A Stiff Critique

by Jaqueline Girdner

  “Didn’t Slade make fun of you in his book?” I asked, my voice coming out too loud.

  Russell shifted his eyes my way. “I don’t think Slade really ‘made fun’ of me,” he answered calmly. “He wrote a character who’s a lot like me. And it’s pretty weird to see yourself from someone else’s perspective. But the fact is, he wrote about a stereotypical Asian kinda nerd. And I am a stereotypical Asian kinda nerd. I don’t think there was anything derogatory in his portrayal. Of course, I think I have more aspects to my personality than he gave his character. But if that character was so obviously recognizable as me, then I guess Slade did a good job.”

  I was beginning to like Russell myself. He really was a good observer of people, just as Carrie had told me. And funny in his own way. I reminded myself that we were here to get some answers from him, funny and likable notwithstanding.

  “Did you visit me last night?” I demanded. I couldn’t think of any better way to ask.

  “Visit you?” he asked back. He fixed an unblinking stare onto my face.

  I felt the blood rise into my cheeks. If he wasn’t my late-night visitor, he probably thought I was nuts. Most people know who their visitors are.

  “Never mind,” I said for the second time in an hour.

  “So much for our mutual investigation,” he commented, smiling gently. “Maybe we could continue over dinner.”

  I barely noticed the dinner part. Mutual investigation? Damn. What the hell did that mean? Carrie and I were the ones asking questions. At least I thought so.

  “We were hoping to speak with Joyce while we were in the area,” Carrie was saying as I began to listen again. “Though a meal does sound good.”

  “Maybe we can get Joyce to come to dinner, too,” Russell suggested.

  “Kate?” Carrie asked.

  “Huh?” I said.

  She frowned at me. My brain began to process again.

  “Oh, sure,” I said, belatedly trying to pump some enthusiasm into my voice. “Dinner would be great.”

  The next thing I knew, we were downstairs getting into Russell’s car. It was a beige Honda Civic. Of course.

  I climbed into the back of the Civic. Carrie sat up front with Russell. When he turned the key in the ignition, I realized he’d never really answered my question about the night before. I stared at the back of his perfectly still head. Was he my nighttime visitor?

  Joyce’s apartment was located above Operation Soup Pot’s headquarters, up a long flight of steep stairs.

  “I’m sorry there’s no place to sit down,” Joyce apologized as the three of us walked into her living room. She hadn’t exactly invited us in, but she had stepped back from the door. And that was enough.

  Carrie murmured something reassuring to Joyce behind me while I looked around the living room.

  I had thought Russell’s living room was Spartan, but Joyce had him beat hands down for simplicity. Russell owned a couch. Joyce had two cushions. One cushion sat in front of a framed photo of an aged, serene face that looked faintly Asian. I had to bend over to see it where it was hung on the wall a couple of feet above the floor. I couldn’t tell if the face in the photo was male or female. I turned to ask Joyce who it was.

  “This is my meditation area,” she explained with a sudden blush that dyed her face all the way to the roots of her black hair.

  “It’s very nice,” I told her, changing conversational course before I’d even started. “Very peaceful.” Joyce’s blush was enough to discourage me from asking any questions about the photo. Though now I had a new question. What was she so embarrassed about? But I probably wouldn’t ask that one either.

  I turned instead to look at the only other furniture in the room, a word processor laid out neatly on a low teak table with Joyce’s other cushion in front of it. I wondered for a moment how she could sit on that cushion and type. Where the hell did she put her legs?

  “We thought we’d take you out to dinner,” Russell said.

  “Oh dear,” Joyce murmured, her eyes widening under her oversized glasses. At least the blush seemed to be receding. “I’m sorry. I was just soaking some beans for tomorrow.”

  “Have you eaten yet tonight?” Carrie asked.

  “Well, no,” Joyce admitted, shaking her head. “I haven’t. But—”

  “Then why don’t you come with us?” Carrie cut in. “A night out would do you good.”

  “Well, I should—”

  After a few more minutes of cajoling, Joyce finally agreed to go to dinner, her acceptance about as enthusiastic as a cat’s considering a visit to the vet.

