Lovesick

by James Driggers

  Plus, Butcher ate for free. The Director of the Residence, a high-strung, thin, bespeckled ex-professor who was employed by the VOA, and whom Butcher suspected was also a three-letter man because of his habit of standing with his hands cocked on his hips when he was trying to speak emphatically and with purpose, had made a point of telling him that meals were included. But Butcher had been around a kitchen long enough to know the cook always eats for free.

  Still, he didn’t mind if he thought the director was playing up to him. Butcher knew the VOA saw him as a valued commodity. Didn’t want to lose him. They served three meals a day, seven days a week. Butcher could stretch the budget so that even though the soup was sometimes little more than broth or the gravy was little more than flavored drippings, he always managed to make it seem like more. He was a damn fine cook and when he put his hand to pastry, there was no one who could hold a candle to him. He could take the thinnest broth and fatten it up with enough soft pastry so that no one thought twice there was only a skerrick of meat. He would nestle a towering golden biscuit in a puddle of gravy so that by the time a hungry man had finished sopping his plate, the greasy film coating his lips held only the satisfying memory of breakfast. Sunday mornings, he always made sweet buns or fried fresh doughnuts with a warm cinnamon and powdered sugar glaze, and on those nights when there was only soup for dinner, any man could have as many helpings as he wanted.

  He had been offered a job at one of the penny restaurants on Robeson Street and though the pay had been better, working there meant he would have had to find a room. Here, though he had his private space, he was never isolated. The Residence was alive with comings and goings, of people, of challenges. True, the VOA was charity with a foundation in scripture, but it was still run like a business, and he merely lived over the store. It helped him to hang on to the dream that someday he would do just that. Live over the store, like the bakers and bistro owners he had seen in Brest. And since the VOA perceived itself as doing a “good work,” living there also helped keep him on the straight and narrow. No drinking allowed. That was the rule. He had seen it enforced enough to know not to test it. Besides, as they say, he had a problem with the drink. He was smart enough to know it. It had fueled his courage when he joined the army. And it had caused the death of Johnson Everetts in a bar one night after the war. He was happy to stay where he was until he had his own store. His own shop. At night, after he had showered and gone to his room for the night, he would lie on top of his bed, his hands interlaced behind his head, his head resting on his pillow, and he would dream.

  The VOA Residence was more than just a soup kitchen. They served three squares a day. He had gotten trained that way in the army. It was his routine for the ten years he had been on the inside as well. There was never enough money, but the director was dogged in his search for donations, and had created a board of “Miss Anns” culled from several local women’s clubs and charitable organizations who had agreed to adopt the VOA as their own personal charitable mission, happy to assist those who had even less than they did. At least they were still able to hold to a pretense of prosperity even if their dresses were out of fashion and their hats were several years old, merely redressed with a new ribbon or a silk flower. Still, they were happy to help pass the plate or ask for contributions from their husbands and friends when there were too many men to feed and not enough money to feed them with.

  They were exceedingly flattering. On his pies, his cake, his cobblers, his stews, his gravies. Some would even ask him for a pie to take home with them if company was coming. Lemon meringue, buttermilk custard, chocolate chess. They always made sure to bring their own pie pan. They told him they didn’t want to put him out in case he needed it for the Residence. He knew, however, they just intended to pass his pie off as their own. That didn’t bother him. They acted as if they were paying him a compliment, to take what he had made and claim it—that it somehow legitimized it, gave it worth. Butcher also recognized there was some truth in that idea. His value in this world was determined by someone other than himself. He had learned that in the war, on the rail, in prison. Get what you can get. Nothing’s free. Over the two years, with his salary and his pies, he had managed to save almost $500. When he had enough, he planned to take the money and buy himself a storefront, and turn it into a bistro or a café like those he had seen in Brest. And he would sell baked goods to anyone who wanted them. Pies, cakes, bread. The ladies on the board from the VOA would shop at his store or they would send their maids to bring something home. He would even bake a pie in their tin if they wanted. As long as they paid. Set a value on it. Valued him.

  Butcher looked out across the horizon. It was later, but only slightly brighter. In his hand he held a scrap of paper. He folded it up and tucked it back into his shirt pocket, which is where he kept it. “Fucking cold,” he muttered as he threw the dregs of his coffee out across the back steps. Butcher knew he needed money. More money than he had. He wanted money. A great sum of money. And Butcher had a plan for how he was going to get it. All he needed now was a partner.

  2

  Sally Lunn bread . . .

  The director had dedicated a small parlor off the main common area of the Residence for the board of women to use for their meetings, which they did every other Thursday. The women had taken great pride in their meeting room, as he knew women were wont to do with such things, decorating it with bric-a-brac from their own homes to lessen the austerity of the straight-backed chairs and small mahogany pedestal table and breakfront that served as the only furniture in the room. Now there was a floor lamp with a fringed shade, a lace cloth for the table, odd mismatched pieces of china from their cupboards. One of the women had also donated a watercolor done by her niece titled Hestia at the Hearth.

