full well that suing was just another form of violence, half stood and leaned toward Stillington, and on his thin lips were the words screw you. But he paused. Once he crossed that line there would be no going back. Everyone at that table would spread the news around the Club like an airborne virus, and they would tear out his liver for what they would see as a vulgar loss of control. They put up with Stillington because they were used to putting up with Stillington and because they all wanted to stay on the Museum Ball guest list, but they expected their president to have the restrained, laconic temperament of a golf pro. More to the point, a crude attack would cause people to talk, which would lead to more talk, possibly unearthing the nefarious business dealings of his early years, which had led to his association with the Clays. Clendenning settled back in his seat. Besides, Stillington was so repulsive an individual, Clendenning didn’t care to engage in the intimacy of battle with him. “That’s enough, Palmer,” he said softly.
Stillington went rigid with rage, and his doughy hands clenched and unclenched. Before he stomped out, he turned to the group, all of whom were looking elsewhere. “Remember, I’ll sue all of you, for everything, if you do something stupid in here to-night.”
When the slammed door stopped reverberating, Quilpe spoke up. “I guess that’s what board insurance is for.”
“It’s so hot in here,” said Regina, who ran her ringed hand through her pixie haircut, a style she had worn since the day she got married in 1966. “Let’s just table the matter until September, when Gerard’s due for his annual review anyway.”
Everyone mumbled agreement, looking at Clendenning to put a merciful end to their trials. Hollowell made a noise, indicating that he might speak, but because he was so conflicted—whether to come to the aid of his friend Clendenning or to go along with the majority—no words formed. Like a !Kung bushman, he seemed capable of communicating only in clicks and clacks of his tongue.
“No, this is not acceptable.” Clendenning barely moved his mouth. “I want him gone, today.”
“I’m not even sure we have a quorum now that Palmer’s gone.” Quilpe used the corner of a cocktail napkin to clean his nails while he spoke. “I don’t think we should make a decision like this with so few of us.”
“Humpy, we fired the last manager on your recommendation,” said Linzee, doodling on the blank notebook in front of her. She was the acting secretary in Helen Clay’s absence, but Helen had never taken minutes either. Custom dictated they wait until after the fact, then agree on what should be included for general consumption. “We can’t keep doing this. We’ll get a reputation as a black widow employer and no one decent will ever want to work here. I say we put a warning in Gerard’s file and give him another chance.”
“No,” said Clendenning, turning from white to blue. “I have never sat on a board that didn’t vote in full agreement. We will vote as one on this.”
The room went very still. The only sound was that of the deathwatch beetles clicking in the coffered wood ceiling.
“Speaking of managers,” said Regina brightly, shifting focus. “I saw our old one at the mall the other day. She’s just moved back to the area, and she had a little boy with her.”
“Some fool actually married that dried-up fruit?” Quilpe laughed at his own question, even though nothing was funny.
“Well, no,” said Regina, smirking. “When I said, oh, who’s the lucky man? she said there was no man. She was a single mother.”
Clendenning tried to say the words Let’s move on, but they would not form in the dry, sticky cavity that had become his mouth. When he heard Eugene Hollowell mumble something about age, he started coughing.
“He’s over three,” said Regina, politely ignoring Humpy’s seizure. “She must have gotten knocked up. . .”
They all counted on their fingers and looked at one another, not sure of their results.
Clendenning slammed the mallet on the table and they flinched. “Enough,” he said, straightening in his chair. “Maybe it’s too hot to make an intelligent decision to-night. In the meantime, I’m going to talk to our legal counsel and get our ducks in a row so that when we do fire Wilton, there’s no suing for wrongful dismissal.”
A nocturnal insect beat against the screen, distracting Clendenning as he stood to leave, and he knocked his glass over. The bourbon poured out on the table in sheets, soaking Gerard’s employment folder.
“Ducks, smucks,” said Quilpe, standing up and stretching. “The staff seems to love him. And a happy staff makes for happy members, no matter what way you look at it. As head of the Food Committee, I’m going to blow my own horn and say that the food here is the best it’s ever been. When I told Vita as much this morning, she said she owed it all to the board’s leadership, not to mention Gerard’s relentless dedication to exacting service.”
After Clendenning left, general amiability broke out in the room. Conversations were picked up where they were left off as if there had been no meeting at all, and they hurried to get to the porch or air-conditioned lounge, eager to find out if anything more had been dug up about the Clays. It was so much fun to have a scandal!
Chapter Twenty-two
T
he Slice
A FEW DAYS after the board meeting, Vita sat on the cold stone bench in the garden contemplating the abyss of darkness around her. She clicked the illumination on her watch, then turned it off. It was almost four o’clock in the morning, which meant that Mrs. Suarez and her sons would arrive soon. Vita felt another rush of anxiety come over her, and she clasped her stomach. A bird trilled sharply, then all was silent again.
Greek gods, cloaked in ivy and set into niches along the brick walls, kept watch with her. They must be lonely, she thought. When she first started working at the Club and saw the enclosed garden tucked away at the back of the building, she’d asked Gerard why the members ignored it. True, it was a bit frayed around the edges with overgrowth, and the bronze sundial with the inscription I Count Only Sunny Hours had fallen off its pedestal long ago, but the overall atmosphere was darkly romantic. And after all, even bloodless Wasps needed a decent place to propose. Gerard had rolled his eyes and pointed to the adjacent employee parking lot. The garden was in an unfashionable neighborhood.
It must have been au courant at one time, though, because in the Club’s kitchen files she’d unearthed yellowed menus for Teas in the Garden, Cocktails by the Sundial, and even one for a White Food Party in Moonlight: White Grapes, Cold Chicken with White Glaze, Poached Sole with White Sauce, Endive Salad, and Meringues with White Crystallized Violets. As revolting as the food sounded, it was not nearly as repulsive as the penciled note on the menu reminding the manager to hire coal-black musicians to make the white seem whiter.
But the world, even the Club’s world, changed after World War II, when the workers, who had always lived on premises (Vita imagined the cook curled up on a rug in front of the stove) began to live independent lives and commuted to work. They parked their jalopies by the kitchen door, and over the years this parking area expanded until one day it was just too close to the garden for comfort. It wasn’t long before it was abandoned; until now it was hardly remembered.