Roux Morgue

by Claire M Johnson

  “Yeah,” he mumbled and then pulled the trench coat even tighter around his neck, as if embarrassed by this confession.

  “Go to Paris. You’re young. You’ve got no worries, no mortgage, no kids. Some things can’t be put on hold.” I flung back over one shoulder and put a hand on the door handle, poised to make my exit.

  I’d never before experienced claustrophobia, but the back of this van was getting smaller by the minute. Perhaps if we’d been in a normal-sized room, my impatience and Marc’s immaturity wouldn’t have seemed so apparent. When thrashing around like teenagers in a confined space only heightened the sexual tension, sniping at each other in a space roughly three feet by four feet was akin to throwing a gallon of light fluid on a bunch of coals and then igniting it with a blowtorch.

  “You sound like Shelley. Have you two been comparing notes?”

  The bitter tone in his voice made me stop. With a savage jerk, Marc threw off the trench coat and after rifling through the pile of clothes, grabbed a pair of jeans.

  “We’re young. Why won’t you come with me? What’s going on?” Marc sing-songed in a vicious parody of Shelley. He pulled on the jeans, muttering. “Nagging bitch.”

  I was halfway out the door when I heard him add “…es.”

  I climbed back in the van and slammed the door shut. I don’t know what made me lose my cool so completely. Maybe it was because now I’d be driving across the Bay Bridge not remembering the taste of those raspberries; instead I’d be fuming the whole time how I’d wasted four hours of my life screwing some guy with the maturity level of Bart Simpson.

  Crouching in front of Marc, I screamed at him, “You, asshole. This had been one of the nicest nights I’ve had in a long time, and you had to go ruin it with your little temper tantrum. I should send Shelley a note congratulating her on ridding herself of such a jerk. Clearly, your immaturity extends to all aspects of your life. Shelley. Étienne. He might have the students carve vegetables into little shapes for hours, but the first spoonful of his soup, any soup, will bring tears of joy to your eyes. He doesn’t deserve your scorn anymore than you deserve his respect. Cooking is a very small world, Marc. Menu by menu you’re building a reputation for being a cocky prima donna who is way too big for his chef’s whites. This school graduates a hundred students every four months. Lots of those students like Étienne. Your petty shenanigans at the school are already making waves in the industry. Who’s going to hire a trouble-maker?”

  I hated him. Perhaps a one-night stand isn’t the healthiest of barometers for getting back into the dating scene, but tonight all I needed was for someone to tell me I was beautiful, desirable. Nothing more. So instead of looking back on this night and patting myself on the back that I’d crossed an important threshold, I’d be berating myself for being unbelievably stupid and desperate. That’s the last time I’m going to be spontaneous. If I didn’t leave, I’d smack him. I turned and was once again halfway out of the door when Marc grabbed me by both arms, spun me around with a force that knocked the wind out or me, and pulled me down on my knees and toward him until our faces were eight inches from each other.

  “Trouble-maker?” he sneered. “I heard you wrote the book, darlin’. A new restaurant every six months until Brett Brown hired you. Heard you had him nicely pussy-whipped. Jumped when you said jump.”

  Our insults ricocheted off the thin walls of the van. The inside of the van reeked of Tide, motor oil, and sex. I grabbed a deep breath, fighting back an ever-increasing sense of claustrophobia.

  “Don’t you dare insult Brett Brown,” I spat back. “He’d wipe the kitchen floor with you. That chicken you served for lunch the first day? He’d have jumped off of the bridge before he’d serve shit like that.” I tried to wrestle free but he only tightened his grip. “I don’t know what your secret agenda is—”

  “What secret agenda?” he demanded and gave me a shake.

  I might be skinny, but I’m strong. You haul sixty-eight pound butter block around for a living and you build some upper body strength. I wrenched myself out of his grip. But instead of making a break for the door like I should have, my temper, as always, got the better of me. I shoved my face even closer to his, the hot breath of his anger mixed with mine.