  The director would meet with them to go over the finances, discuss donations, plan meals for special events like Thanksgiving and Christmas. It had become the custom that Butcher would bake something for them: sticky bread or a tea cake if they met in the morning, perhaps a shortbread or a burnt custard if they met in the afternoon. They had all gathered, their chairs arranged in a loose semicircle, when he brought in a freshly baked Sally Lunn, some sweet butter, and a pot of homemade peach jam. Mrs. Katherine Fisher, the unofficial leader of the board, poured tea and directed Butcher to leave the bread on the table. All the members of the board were there. In addition to Miss Katherine, there was Marie Wilkins, Margaret Adcock, Thelma Russell, Elizabeth Bookshire, Ruth Jennings, and Virginia Yeager. And next to her, the director. Butcher knew them all, had listened to the director complain about them collectively and individually, had heard about their husbands and their children, had studied them in the months he had worked at the VOA, knew the pecking order.

  Miss Katherine was married to the President of the Piedmont Security and Trust, and as the wife of a banker, she commanded the respect of the other women. She was a broad, heavyset woman with a determined jawline and an unswerving eye. Butcher knew her to be no-nonsense. She was not prone to fashion as were most of the “Miss Anns”—she would often wear the same frock, a simple pleated chocolate shirtwaist with a squared bodice adorned only by a pearl brooch. She was practical in her shoes as well, Butcher had observed. Where the other ladies would have heels with straps or shiny patent leathers, Miss Katherine always wore a simple pair of rounded flat heels. She looked ready for business. Her only luxury was the heavy fur she brought with her at the first hint of cold and wore well into the spring. Butcher also watched how the other women reacted to, honored the wealth the coat represented.

  “Thank you, George,” she said, eying the tray with the bread. “Is that a Sally Lunn? What a treat. My mother-in-law makes one, but she does hers in an angel cake pan. I am sure yours will rival it if anyone’s can. Has it cooled? I don’t want to slice it too fresh. When bread is too hot, you can’t slice it. It will only press it down. And did you bring a serrated knife?”

  “I took it out of the oven ’bout half an hour ago,” Butche
r replied. “It should be fine to slice, but still warm enough to spread the butter. I brought you a knife—if you want, I can slice it for you.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” she said. “I think Mrs. Wilkins can do the honors.” Butcher placed the tray on the table as Miss Marie, round as a cookie jar with two brightly colored dots of rouge circled on her cheeks, jumped to Miss Katherine’s command. Butcher knew he could not leave until he was dismissed by the director, needed to be available should there be a question about the state of affairs in the kitchen. He showed Miss Marie where to cut.

  “I think you should be able to get eight slices,” he said, “if nobody minds the heel.”

  “If you make it in an angel cake pan, George, then no one has to get the heel end,” noted Miss Katherine.

  “The heel will do for me,” said the director.

  “And for me as well,” said Miss Virginia. Butcher recognized the concession. Miss Virginia was the newest member of the group, having been awarded admission only four months earlier. She was the widow of a war hero, her husband killed at the second battle for the Marne, the director had told him. What troubled Butcher was the awareness that while the rest of the women seemed cut of a whole cloth, he could not figure Miss Virginia. She didn’t act like the others. She didn’t look like the others. She was pale as a moonbeam, and even in the coldest weather, she fancied lighter tones—ice blue, eggshell, sage or sherbet green—unlike the drab browns and olives of the other women. Butcher felt she wished to stand apart from them somehow, wondered if it was simply that she did not want to be deemed matronly. However, there was something else to her, something hidden. Her dresses were tailored to showcase her slim waist, and whereas they all had their hair pulled back into a loose bun or topknot, her blond hair was cut short and curled in a deep-set finger wave. She plucked her eyebrows and smoothed them with a pencil into thin arches above her watery blue eyes. Butcher had the impression that if the sun caught her at the right angle she might be translucent. He could also see the relationship between her and these other women was one of mutual distrust. It was obvious—these women did not like her, and she did not care for them. She moved among them, but was not one of them. She deferred to them in polite society, but would not be a guest in any of their homes unless it would be to fill a table as the escort for a single officer from the army base.

  “This cuts like a dream,” said Miss Marie. “I don’t know how you do it, George. It is light as a cloud, but it has texture as well.” Then to the ladies, “Unless there is objection, I will put jam and butter on each plate.” There was a murmur of consent as she passed the plates. Miss Virginia and the director received theirs last. The women balanced the plates expertly on their laps, holding cups of hot tea in their hands.

  “If I could bake like this, I know what I would be doing,” said Miss Thelma.

