Lovesick

by James Driggers

  “Good afternoon,” she said, extending her gloved hand to the woman in charge. “I am Virginia Yeager.”

  The woman behind the table introduced herself as Florence Gaffney and her friend, who seemed slightly hard of hearing, as Mrs. Bethel Talbot Walker. Florence Gaffney leaned toward Virginia as if sharing a confidence, “The Talbot Walkers are one of Atlanta’s finest. Her grandfather was killed in the Battle of Atlanta just around the corner somewhere.” Virginia made sure to seem suitably impressed and gave a warm hello to the old woman. Florence Gaffney continued, “Some of the ladies have already arrived and are gathered by the punch bowl or looking at the seating arrangement.” She pointed to the row of chairs at the front of the room, facing the audience. “I’m afraid they have you all lined up in a row like a firing squad.”

  “More of a semicircle,” said Virginia. “Perhaps some of us will manage to get out alive.”

  “I think it has something to do with the newspaper woman, so that she can ask you all questions. And I am sure you will do just fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I must pin this dreadful name tag on you. Why they gave this job to me, I’ll never know. Don’t let me do any damage. There now. That doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Thank you,” said Virginia. “I think I might have a sip of punch. It is awfully warm today.”

  “Do,” said Mrs. Talbot Walker of the Atlanta Talbot Walkers. “It’s temperance. And the best of luck to you.”

  In a quick head count, Virginia could spot five other ladies. She tried to size them up. Which ones were just incompetent, which would be too eager to please, which ones would be difficult or needy? She was not the last. As she made her way to the punch bowl, a woman arrived at the registration table with Mrs. Gaffney and Mrs. Talbot Walker. Virginia took a glass of sparkling punch and a napkin, and studied the arrangement of the chairs. Their names were printed on cards taped to the back—it was rather like a firing squad, she agreed. She thought about wandering to the semicircle, but her attention was diverted by a commotion at the door. The last woman had entered the room. And what a woman. For a moment, Virginia felt as if she might burst into laughter at the sheer spectacle of her. Her dress was totally inappropriate in these surroundings. She wore a boldly printed floral silk lounge dress with a Bertha ruffle with a fitted bodice and short sleeves. Even worse, she had pinned a silk hydrangea inside the bosom of her dress, so that it looked as if it were blooming there. But most conspicuous was the hat. She had taken what appeared to be two white cloche-style hats and stitched them together, one on top of the other so they resembled a cake where the layers had gone slightly cockeyed. Around the hat she had sewn or pinned bunches of cherries. She paraded into the room with her arms out in front of her and slightly to the side, palms down in an imitation of a Ziegfeld girl. Virginia could see the soft flesh wagging underneath her arms.

  “Hi, y’all,” she called out to everyone. “The circus has arrived.” She paused for a moment. “I’m Wadena, but you all can call me Elaine Cake.” Then she paused again, pointing to her hat. “Get it? A Lane cake?” She laughed again, broadly, and some of the ladies applauded.

  “How clever she is,” said a woman near where Virginia stood. “And what an outgoing personality.”

  Virginia thought, yes, the circus had indeed arrived. And brought with it her competition.

  One of the women from the local DOC asked the women to take their places in the circle of chairs. It was time to begin the official program. Virginia was seated between Jubal Hart and Inez Honeycutt. Jubal had fashioned a bonnet for herself, and when she saw that Virginia was looking at it, she said she was always inspired by her granny who wore a bonnet, so she wanted to honor her. Virginia could tell by the cut of her clothes that Jubal was out of her league here—a woman who probably volunteered to make chicken salad for every church function and, therefore, had a favorable reputation among a very small group of women who were happy enough to have decent chicken salad made for them on a regular basis. On the other hand, Inez was hard country, nothing more. Virginia had seen this type of woman often enough. Her shoes were old and did not match her dress, which was probably borrowed. Her hat was white straw like Virginia’s, but it was flat as a pancake and sat atop her head as if she were balancing a tray where perched a veritable cornucopia of wax fruit. Wadena Chastain sat opposite Virginia in the circle of chairs, almost a mirror image in her Lane cake hat. She didn’t settle in right away, fidgeting like a small girl at a recital, smoothing her skirt over her legs and adjusting her hat. They were small gestures, but Virginia could tell she was nervous, a bit on edge, ready to begin. When she looked across at Virginia, she cocked her head slightly like an animal in the zoo that enjoys being watched. She flashed a smile and shrugged her shoulders as if to ask what was happening next.

