She ran past the library, the school nurse’s office, the classrooms for algebra and English and Bible study and French. Never again, she thought. I will never see any of them, ever again.
At the end of the corridor was the entrance to the gymnasium; opposite it, a glass case full of trophies won by boys who played sports. Dinah’s own small trophy felt heavy in her hand. She threw it at the display case with all her strength.
The glass shattered loudly, an exquisite sound, random and musical, like an orchestra tuning. She wondered if her classmates heard it in the auditorium, Sue and Carolyn and Ted Nally; she hoped, fervently, that they had. She picked up her trophy and went out the front door.
The act of vandalism made the local papers; the culprit was never found.
Dinah never saw Calvary High again. In August, her father drove her to Washington, D.C.; together they carried cratefuls of records into her dorm room at American University.
In September, Billie Jean King trounced Bobby Riggs in a tennis match people called the Battle of the Sexes.
In October, tired of being stared at as she applied makeup in the dormitory bathroom, Dinah Whitacre quit school and went to work at Emile’s.
The Friday lunch crowd was voracious. At one o’clock Dinah ran out of the special, tomatoes stuffed with seafood salad. She peered into the dining room. To do a head count, she told herself. To see if the crowd had thinned.
Reverend Kimble wasn’t there.
In the cold kitchen she mixed cooked squid and capers and cherrystone clams, enough for a second batch of salad. From the walk-in she took a tray of hollowed-out tomatoes, expertly carved by the prep cook. The tomatoes were wet and ripe, easily torn if you crammed in too much seafood. It was the sort of task she usually loved—at culinary school she’d excelled in presentation—but that day it seemed futile. In five minutes the salads would be eaten and forgotten; the customers would move on to the main course. Why not just put the seafood on a plate?
The tomatoes stuffed, she went into the walk-in to check on her salmon. As garde-manger, she was responsible for all cold foods served at Emile’s: raw oysters and salads and crudités; in the summer, chilled peach soup and macédoine of fruits. Twice a week she smoked a whole Alaska salmon or cured it with herbs for gravlax. For two days she’d soaked this one in a special marinade; now, finally, it was the proper color. She drained off the marinade and arranged the salmon in the smoker, then filled the bottom pan with a mixture of wood chips and lit the burner. At the other table the pastry chef filled profiteroles with cream.
She’d worked at the restaurant for four years, ever since she’d dropped out of college and her father had stopped paying her rent. The usual jobs open to young girls—waitress, supermarket cashier—were, for her, impossible: she was paralyzed by the thought of making small talk with customers, carrying trays of food across a roomful of strangers. Finally she’d answered an ad for kitchen help. Emile had hired her on the spot.
She’d been surprised to find the kitchen full of men. Emile staffed the dining room with stunning hostesses and waitresses, but felt the kitchen was no place for women. “Nobody can see you,” she’d once heard him tell a pretty job applicant. “It is a waste of beauty.”
She started as a prep cook—at Emile’s, everybody did. Her first day Emile had diced a red pepper and placed a single, perfect cube on the table in front of her. “Like this,” he said. “Each piece exactly like this.” Soon she could pare an apple in ten seconds; the peel came off in a single perfect strip. Emile encouraged her to apply to culinary school, let her arrange her shifts around her class schedule. After she graduated he hired her full-time.
Now the cold kitchen was her domain; she preferred its relative calm to the chaos of the main one, crowded with line cooks, hot from the grill and Emile’s fiery temper. She shared the space with the pastry chef, an impassive Swiss who rarely spoke. The cold kitchen smelled of cucumber and melted chocolate; she couldn’t imagine a better smell.
THE LUNCH RUSH ended; at four o’clock the staff broke for dinner. The main kitchen smelled deliciously of Emile’s cassoulet, a hearty stew of white beans, sausages, duck legs, and pork.
“Another leg, please,” said Dinah as the line cook filled her plate.
“Encore?” he said, incredulous.