  “Making the chefs choose sides in your one-man war to get Étienne fired. Strolling your sexy body through the corridor trying to woo everyone into signing your petition. And worst of all, trying to rifle through a dead woman’s lock…”

  Shit.

  He grabbed me again, this time his arms locked around me in a vise so strong I thought my lungs wouldn’t have room to move.

  “What do you know about me and Allison’s locker?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut?

  Marc clamped me to his chest, our kneeling bodies pressed against each other in the cramped cab of the van, faces two inches apart, both of us panting in rage. The faint smell of cognac filled the interior of the van. Funny, how not two hours ago this position would have had me shaking with desire and the panting would have signaled mutual unbridled lust.

  Okay, Mary, the best defense is a good offense.

  “First of all, I had a right to be there. It is the women’s locker room. Second, let me go. Now,” I ordered. “You’re hurting me.”

  Surprisingly, he did. I flexed my arms and rotated my shoulders. The park rangers tell you when you meet a bear try to make yourself big. Didn’t think this applied to being on one’s knees, but I crawled backwards a few inches, straightened my back, and thought “TALL.”

  “Yeah, so why didn’t you say anything when you heard our voices,” he countered, doing some very adequate verbal maneuvers of his own. “Were you spying on us?”

  Think fast, Mary. Why wouldn’t I have said anything? “I’d just used the bathroom and…it started overflowing. No mop, nothing.” He grimaced, remembering the stench in the locker room. “I was dancing trying to save my shoes from getting covered in shit, if you really want to know. By the time you and Shelley arrived I was about to scream for the lifeboats. The overflow was nearly up to my laces.”

  When in doubt gross out. A trick I learned from my nine-year old nephew.

  He cocked his head to one side, apparently trying to determine whether I was telling the truth or not. I greeted his study with nonchalance born out of years of lying. Brazen I do very well. Visual dueling is child’s play to a Catholic girl. I’d faced nuns who’d have had the masterminds of the Spanish Inquisition quaking in their robes.

  Marc didn’t stand a chance.

  “Why didn’t you say anything when you heard our voices?” he demanded again. But I heard the waver in his voice. I had him.

  “Told you, I was up to my ankles in sewage. The school was closed for the weekend. I think I’m alone and all of a sudden I hear a male voice in the women’s locker room. Pardon me, if I decided to keep my mouth shut and stay put. And then, if you remember, Shelley started grabbing at zippers and buttons. Would that have been the optimum time to announce my presence?” He had the grace to blush. “So. What’s your story? What were you hoping to find in Allison’s locker?”

  Marc shoulders slumped. Victory. Sitting back against the wall of the van, he rested his head on his knees and then wrapped his arms around his legs. He began shivering, his torso pale and thin in the weak yellow light from the ceiling.

  “Shut the door, will you? It’s cold,” he said.

  I slammed the door closed, sat back against the door, and rubbed my arms in an attempt to numb the bruises while waiting for his answer.

  He looked up and saw me rubbing my arms.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “I…You have to believe me. I wasn’t going to steal anything. I wanted to see if she had anything I could use against Benson. Then when I saw her locker all trashed I freaked out.”

  “Back-up,” I ordered. “What do you mean, ‘use
against Benson?’”

  “You know what a kiss-ass Allison was. Always twittering around Benson and Antonello. Chef this and chef that,” he intoned in falsetto. “Acting like some horny sixteen-year old all the time. Always in Antonello’s kitchen. Or up in Benson’s office complaining. Mostly about me.” He grimaced. “Hand me that sweatshirt would you. It’s colder than fuck in here.” I threw the sweatshirt at him, and he slipped it over his head and then knees in an effort to get warm. “She pulled a lot of la-di-da shit on me right off the bat, sort of I’m Queen of the May in this place and you’d better watch it. I came this close to sabotaging her butter with fish stock. Could she even cook?”