  Then, as if on cue, the local DOC representative, who also turned out to be the president of the local chapter, Mrs. Margaret Wheeler, thanked the committee responsible for hosting the tea, then recognized all the officers present from their club. These small pleasantries formed the foundation of the women’s clubs, Virginia knew. Each woman needed just a moment in the sun so she could show off her hat, her hairdo, her latest frock. It would give the women of the Atlanta DOC fodder for months. Mrs. Wheeler then introduced Jocelyn Hind Crowley from the paper, who would interview them and also serve as a judge. She also introduced Roland, the chef of the Plantation House. After each name was presented, there was polite applause.

  Then Mrs. Wheeler took a deep breath and gathered herself up for her official welcoming speech. Fortunately, it was mercifully short about the virtue of women in general and the virtues of Southern women in particular. Then, she added, “But none of this would be possible without the vision, the support, and the generosity of our sponsor, the President of Mystic White Flour, Colonel Clayton Claiborne II.”

  The surprise of Clayton Claiborne was that he was not what she had expected. Virginia thought the name sounded almost like a bit of stagecraft, a politician in a melodrama. Seersucker and a full head of white hair. Gregarious, a bit pompous, exaggerated. The Clayton Claiborne who walked through the door, however, more closely resembled an accountant or an undertaker.

  He was nearly bald, but combed wisps of hair up and around to the top of his head where they lay like discarded thread. He wore a dark suit, too hot for summer, and though it was expensive, it did not fit him well. There was open space between his neck and shirt collar, and he wore spectacles. As for age, Virginia had not a clue—he could have been forty or four hundred. She thought he looked very much like a fairy-tale troll sprung to life.

  Claiborne thanked Mrs. Wheeler and took out a sheet of paper with his prepared remarks. His voice was high-pitched, nasal, with a deep Southern drawl that identified him as Georgia born and bred.

  “Ladies of Atlanta and ladies who are guests of Atlanta,” he said, acknowledging first the audience and then the circle of contestants. “This is a very special occasion. A special occasion, indeed. I want to welcome you all to the Plantation House Hotel where we will, before the weekend is over, choose one of these women to be the official representative of the Mystic White Flour Company.

  “As you know, Mystic White is a family business, started by my grandfather. We have always prided ourselves on milling the softest white flour that money can buy. We are the flour of the Southern lady.”

  There was a slight murmur of applause from the group. Claiborne looked up from his statement. “I hope I wasn’t sounding too much like an advertisement,” he said. “But this is my heritage. There is a joke that says, ‘If you were to slice Clay Claiborne’s finger, he would bleed white.’ There may be some truth in that. And Mystic White is a part of your heritage as well. Every time you use it to bake a cake or a biscuit. To show your family how much you care.”

  Virginia looked out over the audience. The women seemed genuinely moved by this notion. That what they were doing each day mattered.

  “Now there are two women who cooked for me w
hen I was a boy,” Claiborne continued. My mamma was one of them, and the other was my black mammy. I loved them both, put flowers on both their graves, God rest their souls, but who do you suppose I want to have be the representative of my company—the picture of the Southern woman we send out to the world?

  “I know you ladies know what I am talking about. Some will put a colored man or a black mammy on a box and call it Southern. ‘Jimmy Crack Corn’ and all that nonsense. Well, it ain’t my South. My South is you ladies. And your sisters and your aunts and your cousins and your daughters. And your daughters’ daughters.