Dinah reddened. “Yes, please.” She rarely had to ask, but he was new to Emile’s. The other line cooks knew her appetite.
She sat at the long table, her plate mounded with cassoulet. She’d always been a hearty eater: eggs and flapjacks for breakfast; seconds of everything, plus dessert. As a little girl she’d asked for two sandwiches at lunch, yet remained painfully thin; her mother finally took her to a doctor, fearing she had a tapeworm. “She’s a growing girl,” the doctor said. “It’ll catch up with her.” So far it hadn’t; at twenty-three she was slim-hipped as a boy.
She dug into the cassoulet. The pork was tender, the house-made sausages seasoned with garlic and fennel. The line cooks piled in across from her, then the prep cooks and the executive chef. There were twelve men all together, not counting Emile and the pastry chef, who ate standing up. Deep voices filled the small kitchen, a ragged blend of English and French.
“My God,” said one of the line cooks. The hostess had come into the kitchen in a short skirt. “Les jambes qu’elle a!”
Deep laughter, a whistle, grunts of approval. Dinah smiled, embarrassed.
“There you are,” said the hostess, coming toward Dinah. “I saw your friend yesterday. He came in for lunch.”
“Ça alors,” said a line cook. “Little Dinah has a friend.”
Dinah blushed. “Ignore these cavemen,” she told the hostess. She lowered her voice. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Positive.” The hostess sat down, so close Dinah could taste her perfume. “He asked me out.”
No, Dinah thought. But the hostess had a stunning figure, the coveted hairstyle of a famous TV actress. Of course Reverend Kimble would find her attractive.
“Dinner, dancing, the works,” said the hostess. Then she noticed Dinah’s expression. “Oh, don’t worry! I told him no. But he’s pretty smooth. I see why you like him.”
“He’s a wonderful man.” Dinah glanced around the kitchen. The others had finished their cassoulet; a few stragglers remained, swabbing their plates with crusty bread.
“Where do you know him from, anyway?” the hostess asked.
“He used to work with my dad. At Pennington College, in Richmond. He was the college chaplain.”
“Chaplain?” The hostess frowned. “Not this one. He’s in real estate. He’s got a big agency downtown.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” The hostess stood to go. “I guess you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Oh well,” Dinah said lightly. “Looks like you turned down a date for nothing.”
“That’s okay,” said the hostess. “He’s not my type.”
LATE THAT NIGHT, climbing the hill to Glover Park, Dinah saw a police car parked in front of her house.
She sprinted up the front steps. The first-floor lights were on. The front window was broken, the porch covered with jagged glass.
“Hello?” she called out, her heart racing.
In the hallway the Patels’ door was ajar. Ann Patel sat on the worn sofa, a colorful shawl around her shoulders. Her husband sat next to her, still in operating scrubs. They were talking to a policeman.
“Are you the owner?” the officer asked. His eyes lit briefly on Dinah’s birthmark.
“Yes. I’m Dinah Whitacre.” She looked around. Broken glass littered the floor; at the front window the curtains hung askew. In one corner was a mass of extension cords; the appliances they’d been attached to were gone. “What happened?”
Ann Patel’s eyes met hers. “I am sitting in the kitchen reading the newspaper and I hear a noise. I come into the living room and I see two men in face mask.” She pantomimed pulling on a ski mask.
“Oh God
,” said Dinah.
“One of them go in the bedroom and I hear him tearing everything apart,” said Ann Patel. “The other one tell me to sit down; he unplug the TV and the record player. Then he want to go upstairs; I tell him I have no key. That’s when he show me the knife.”
“We’ve had a number of these smash-and-grab robberies in the neighborhood,” said the officer. “It’s mainly juveniles, drug addicts, that type of thing.”
“I see.” Dinah turned to Ann Patel. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“No, thank God,” said Dillip, rubbing his wife’s shoulder through the shawl.