  Once Carrie had twisted Joyce’s arm sufficiently, we followed her into the kitchen to watch her soak her beans. At least the kitchen looked lived in. It was furnished with a stained and scarred teak table and four chairs. And a lot of cooking equipment. It smelled good too, of garlic and rosemary and yeast. An air-brushed painting of irises was on one wall, and a framed poem in black calligraphy on the other.

  I read the poem as Joyce poured more than a quart of beans into a huge cast-iron pot and carried it to the sink.

  “This existence of ours is as transient as the winter snow…”

  Maybe I should jot it down, I thought, show some interest in other people’s poetry. Joyce ran water over the beans and I read on.

  “…To watch the birth and death of beings is like watching the dance of a butterfly—”

  “Can I help?” Russell offered as Joyce lifted the pot up onto the stove.

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, blushing again. “I can lift much heavier. You have to be strong to be a cook.”

  “A lifetime is like a burst of song…”

  “I guess that’s it,” Joyce said with a wistful edge of sadness in her tone. She looked around her kitchen as if she were memorizing it. I read the last line of calligraphy quickly.

  “Come and gone, like a flash of lightning in the sky.”

  And then the four of us left her apartment.

  “So,” I said as she and I climbed into the back seat of Russell’s Civic. “Who wrote that poem in your kitchen?”

  “What poem?” She tilted her head as she looked at me, her brows raised in inquiry.

  “You know,” I told her. “The one about life being transient—”

  “Oh, that,” she said with a little laugh. “The Buddha wrote it. Or at least he is said to have written it. Did you like it?”

  “Oh sure,” I replied. I wanted to say more, but I was afraid I’d betray my lack of spirituality if I did. I fished around in my mind for a way to change the subject. Russell saved me the trouble.

  “How about that Chinese vegetarian place downtown?” he suggested from the front seat.

  “That would be wonderful,” Joyce breathed, a look of genuine pleasure appearing on her face for the first time. “I feel so decadent,” she confided in a whisper. “I don’t drive. I usually walk or take the bus. Sometimes I bicycle. And I almost never go out to dinner.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. It didn’t take pictures of starving children to remind me of my own relative wealth. I not only owned a car, I owned a house. At least I owned the part of it I wasn’t still paying for. And I took going out to dinner every once in a while for granted. Maybe I’d make a contribution to Operation Soup Pot when I got home.

  “Joyce,” Carrie said from the seat in front of me, “I never got a chance to ask you. Do you still have the manuscript?”

  Joyce didn’t blush this time. Her face went white instead. And she didn’t answer Carrie. She looked too afraid to speak. What was wrong with the woman? Was she that afraid of the Mafia?

  Carrie craned her head around until she was looking Joyce in the eye.

  “Donna Palmer’s manuscript,” she articulated as if for a deaf person. She sketched an outline of a manuscript with her fingers. “Do you still have your copy of Donna’s manuscript?”

  - Eleven -

  Joyce’s body stiffened against the car seat as Carrie stared at her.
Then she took a breath and her body seemed to melt into round-shouldered softness again.

  “I still have my copy of Donna’s manuscript,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap now like a kid the teacher’s yelled at. “I checked. It’s still where I left it in my office at the Operation. Those men probably wouldn’t think of looking there.”

  “Good work,” I told her, keeping my tone light and teasing. “You too could have a career in espionage.”

  She glanced over at me, then looked back at her lap. I smiled like you do when you’re trying to let an animal know you’re not dangerous. I felt like holding out my hand for her to sniff.

  “I didn’t actually try to fool them,” she said softly. “But thank you.” Then she closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth.

  I couldn’t tell if she was meditating or suffering from hay fever or just having a private anxiety attack. But it was obvious to me that she wasn’t in the mood for further conversation. Russell and Carrie respected her silence too, not that she was exactly silent. All that breathing was pretty loud, especially in the back seat. But no one in the car said another thing until we got to The Bodhi-Tree on Burlington Avenue.