  “You all hold the heart of the South in your hands. I applaud your work and your sacrifice. Mystic White Flour celebrates all of you by choosing one of you to represent each of you.”

  The ladies of Atlanta applauded loudly as Claiborne concluded his remarks. The muffled thump of gloved hands. Virginia could not help but smile. If Claiborne sought a champion, then that is what she would be. There was probably less than a span of fifteen years in age among them all, but she was the prettiest of these contestants—that was obvious. She was the most stylish. The most sophisticated. She could sense the wariness of the women around her. If Wadena was a parade float, then she was a sculpture. She knew this feeling, had experienced it before when she mingled in their midst. She had not had friends really since Dorothea. She didn’t have time for it—life on her own took all she had. Besides, women did not take to her, trust her, like her. She supposed they feared she might become entangled with one of their husbands, and that could never be allowed. And so they would invite her to dinner, to cocktails if they were liberal. But only to fill out a table. Never as a friend for supper. The wives had it wrong, though—Virginia was not interested in their husbands. She wanted more than what these women had. She wanted a husband of her own who would take her someplace where she could become her own creation. Women did it all the time in plays and movies. All it took was imagination and bit of flair.

  This time was different somehow, Virginia realized. Now she could cook. This made her like one of them—or at least would make them think she was like them. When she became The Lady, she would perform it like a part, like a role played by Constance Bennett or Irene Dunne. And just as the women wanted to be them, they would want to be like her. When she became The Lady, these women would perhaps be uneasy around her, but it would not be out of fear she was going to steal their husbands. In fact, she imagined they would offer the husbands up if The Lady asked it. These women now in the audience were trying to imagine what it must be like to be her—and Virginia understood what those girls in the auditions knew. This was hers for the taking.

  Claiborne made his way around the circle beginning on the far side away from Virginia. He said something to each woman, wished them well. She tried to judge if he lingered with Wadena Chastain, but wasn’t certain. And since he had his back directly to her, Wadena’s face was hidden from her.

  When he reached her, Virginia had to lean her head back slightly to hold him full faced in front of her.

  “That is a very dramatic hat, Mrs. Yeager,” he said.

  “You don’t think it gilds the lily?”

  “Impossible.”

  “What a kind thing to say. Please call me Virginia—as my friends do.”

  “Very well, Miss Virginia.” She noted that he did not return the offer to call him by his Christian name. Instead, he added, “I seem to recall that your maiden name was Blankenship. That is a fine family, indeed. I went to Emory with Lionel Blankenship.”

  “A distant cousin no doubt,” Virginia interjected. “As they say, stick a pushpin into a low-country map of the Carolinas and you’re likely to hit a Blankenship.”

  “Yes, well, a fine family. I am certainly looking forward to getting to know you more over the weekend. The best of luck to you.” She thought that ever so slightly his hand held hers just a bit more tightly than was proper. Then he was off to Jubal Hart and her bonnet. Virginia wondered how many times she would be forced to hear that recitation.

  When he had greeted all the contestants, Claiborne introduced Roland to tell them about how the program would unfold.

  “In a few minutes, Miss Crowley is going to ask you some questions and then have her photographer take some pictures of all of you for the paper,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’m afraid, will not be as glamorous. We will meet tomorrow morning at eight-thirty AM in the kitchen for the first round of the competition. Each of you will make an item from your breakfast menu. If you only submitted one item, you must make that. If you submitted two selections, you may choose which one. You will have two hours to prepare your dish and then Mr. Claiborne, Miss Crowley, and myself will taste, compare, and judge. At that time, four of you will be eliminated.”

  There was an audible gasp from somewhere in the room.

  “Goodness,” said Inez Honeycutt. “Eliminated. How humiliating to just be told to go home.”

  Roland held his hand up to silence the chatter. “Yes, the competition is very real. After lunch, the remaining four contestants will meet at two o’clock to prepare an item from her Sunday Dinner menu. The same rules as for breakfast apply, except you will have three hours to make your dinner entry. That should give those of you who wish to make a cake or a pie plenty of time. We will eliminate two more contestants after this round.