  “Take my word for it, Marc. She could cook. I admit, she might have been trapped in a time warp. If it was good enough for Escoffier, it was good enough for her. Showpieces were her true forte.” I remembered all the showpieces Allison and I had put together, the sharing of recipes and meals, I leaned my back hard into the wall of the van to blunt the lump swelling in my chest. “Spun sugar, pastillage. That’s where she truly shone.”

  “Why the flack, then? I’m a good cook.” he protested.

  I thought for a moment, the different career paths the two of us had chosen. One determined to take on the world, the other thinking the world wasn’t worth taking on.

  “She probably felt threatened by a chef like you. Someone not classically trained, just kitchen smart and talented. At the school she could do the showpiece crap, be a big fish in a small pond. The kitchen hustle wasn’t her type of dance. She knew her limitations. In a real kitchen, she wouldn’t have lasted two weeks.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t give me the time of day,” he grumbled.

  “Perhaps your physical charms didn’t work for her. That Elvis Presley-like swagger, the lazy grin. Just didn’t pull her chain.”

  “Maybe not,” he grinned. “But I pulled your chain, honey, didn’t I? Man, did I pull your chain.”

  Normally, that sort of cheap remark would have enraged me. I must be getting old. I didn’t feel indignant, just tired, and only confirmed to me how horribly young Marc was.

  Memo to self: do not sleep with men under the age of forty.

  “Allison was made of sterner stuff. I’m easy pickings,” I admitted and added silently, apparently. Considering how sexually deprived I was, one of the three stooges—well, perhaps not Shemp—could have propositioned me and I would have pulled. “Back to the issue at hand. How does this tie in with Allison, her locker, and Benson?”

  “Uh, the light’s hurting my eyes, mind if I turn it off?” he asked, but didn’t wait for a response as he reached over and flicked the switch. “I heard them arguing,” he said to the dark. “One day in the hallway near the store room. Classes were on, and I guess they figured no one could hear them. I couldn’t hear them very well, they were whispering, but it was definitely angry sort of whispering, and at one point Allison lost it and said really loud, ‘I’m tired of waiting, Bob. I know what’s going on. One month, I’m going to give you one month.’ Then she stalked off. I knew it was a long shot, I thought she might have a notebook or something to blackmail Benson with. So he’d fire Étienne.”

  “Blackmail Benson? Fire Étienne?” I repeated in horror. “Are you out of your frigging mind?” I snapped the light back on. “No wonder you wouldn’t tell Shelley what was going on. Last time I checked, blackmail was illegal. Not to mention that little B and E thing.”

  He shrugged.

  “It wasn’t really illegal,” he protested weakly and reached again to off the overhead light. I pushed his hand out of the way. Like a small boy who’s been caught stealing the last cookie, he shoved both arms under his armpits wrapped his arms around himself even tighter, as if compressing his body would legitimize the rationalization.

  “Bullshit. I was the wife of a cop for ten years. This might not apply in the state of Texas, but here in California breaking and entering means prison time with cellmates nicknamed the Terminator.”

  Silence.

  “Out with it, Marc. I need to know. Otherwise I’m reporting you to Benson. I’m serious. Tell me.” I extended my foot across the length of the van and kicked his ankle—hard—to make sure he knew I meant business.

  “I’m still cold.” Marc shivered. Grabbing the raincoat we’d snuggled under after our sexual high jinx, he wrapped himself up in it, his eyes moving everywhere around the van but where I was sitting.

  “Quit stalling,” I demanded. “I want to know what’s going on. You have five seconds. One, two, three—”

  “Okay, okay,” he sighed. Closing his eyes and taking a big breath, as if what he was going to say required a tremendous amount of energy, he mumbled, “Étienne’s my father.”

  That was truly the last thing I expected him to say. It takes a lot to leave me speechless, but I couldn’t say a word. He opened his eyes a crack to gauge my reaction.

  “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t want it spread around,” Marc admonished.