“You got some good locks on that upstairs door,” said the officer. “They tried to force it. Lucky for you that dead bolt held.”
“That’s good, I guess.” Dinah avoided the Patels’ eyes, ashamed that her own apartment hadn’t been touched.
“What happens next?” she asked. “Can you catch them?”
“I’ll file a report,” said the officer, “but without a positive ID it’s pretty unlikely.”
Dinah nodded stupidly. They’ll be back, she thought. It’s just a matter of time.
“We’ve had two break-ins in the last year,” she said. “Isn’t there something else you can do?”
The officer shrugged. “Put some bars on that window. No way would I live in this place without bars.”
“I cannot live behind bars,” said Ann Patel.
Her husband adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “You’ve been very kind to us,” he said to Dinah. “But we can’t continue to live in this neighborhood. It’s simply too dangerous. My wife is expecting a baby.”
Dinah thought of the noises late at night, the rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall. “A baby,” she said softly. “That’s wonderful.”
Dillip got to his feet. “We’re going to stay with some friends until we can find another apartment. I know this is not your fault, but you understand our position.”
“Yes,” said Dinah. “Of course I understand.”
THE MOON was full that night; Dinah lay in bed listening for noises. The locksmith had come and gone; he’d charged her a hundred dollars to install an iron grate over the front window. “A hundred dollars?” she’d repeated; but she’d written the check. After he left she covered the window with plastic to keep out the draft; she’d call someone in the morning to replace the glass.
The old windows whistled, leaking frigid air. The rooms beneath her were perfectly silent. She thought of Ann Patel, pregnant, making love to her husband the night before. The idea shocked her. She’d never imagined that a pregnant woman could have sex. It was, she suspected, just the beginning of what she didn’t know.
She thought of the man who wasn’t Reverend Kimble, his blue eyes fixing hers with an expression she couldn’t decipher. She closed her eyes and listened. Outside the street was loud with traffic. Hundred of cars, thousands, any one of which might contain the two men who’d robbed the Patels. There were two dozen houses on her street, two dozen on the next. For reasons she couldn’t imagine, they had chosen hers.
She lay awake for hours, alone in Glover Park.
The next thing should not have happened.
It was a Tuesday morning, her first day off in weeks. Dinah should have been at home in bed, sleeping until noon. Instead she made a special trip downtown to pick up her paycheck, afraid of bouncing the check she’d written the locksmith. And that morning, crossing the alley next to Emile’s, she was struck by a car.
The bumper hit her at knee level; her foot landed on a dark patch of ice. The car braked sharply; a horn sounded. She slid gracelessly to the pavement.
The car door opened. “Are you all right?” the driver called out.
She was more embarrassed than hurt; her heavy down jacket had cushioned her fall. A small crowd had gathered; the contents of her pocketbook—keys, loose change, hairbrush—lay scattered around her on the sidewalk.
“I’m fine,” she said, sweeping the coins into her purse. “I slipped on the ice.”
The man got out of his car and offered his hand.
“Thank you,” she said as he helped her to her feet. Then she looked up into the brilliant blue eyes of Reverend Kimble.
“Dinah?” he said. “Good Lord, it really is you.”
“Reverend Kimble?” Her cheeks burned; she wished she had put on makeup.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so.” Her heart beat furiously. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“In the flesh.” He smiled. “I saw you in the restaurant the other day. I knew it had to be you.”
Her cheeks burned. Of course it was me, she thought. Who else has a map of Minnesota on her face? She pushed the thought away.
“I just had lunch there,” he said. “I was asking about you.”
“You were?”
A horn sounded, a delivery truck idling in the alleyway.
“I should move my car,” he said.
“Of course.” She took a step and stumbled; a sharp pain shot up her right shin. He grasped her elbow to steady her.
“It’s my ankle,” she said. “I must have twisted it.”