  “The championship round will take place on Saturday morning, where the final two contestants will make an item from her Ladies’ Luncheon menu. Again, contestants will be given three hours to prepare the dish. We will announce the winner at a reception held here on Saturday afternoon at four o’clock. You may use any special pie plates, molds, or cooking equipment that you may have brought with you. We will supply all other ingredients including, of course, Mystic White Flour, both plain and self-rising.”

  There was a feeble attempt at laughter, but Virginia could tell his announcement had caught many of the women off guard, could read the surprise and indignation on several faces, though the women tried to conceal their emotions. She thought Muriel Sallis might just stand up and march right out of the room. These women were not used to being so much on display, and they did not like it. This struck at their vanity—to be called out in public as the worst at something they took pride in. It was like being told your child was ugly. It just wasn’t done.

  Roland concluded, “If you have any questions for me, please see me after the photo session. We will have a tour of the kitchen, and I will do whatever I can to assist you.” He returned to his seat as one of the photographers pulled a chair up to the edge of the circle for the reporter. In the lull, Wadena Chastain confided to the group in an exaggerated stage whisper. “My brother Bobby won a pig once at the fair. Had to wrassle a boy for it, though. At least we don’t have to wrassle.”

  “At least not yet,” answered one of the women. But Virginia couldn’t tell which one. She was running recipes in her head, planning her strategy. She had no intention of leaving now that she had arrived.

  7

  pound cake . . .

  The call for a tray to be delivered to Miss Virginia’s room came just after seven o’clock. One of the other boys was in line to take it, but Butcher asked if he could step up.

  “Not a problem,” said Walter. “These ladies don’t tip much no ways.”

  Butcher managed to sneak a bit of pound cake on the tray for Mona. He knew how much she liked sweets. It was a small gesture, but he hoped she would notice.

  When the girl opened the door to the room, Butcher saw Virginia seated in the chair by the window in her stocking feet, sipping a highball, her eyes closed. He put the tray on the table and waited. For a moment, he wasn’t sure she was even going to greet him.

  Mona spoke on his behalf. “Mr. Butcher is here to see you, ma’am.”

  Virginia raised her head and opened her eyes. He could see she was slightly tipsy. Not as drunk as the night in her kitchen, but she had had a nip. He wondered if it was a signal things had gone badly.

&nb
sp; “George, thank you for bringing our supper tray.”

  “Weren’t no problem. Glad to do it.”

  He stood for a moment, unsure what to do. He looked to Mona for help.

  “He wants to know about the reception. Tell him.”

  Virginia smiled. “Yes, the reception. I was just drinking a toast to myself. I was a huge success if I do say so.”

  “That’s good news indeed. You’ll be baking in the morning I suppose.”

  “We’re all baking in the morning,” she said. “All the ladies are on display in the morning baking for breakfast. Or does a waffle count as baking? You were right, you know. Three of them are doing waffles. Poor Jubal Hart is making pancakes. She’ll probably wear that god-awful bonnet of hers as well. Two are making biscuits. The very fact I am doing something different should give me some advantage.”

  “Just like I told you,” he said, smiling. “You bring the popover pans with you? They got muffin tins down in the kitchen, but they won’t hold the heat. And make sure they have the ingredients out for you—they need to be at room temperature.”

  “I have the popover pans. And I have spoken to Roland about the ingredients. Please, George, do not ask me about food. I have listened to women do nothing else but talk food all afternoon. I feel like I have been battered and fried and baptized in gravy. Wadena Chastain is making cake doughnuts. Isn’t that clever? Why didn’t you think of cake doughnuts, George?”

  “A doughnut is more variable. You have to time them just right or they get tough.”

  “Don’t you love it, Mona? You see, like I said—he has an answer for every question. George is a walking food encyclopedia. Answer me this, George. What is the most important item in your kitchen—and you can’t say stove.”

  “I don’t know. My recipe book, I suppose.”