  The Bodhi-Tree is a little storefront restaurant in downtown San Ricardo that’s easier to pass by than to notice, only identified by a small hand-painted sign in the front window. If you make it as far as the door, you’ll find a yellowing article about the benefits of vegetarianism Scotch-taped to it. That article’s been there for at least two years. The Bodhi-Tree seems to be doing all it can to discourage customers. Except for the food.

  The food at The Bodhi-Tree is great. The sweet and sour walnuts, musee mock pork in pancakes with plum sauce, and almond press “duck” made from a vegetable product that never quacked in its life are all good enough to make the carnivores happy, at least the carnivores I’ve taken there. And the hot and spicy cabbage and gluten puff in black bean sauce are heaven on a platter as far as I’m concerned.

  Russell pushed the door open and motioned us through, a gentleman of the old school suddenly. I didn’t stop to question the gesture. I was hungry.

  A reed-thin Asian woman in running shoes pointed to a table near the door.

  “You sit,” she ordered.

  We sat, Carrie and I on one side and Joyce and Russell on the other. The thin woman tossed us four menus and then ran off to another table, literally. It looked like she was the only one waiting tables that night.

  “This has gotta be the perfect place to satisfy everyone,” Russell said as he looked over the menu. “I’m Chinese, and Kate and Joyce are vegetarians—”

  “What about me?” Carrie demanded. She crossed her arms across her chest in feigned indignation, her brows raised over laughing brown eyes.

  “Look,” he said quietly, pointing at the menu. “Vegetarian spareribs and Chinese greens. If they’re collard greens, would that be close enough?”

  I snorted back a laugh as Carrie stared at him for an instant, her brows pushed together in a frown. But when she exploded into a peal of laughter instead of anger, I let my own cackle out. Even Joyce smiled tentatively.

  “Ye gods and goddesses, if you aren’t the most deadpan joker I have ever met,” Carrie said a moment later, wiping her eyes.

  Russell’s lips twitched in an acknowledging smile. Myself, I still wasn’t sure that he’d been joking.

  After that, we got down to the complicated business of negotiating our order. Carrie insisted she wanted those vegetarian spareribs. I wanted the hot and spicy cabbage, and/or the gluten puff. Russell wanted Szechuan eggplant. And Joyce wanted whatever the rest of us wanted. Of course. We added rice and two orders of pot stickers and we were ready.

  After the harried waitress ran over and took our order, Carrie and I turned our smiles on Joyce, ready to pump her for information. Even Russell turned her way. I felt like I was one of a school of sharks.

  “I always feel a little guilty eating out,” Joyce whispered before we could start the interrogation. “With so many people out there going hungry.”

  I felt my shark’s smile slipping. This woman could have made Mother Teresa feel guilty about her decadent lifestyle.

  “But I do enjoy tasting other people’s cooking,” she followed up quickly. “Since I’m a cook, I suppose I can tell myself it’s something I should do to perfect my art.”

  “Both my parents are cooks too,” Russell offered.

  “Really?” Joyce said, turning to him with a hint of animation on her pale face.

  “Yeah,” he confirmed. For a moment I thought that was all he was going to say. But then he went on, his low voice as soothing as a massage. “They own a Chinese restaurant in the city. Though I’m afraid it’s not vegetarian.” Russell was turning out to be downright conversational, and it made me suspicious.

  “But that’s wonderful,” Joyce said. “You must have learned so much from them.”

  He shrugged. “Not really,” he told her. “All that good food spoiled me. Oh, I can cook a hamburger.” He blinked, seeming to remember he was in a vegetarian restaurant. “Or a tofu burger for that matter,” he added. “But not much else.” He bent closer, looking into her eyes. “Was it your parents who taught you how to cook?”

  “Which set?” she asked, sticking out her lower lip like a rebellious teenager for a moment. “I had more than one set of foster parents,” she explained before anyone had a chance to ask. “Now, Mother Johnson was a good cook. Though what I remember is her homemade doughnuts. Not the kind of food anybody should really eat, I know. But, boy, were they good.” Her eyes went happily out of focus.