“Lean on me,” he said, sliding his arm around her waist. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
THEY WAITED in the emergency room of Sacred Heart Hospital, an overheated corridor loud with bustle, the steamy hiss of radiators. Periodically the doors sprang open and a stretcher wheeled in, flushing the room with cold. They waited a long time, but Dinah didn’t mind; she could have sat there for hours listening to him talk. He’d been in Washington two years, developing commercial properties: two office towers, a hotel. She pretended surprise, though she already knew this from the hostess. The rest of that conversation—his asking the hostess for a date—she preferred not to think about.
“Enough about me,” he said finally. “What are you up to these days? Husband? Children?”
“God, no.” Dinah felt herself blush.
“Of course,” said Kimble. “Plenty of time for that later.”
“I guess so.” She smiled, red-faced. “What about you? You never remarried?” She had noticed his hands: no wedding band.
“My second wife died,” he said. “I’m a widower now.”
Dinah nodded mutely. Her mother would know how to respond; she was fluent in the language of condolences and congratulations, perfectly at ease at weddings and funerals. Dinah had always dismissed such talk as superficial. She wished, now, that she’d paid attention.
“How are the kids?” she asked. “Charlie and Jody. They must be teenagers now.”
“I suppose so,” said Kimble. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Do they still live in Richmond?”
“I don’t think so.” He shifted in his chair. “Last I heard, their mother had taken them to live in the country, but they may have moved since. We aren’t what you’d call a close family.”
“That’s too bad,” said Dinah. She supposed it was. One of the sous-chefs was divorced, but never spoke of it. Other than that she didn’t know any divorced people.
A nurse appeared pushing a wheelchair. “Dinah Whitacre? The doctor will see you now.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Kimble.
Dinah got quickly to her feet. A breathtaking pain shot up her leg. “Jesus,” she hissed. Then blushed, remembering he’d been a minister.
The nurse took her arm and guided her to the wheelchair; pain radiated up her leg. They rolled down the hall and into an examining room, Kimble following close behind. A doctor in green operating scrubs extended his hand. He stared intently at her birthmark, as if that were the emergency.
“It’s my ankle,” she said flatly. “I fell on the ice and sprained my ankle.”
“Gotcha,” he said, still staring at her face. He pulled up a wheeled stool and rolled up her pant leg. “Does this hurt?” He pressed gently at her ankle. She cried out in pain.
“I guess that’s a yes,” he said.
She looked down at her foot. “What is it? A sprain?”
“I doubt it. We’ll have to take some X rays, of course, but I’m pretty sure your ankle is broken.”
Dinah closed her eyes. Sweat ran down her forehead; she felt suddenly ill. “Broken?”
“Yes. We’ll have to set the bone and put you in a cast. And of course you’ll have to stay off it for a while. Are you a student?”
“I work in a restaurant.”
“Not for the next couple of months, you don’t.”
Dinah leaned forward in the wheelchair, head in her hands. She thought of the hill she climbed every night from the bus stop; the steep stairs leading to her apartment; fourteen hours a day on her feet in the kitchen. Her life left no room for illness or injury; she’d never even owned a car. She had always taken her independence for granted, never seeing how fragile it was.
“Don’t worry. It looks like a nice clean break.” The doctor stared again at her face. “That’s quite a hemangioma you’ve got. I’ve never seen one quite like it.”
Heat spread over her face and chest. She was intensely aware of Reverend Kimble watching her.
“What did you call it?” she asked.
“Hemangioma. It means the blood vessels in the skin are very dense and twisted.” The doctor leaned close to her, squinting. “I’ve seen these marks before, but none this severe. Has it ever been treated?”
“No,” said Dinah.
“A colleague of mine at Georgetown is leading a study you might be interested in. He’s gotten some terrific results using a device called an argon laser.” The doctor stood. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to see about getting you some X rays.”
Dinah nodded, trying not to cry. She thought of lying alone in her empty house, footsteps on the stairs, strange men forcing the door. How she would protect herself when she couldn’t even run.
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