  “Yes, and what is that?” asked Miss Katherine as she poured the final cup of tea for herself and lowered herself into her chair.

  “Why, I would be entering my recipes in the Mystic White Flour contest. I would be applying to become The Lady in the White Hat.”

  “There is only one problem with that,” said Miss Ruth. “I’ve tasted your biscuits.”

  There was some good-natured laughter, to which Miss Thelma replied, “Yes, it is good I can still afford to have a cook. I think the judge would starve if Leena ever left us.”

  Butcher stood to the side of the director, waiting for an opportunity to address any questions. Sometimes, they would ask for his report first thing and he would be free of them; other days, he would be forced to stand, head bowed, hands folded in front while they ate and gossiped and sipped their tea. Today, they took little notice of him, the conversation having turned to the baking contest.

  Miss Elizabeth, who also served on the WCTU, had no time for the contest since they specifically allowed the use of alcohol.

  “But, Elizabeth, it isn’t like they are promoting drinking,” said Miss Ruth. “It is only a flavoring. I am as temperance as the next, but I have never had a fruit cake or a Lane cake that wasn’t made better with a drop of shinny.”

  Miss Elizabeth wasn’t moved. She merely humphed, “It is a line, Ruth. And either you cross it or you don’t. Get people used to the taste in a sweet cake, then they will be wanting more. Besides, my sister-in-law has met Colonel Clayton Claiborne II”—she paused to clarify for those not familiar with the name—“the President of the Mystic White Flour Company. She says he has strong associations with the Klan. Not to mention that whoever does this would be like a common salesgirl. Imagine having your likeness on a sack of flour.”

  Butcher was familiar with the contest, since a flyer came in every sack of Mystic White. It was the same flyer he had tucked into his pocket:

  Are You The

  Lady in the White Hat?

  Mystic White Flour is searching for the ideal Southern Woman to represent the best of Southern Womanhood—delicacy, purity, softness, and strength.

  Qualities that also describe Mystic White Flour, milled from only the finest, soft white flour.

  A Southern Tradition . . .

  . . . Born from Our Southern Heritage

  The winner will receive a cash prize of $2500 and a one-year contract with Mystic White Flour as “The Lady in the White Hat.”

  First runner-up will receive a Brand-New! All Gas! Porcelain & Heavy Cast-Iron Metal! Magic Chef Oven!

  All finalists will receive a one-year supply of Mystic White baking products.

  On the back of the flyer was the list of rules:

  1. Each entrant should submit a short biography and a photograph, and her favorite “signature” recipe made with Mystic White Flour or Mystic White Self-Rising Flour. Recipes should be in keeping with the tastes of women in the South and should not employ exotic or foreign ingredients. Note: Alcohol is permitted only as a flavoring in limited amounts.

  2. Finalists should be available to appear in Atlanta during the third week of June 1935.

  3. Finalists will be judged on the following: • Interview, personality, and poise

  • Menu planning

  • Baking demonstration

  4. Each finalist will be expected to pay her own travel expenses to Atlanta. Hotel room and board during the competition will be complimentary.

  5. Contest open to any woman of true Southern descent.

  6. All contestants should be of highest moral quality.

  7. Recipes must be original (or adapted to a family tradition) and will be judged on criteria outlined below: • Taste

  • Appearance

  • Creativity

  • Consumer appeal

  8. Decision of the judges is final in all matters relating to this contest.

  What Butcher could do with that money! It would be more than enough to fund his bistro, his café. He would even be able to compete in a city where people knew about food, somewhere like Savannah or even New Orleans. How unfair to dress up one of these hollow “Miss Anns” who only pretended to know how to cook, when he . . . when he . . . was actually deserving. The system was rigged against him. Had always been, he knew. But if he was clever . . .

  “George?”

  The director’s voice shook him from his contemplation.

  “Yessir.”

  “Mrs. Fisher was asking about the hams she had donated for Christmas.”

  “I’m down to the last two.”

  “Already,” said Miss Katherine. “Why, I declare. You must be serving these men ham biscuits every day. I thought surely that they might at least last till Easter.” She dabbed crumbs and a spot of jam from her lips.

  Butcher wanted to walk over to her, to grab her by her throat and shake her hard till her tight gray bun fell loose down her back and her teeth rattled in her head. He had scraped and scrimped with the four hams she had donated to the Residence, had served each man a mere sliver on Christmas Day, and then chopped just a small amount into his New Year’s Hoppin’ John. He wanted to
scream at her about the hundreds of ways he worked to serve the men something that even resembled real food—how just last week he had been forced to press black-eyed peas into patties so they would at least look like meat.

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Fisher, the men do not eat ham every morning,” said the director. “I eat with them every day, and though George does a good job of working with what we have, the meals are far from fancy.”