  Great. Now I was hungry for doughnuts, something I hadn’t eaten in years.

  “Pot stickers,” our waitress announced as she jogged up to the table. “Very hot.”

  They were too. Very hot. And very tasty, full of ginger, garlic and what tasted like chilies. I forgot all about the doughnuts as I chewed. Even Russell and Carrie gave up on questioning anyone as they gobbled up pot stickers. Joyce, though, was still nibbling her second one by the time the rest of us had finished, tasting carefully as if she were going to take notes. I should have known that she would eat as correctly as she did everything else.

  Carrie turned her attention to Russell.

  “What do your parents think of your writing career?” she asked.

  He gave a minimalist shrug, his expression unchanging.

  “Not much?” she persisted.

  “They’d rather have a doctor or lawyer,” he expanded. “But they don’t bug me much anymore. My sister is a lawyer, anyway.”

  “Gluten puff, eggplant.” The waitress named the dishes as she slapped them on the table. Then she turned around and was back in seconds with the cabbage, the spareribs and the rice. That was another plus for The Bodhi-Tree. They were fast. The cook probably wore jogging shoes too.

  “You eat,” the waitress advised with a sudden warm smile. And then she was gone again.

  Carrie managed to talk and sample each of the dishes as they were passed around the table, as well as serving herself.

  “Damnation, these are really good,” she complimented the mock spareribs. Then she looked over at Joyce. “How did you come to be in the critique group?” she asked.

  “Through Travis,” Joyce answered readily enough. “He’s such a kindhearted soul. He volunteers at the Operation, you know.”

  Carrie nodded, her dark eyes crinkling with affection. I was pretty sure that affection was for Travis and not for Joyce, however.

  I took a forkful of hot and spicy cabbage. It was hot and sweet and sour all at the same time. My favorite combination. Joyce went on.

  “Well, Travis was the one who came up with the idea for an Operation Soup Pot cookbook as a fund-raiser.” Joyce stuck out her lower lip again briefly. “And you know how Travis is when he gets an idea. He took it right to the board of directors.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a writer. It would hav
e been better if he’d written the book. But the board wanted me to do it. Including the homey anecdotes.” She looked down at her plate. “I shouldn’t complain, though.”

  No, I thought. You should eat.

  She picked up her chopsticks gingerly. “So Travis suggested the critique group. And that was a real blessing. I’m getting the help I need now to write the hard parts.” She maneuvered her chopsticks around a tiny piece of eggplant and brought it to her lips.

  “I only wish I could persuade Travis to return to college,” Carrie said, giving Joyce a chance to eat. “He’s taken most of the courses necessary to receive a computer programming degree. But he dropped out of school before he was completely finished.”

  Joyce chewed her eggplant thoughtfully and swallowed.

  “You know,” she said earnestly. “Even if Travis doesn’t have a formal education, he studies all the time. He’s more aware of ecological issues than anyone I know.” She leaned forward. “And really, the only true goals in life are learning to love other beings and acquiring wisdom. I think he’s very blessed.”

  “Oh, of course,” Carrie said. Somehow, she managed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. But I could see it in the shape of her brows.

  I gave her a quick wink as Joyce bent over her plate to pick up another piece of eggplant. Carrie was right. Joyce was unbearably good.

  Then I took a bite of gluten puff in black bean sauce, and the rest of the meal disappeared in a frenzy of good flavors.

  “You come back,” the waitress ordered as we left. I turned and nodded as she raced across the room with a steaming platter of vegetables. I wasn’t sure about anyone else, but I’d come back. That was for sure.

  Russell escorted Joyce up the stairs to her apartment while Carrie and I waited in the car. I wasn’t sure if he was being protective, gentlemanly, or just trying to ask her some questions out of earshot. It appeared that Russell was doing a little investigating on his own. Did this mean he wasn’t a suspect?

  Not necessarily, I answered myself. He could be trying to find out how much anyone else knew. Or maybe he was trying to set someone else up for Slade Skinner’s murder. Or maybe—