  Ah, yes, I thought. The nose. That Gallic nose that looked so foreign on his perennially sleepy looking face. Rather like a finding a mushroom on top of a chocolate cake. The infallibility of genetics aside, I was still confused. I hadn’t work with these men for more than a couple of weeks, but I definitely didn’t see signs that they knew each other. Quite the contrary, it had been water pitchers at fifty paces.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with this equation, Marc. Why would you try to get you own father fired?”

  “As a kid, I never knew who my father was. You know how kids are. Pestered my mama and got vague bullshit. He was French, couldn’t come to this country. His family wouldn’t let them marry. Never any details. When I started high school she told me I had the right to know who he was.” The eyes closed again, the pain too private to share with me. I got up and crawled over next to him, moving my shoulder hard against his to help him bear this burden that in reality could only be borne by him. I reached up and turned off the light. Groping in the dark for his hand, I brought it up to my warm cheek and cradled it there. It was cold and lifeless.

  “Did you contact him? He must have been here teaching by then.”

  “Nope, didn’t really care. We had a pretty nice life, my mama and me. She taught French in the high school, encouraged me to cook, said it was a gift from my father. Bastard. Mama died a couple of years ago, and when I was cleaning out her stuff I found a bunch of letters she wrote him. First telling him how much she missed him, then she was pregnant, then begging him to marry her. He dumped her. God knows why he returned those letters or why she kept the ones he wrote her. Only showcased the true turd he is. He wrote a few checks over the years. That was it.”

  I tried to ignore the tight knots forming in my neck. “How’d they meet?”

  “She was an exchange student. Junior year abroad. Texas girl from a town with maybe three thousand people going to Paris and having some young French guy make love to you. It was like shooting fish in a barrel.” He rested his head against my shoulder, as if its weight were too much to bear. “Anyway, she got pregnant, didn’t know until she got home, and from that point on he ignored her. I was okay with not having a father until I read those letters.

  “The cruelty and the selfishness, Mary. All the time he’s making a name for himself, earning the big bucks, while she’s a high school French teacher in a hick town where a gourmet meal is having green leaf instead of iceberg in your salad and ninety-five percent of the population speaks Spanish. This,” and he pointed in the direction of the school, “is important to him. Really floats his boat. Well, my mother was important to me. I’m going to get him fired if it’s the last thing I do.”

  He pulled his hand away from my cheek and pounded the floor of the van with his fist; the cheap metal reverberated with his rage.

  Sometimes you let people talk, sometimes you feel it’s necessary to say something to ease their pain, and sometimes you need to say something and know you’
re going to get smacked in the chops for it. I knew I was opting for door number three on this one, but I couldn’t sit there and say nothing.

  I reached over and followed the path of his arm to find that fist I knew would be clenched tight. I very gently wrapped my own hand around it and brought it up to my face and kissed it with extreme tenderness.

  “Marc. Give this up. Go to Paris. If Shelley goes to France, you’ve lost her.” That hit home; he stiffened.

  “I told him who I was, Mary. My second day on the job here.” He said these words so softly that with my free hand I cupped his head even closer into the well between my ear and shoulder blade in an effort to catch every quiet word. “I thought he’d be proud. You know, I’m a pretty good chef. Made a rep for myself already. Christ, I’m only twenty-six years old, and I’ve got television producers trying to hook me for cooking shows. He looked at me like I was yesterday’s dog shit. I went berserk, screaming at the top of my lungs what was so fucking wrong with my mother and me that he ignored our very existence. He said nothing. Just adjusted his chef’s toque and walked out of the locker room.”

  I shifted my weight and wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into my chest, trying not to crush him with my own rage. To throw away a child like that. I’d undergone fertility treatments for several months with no success. As our marriage disintegrated, Jim and I tacitly agreed that continuing them would be profoundly irresponsible. Part of my horrible anger toward Jim when our marriage fell apart was the fear that my one chance for having children had walked out the door. To throw away a son. Fool.

  I gave him a chaste hug. “Buy two planes tickets. One for you, one for Shelley. Getting Étienne fired is not going to get you the father you want. You play poker?”

  He nodded.