by Sarah Dreher
Various assorted groans and grumbles greeted the news.
"I know you don't want to do it," Sherry said with a cheery laugh, "but we're behind schedule, and the energy's high right now, so let's just do it."
More grumblings.
"One hour. Two, tops, and we're out of here."
"Sherry, I really don't think... " It was Barb's voice.
"Hey," Sherry said, "am I the producer, or am I the producer?"
Barb's voice took on an edge. "Am I the tech director?"
"We have to do it, Barb," Sherry said, her voice lowering and coming closer as she drew Barb toward the boat house. "We're falling farther behind every day. At this rate, we're fucked."
"Not according to my calculations."
"Look, you know we're having problems. Goddess knows what might happen next. I have to look at the total picture."
"The women are tired, Sherry. They need a night off."
"So we give them one, but not this one. Hey," her voice took on a hurt tone. "I'm only thinking of the good of the show."
"Sherry..."
"Good woman," Sherry said in a tone that had a pat-on-the-back feel to it. She raised her voice. "All right. Brewskis at the barn. Be there or be square."
There was a sound of people wandering away, then silence.
"Shit," Gwen said.
Stoner gave her a little squeeze. "What kind of language is that?"
"Southern Gothic." She pulled her clothes on. "That was the last thing I wanted to do tonight."
"What was the first?"
"Variations on our previous theme." She tossed Stoner's clothes in her direction.
"Well, so far I've been lucky," Stoner said as she sat up. "But much more action on this wood floor, and we'll be up all night pulling splinters out of my rear end."
"Damn," Gwen said in an accent that made two words of one. "She went and spoilt all mah fun."
Stoner giggled and pressed a hand over Gwen's mouth. "Calm yourself. They'll hear you."
"One hour," Gwen said. "We'll give her one hour and then we're on our own.”
"Agreed," Stoner said. "And no 'Brewskis.' "
"No 'Brewskis.' 'Brewskis.' My God, everyone should grow up."
But, of course, one hour didn't do it. It was after midnight by the time they got back to their rooms. They were tired, and paint-spattered, and Gwen was still hungry.
"In spite of that lovely refreshment tray?" Stoner asked through the steam from the shower. She waved it away with her towel.
It had indeed been a sumptuous tray that Sherry provided for the techies. Cut-up vegetables and dip, sunflower seeds and salted nuts, popcorn which wilted quickly in the humidity. And more 'Brewskis' than anyone could want.
But carrot sticks and broccoli flowerets dipped in onion dip hadn't done much to satisfy the kind of hunger Gwen had. And Stoner had been so morbidly fascinated by watching the way Marcy ate sunflower seeds—holding them in the palm of her left hand, lifting exactly two between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, raising them over her tilted-back mouth, and dropping them in, then immediately reaching for two more without breaking stride—that she'd forgotten to eat anything herself.
"This is the last time I stay in one of these quaint country inns," Gwen muttered. "From now on, I want soda machines and snack vendors."
"I'll go prowling," Stoner said as she rubbed her wet hair. She slipped into her pajamas. "I might be able to come up with a sandwich."
"Supermarket lunch meat," Gwen said. "On Wonder bread. With real mayonnaise would be Heaven."
"At The Cottage? I doubt it."
It was silent in the hall. And still. So still it almost seemed as if the yellow ceiling lights were humming. Only darkness showed beneath the doors of the other rooms. The threadbare carpet whispered beneath her feet. The faded wallpaper and dark woodwork gave The Cottage an eerie feeling, like slipping backward in time. She could almost hear the hiss of gas lights and the low creak of rope bed springs. Any minute now, someone would begin playing the harpsichord.
A good night for the Cottage ghost. If there was a Cottage ghost. She really doubted it. In her experience, if there were ghosts to be seen, she was likely to have the dubious honor of seeing them first. Sometimes they showed themselves to her alone. She supposed it was a gift, and she should be flattered to be considered worthy of other-worldly emanations. But, if there were gifts to be handed out, she would have preferred to be lucky with the lottery.
She went down the wide staircase into blackness. The moon had set. A few thin clouds reflected distant light, dimly, beyond the French doors. Chairs and tables were mounds of darkness.
Stoner felt her way along from chair to chair. Through the dining room, where the tables were set for breakfast, their linen cloths gleaming like phosphorescent mushrooms in a deep forest.
A night light on the stove cast a bluish glow. She felt a little guilty, prowling around someone else's personal kitchen. But this was a serious hunger emergency, and the kitchen could be considered public space. And besides, when you came right down to it, Sherry had brought her here to prowl.
All very respectable rationalizations. She was sure, given enough time, she could come up with even better ones.
The refrigerator was locked. Good, so if she found anything open, she could assume it was for general consumption. Of course, having the refrigerator off limits ruled out exotic lunch meats, unless it was so filled with artificial ingredients and preservatives it wouldn't go bad in summer, which was a possibility. Maybe the whole lunch meat industry was a scam, insisting on refrigeration just so the public wouldn't guess they were eating recycled building materials.
Who was she kidding? No way there'd be supermarket lunch meat in this Mecca of healthy gourmet dining.
She started in on cupboards. Plates, glasses, cooking utensils. No food. Not even canned goods or crackers. Not even peanut butter, which would make an acceptable substitute, though not as exciting as the real, politically incorrect McCoy.
No luck. The closest thing she found to food was an entire section devoted to salt and pepper shakers.
Okay, where else do we find food?
Pantries.
She looked around for doors. There were three. The first opened onto a small lavatory. The second onto a set of stairs leading to the floors above. All right, let's see what's behind door number three. Trash or treasure? Trick or treat? The lady or the tiger?
The door was locked.
"Damn it, Dodder," she muttered, "this is downright inhospitable."
"The key's in the lock," said a pleasant voice that startled her halfway to the ceiling.
She whirled around as Sherry flicked on the overhead light.
The woman raised one eyebrow in amusement behind her round glasses. "I thought there were raccoons out here, but it's just a sneak-thief."
Stoner felt herself blush deeply. It made her furious at her autonomic nervous system. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "We were hungry, and..."
Sherry laughed. "No problemo. Actually, I should have left something out, just in case."
"That's very gracious of you," Stoner said. "But it doesn't make it right to break in here."
"Oh, break in, shmake in," Sherry said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You needed something I hadn't provided. Very bad in the inn keeping business. The first fault was mine." She moved brusquely to the pantry door. "What can I get you?"
“Well," Stoner said, knowing she was about to humiliate herself even further, "some kind of lunch meat sandwich, if you have it."
"Done," said Sherry. She threw open the pantry door and tossed Stoner a loaf of bread.
Pepperidge Farm. For some reason, that pleased her. After all, there was such a thing as being too perfect. Wonder Bread would have been too perfect.
Sherry slipped a key ring off a hook just inside the door. "Here's where I keep the refrigerator key, in case you need it."
"Thank you," Stoner muttered.
"Pickle and
pimento loaf?"
"Perfect." She'd always been drawn to pickle and pimento loaf. It was one of those meats so filled with preservatives that it dried out before it turned moldy. She liked that in a lunch meat.
"Now, what would you like on your sandwich? Mustard? Mayo? Something more exotic?"
More exotic than pickle and pimento loaf?
"Just mayo, thanks."
They carried the sandwich makings to a table in the center of the room and sat at high stools.
Sherry did the honors. "I'm kind of glad I ran into you like this," she said as she spread mayonnaise on bread. "I wanted to apologize for this afternoon."
"You did?"
"Getting all upset like that. It was really childish." She slapped three slices of pickle and pimento loaf on each slice of bread and flashed Stoner a quick smile. "I'm afraid I gave Gwen the impression you'd been unkind. I hope it didn't cause trouble between you."
"Not at all," Stoner lied, damned if she was going to share their personal discomforts with this stranger.
"I'm so glad. Wouldn't you know, when I got back to my room, I found I'd gotten my period. PMS was all it was. I guess I'd lost track of the date, with all the things that have been going on around here."
"That can happen," Stoner said.
Sherry eyed the sandwiches critically, slathered on more mayonnaise, added lettuce, got plates from the cupboard and placed them on a large serving tray. She took another slice of bread from the loaf and carefully trimmed the crust from it. Setting the crusts aside, she cut the bread into four tiny squares, took one, and set it up on its side. Carefully, she cut the square in half on the narrow edge, then prepared a postage-stamp sized bit of meat and slipped it between the bread slices.
Uh-oh, Stoner thought. Eating disorder. And a very bizarre sort of disorder at that. With anorexia, you didn't eat. With bulimia, you ate and purged. This was like... performance art.
She wondered if she should comment on it, or pretend she hadn't noticed. Which would be a little strange, since Sherry was doing it right in front of her. So would it be rude to notice, or rude not to notice? Maybe she should write Miss Manners for an opinion.
Meanwhile, Sherry was cleaning up as if nothing unusual had happened. Tossing crusts and unused bread into the garbage can, returning the meat and mayonnaise to the refrigerator. “What would you like to drink?" she asked.
Stoner shrugged. "Milk. Water. Anything."
"Milk it is. Help you sleep." She poured out huge glasses and put the bottle away.
"Don't you want any?"
"Water's fine for me," Sherry said cheerfully, and drew herself a tiny juice glass full from the tap.
“Uh... I guess you're not very hungry, huh?" Stoner suggested, indicating the minuscule sandwich completely dwarfed by its salad plate.
Sherry looked at her quizzically, then followed her gaze to the plate. For a second she didn't seem to recognize it. Then her eyes widened and she clamped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, my God," she said in dismay. "Oh, my God! I didn't even realize I was doing that." She grabbed the plate and thrust it onto the counter by the sink, out of sight. "I'm so ashamed," she said, wringing her hands.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Stoner said. ''You just made a funny sandwich."
"It's a problem I have," Sherry said in a low, confidential voice. "I'm getting help for it. Or at least I was." She paused expectantly.
“Why did you stop?" Stoner asked, feeling as if she were responding to her cue.
"My therapist..." Sherry seemed to be trying to find the right words. "She... well, she… it just didn't work out."
"I see." But of course she didn't see at all.
"She was just so, so withholding. Do you know what I mean?"
Stoner nodded. She felt rather withholding around Sherry, herself.
"It was just getting me all screwed up." The woman seemed to shrink before her eyes. "I've never let anyone see me do that. I don't know what got into me. I just felt so, so comfortable with you." She looked up, tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. "Please, forget this happened. It's just so humiliating. If anyone else knew..."
"I won't say anything." What, was she going to rush up to the next group of people she met and start shouting, "You're not going to believe what I just saw?" Right. That was the Stoner McTavish way, all right.
"Not even Gwen," Sherry begged. "I'd be devastated if I thought she knew."
"Gwen wouldn't think anything bad," Stoner said.
"I couldn't bear it. You people are really, really special to me. I mean, I was thinking we might all be friends, once this is over. That's how special you are. But I don't think I can do that now."
"That's ridiculous, Sherry," Stoner found herself saying. "People do all sorts of strange things..."
"See? You think I'm strange." The tears brimmed up again. "Oh, God, I want to die. I just want to die."
Stoner wanted to shake her and yell at her to get a grip on herself. But that would be not only rude, but inappropriate. There was quite enough strange behavior going on for one night. "I won't tell her," she said. "Just calm down and let it go."
Sherry's face broke into a smile. "Oh, thank you, thank you." She gave a little laugh. "I'm indebted to you again. You're going to own me."
"I doubt that," Stoner said. She wanted to go back to her room, where things were calm and sane. "Look, I don't mean to run off, but Gwen's really hungry..."
"Go, go." She bounced down from the stool. "It's been really good to talk to you. I'm glad I thought you were a burglar." She started to leave, then turned and planted herself in front of Stoner in a manner that was obviously asking for a hug.
Stoner picked up the tray.
A cloud crossed Sherry's face.
It made Stoner feel like a mean person. After all, this woman may be unusual, but she was a human being, with feelings and needs. Just because she was a little hard to empathize with didn't mean she had to treat her like a pariah.
She put the tray down and reached out her arms casually. "Good night, Sherry."
Sherry clutched her in a bear-like grip that seemed to go on, and on, and on. It was amazing, the number of their body parts Sherry managed to get to touch. Especially considering the difference in their heights.
A great deal of time was passing, and Sherry was showing no sign of breaking the embrace.
"I really have to go," Stoner said, and extricated herself.
"Sweet dreams," Sherry said.
"Same to you."
"Give Gwen my love." She sighed. "You two are great. I have so much respect for your relationship.”
As Stoner left the kitchen, carrying the tray of sandwiches Sherry had gone out of her way to make for them, and the glasses of milk Sherry had poured, she glanced back.
Sherry was standing very small in the middle of the very large kitchen, gazing after her with an abandoned look.
Gwen perched in the middle of her bed, toiling away with the blow dryer. ''You were gone so long," she said, "I was going to come after you, but I was too weak with hunger."
Stoner set the tray down. "I ran into Sherry."
"Aha." Gwen grabbed a sandwich. ''You got caught."
"Sort of. She made the sandwiches."
Gwen smiled when she saw what was in it. "She remembered."
"Who remembered what?"
"Sherry. What I told her about pickle and pimento loaf."
Stoner was puzzled. "There's something about pickle and pimento loaf?"
"My grandmother used to make it for me, back in Georgia. It was my comfort food when 1 was a kid."
''You never told me that," Stoner said. She felt cold inside.
Gwen reached for the sandwich. "I didn't?"
Stoner shook her head.
"I guess it never came up."
"I guess it never did."
Gwen looked hard at her. "Stoner, are you jealous of Sherry?"
She tried it on. A little, she guessed. Because stories of Gwen's childhood were
precious to her, and it felt odd that this stranger would know one she hadn't heard. Which, she had to acknowledge, was rather small-minded of her. But what really bothered her was that she felt so unsure of herself. It was as if she and Gwen were talking about two different Sherry Dodders, and that was unusual between them.
"That's putting it a little strongly," she said.
"Because, if you are, there's really not a thing for you to be concerned about. We had a nice lunch and a few laughs, that's all. I'm not about to run off with her."
"That's a relief," Stoner said, pretending to tease. "I was really worried about that." She turned serious. "It's just kind of ironic. You didn't like her at first and I did, and now that I'm finding myself a little put off by her, you like her."
Gwen took a thoughtful bite of her sandwich and a swallow of milk. ''Yeah, it is odd. I wonder what it means."
"Maybe she's just really changeable."
"No," Gwen said, "what 1 think is, I was put off by her public persona. And maybe you haven't had a chance to see beyond that yet."
Possibly. But she felt as if she had seen beyond that persona, and what she saw was disturbing. Anyway, it was late, and not worth arguing over. Tomorrow was another day, and on its way much too fast. She curled up on the bed next to Gwen and started in on her own sandwich.
"Know what I wish?" Gwen said.
"No, what?"
"I wish we had a television set in the room."
Stoner glanced at her. "It's nearly one in the morning. There's nothing on.”
"Infomercials," Gwen said, "go perfectly with pickle and pimento sandwiches."
Saturday morning was overcast and damp. A "lowry" day, they called it in Maine, with the sky lowering pewter gray and clouds forming and shredding like tissue in flowing water. A heaviness seemed to settle over the Cottage. Even the Dyke Hikers were subdued on their final morning—highly unusual for them, according to Clara and Esther, who had witnessed more than one closing day of the Dyke Hike Retreat. According to Esther, the boisterousness was known to reach the level of fan reaction to a critical Red Sox win over the Yankees. Even the High Fives were a little slack-wristed this morning.