“I’m for it,” Bob said.
Willie whispered, “But I thought that Alliance was the Ku Klux Klan without a Southern accent?”
Lester shook his head. “Naw, just without the sheets.”
There was an uneasy stirring downstairs.
“I don’t know, we’ve had our differences with that group in the past.”
“Yeah, but you have to sweep all that junk under the carpet.”
“We’ve never needed them before—I don’t see why we can’t fight our own battles.”
“It’s not just our battle. Linden Hills has got to realize that we’re part of a whole city. And if we don’t hang with the Citizens Alliance then we’ll hang separately.”
“Well, I think this entire conversation is a disgrace!” Mrs. Donnell shouted. “Here we are turning this man’s home into a public forum and his wife’s funeral is tomorrow.” She pressed Parker’s arm. “Chester, you haven’t heard a word we’ve said. I can imagine all the things on your mind right now.”
“Oh, no, no.” Parker looked up from his lap and focused on his guests. “Bob was right. Lycentia spent her last days working on that petition. She would often say to me, ‘Chester, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep those dirty niggers out of our community.’ And this evening is in her honor.” He smiled weakly around the table. “So please, there’s more roast beef, folks.”
There was total silence for a moment. Gradually the people who were standing drifted out of the dining room, and the twelve seated around the table bent their hands over their plates in rapt attention to the music of their cutlery on the transparent surfaces.
It is like the season when, after summer,
It is summer and it is not, it is autumn
And it is not, it is day and it is not,
As if last night’s lamp continued to burn,
As if yesterday’s people continued to watch
The sky, half porcelain, preferring that
To shaking out heavy bodies in the glares
Of this present, this science, this unrecognized.
Willie sighed. “You’re right, I’ve heard enough. Let’s do what we have to and get out of here.”
Lester went back into the bedroom and Willie was about to follow him when the doorbell rang and seemed to echo from every glass surface in the room. The crystal balls on the chandelier even tinkled. Luther Nedeed came into the dining room, carrying a cellophane-wrapped cake. He was the only guest Willie had seen bringing food that night, and it surprised him. He knew that his family always fried chicken and baked stuff for a wake and so it was the last thing he expected to see done in Linden Hills. Willie lingered in the upstairs hall a moment and watched Luther as he hesitated in front of the buffet. There was no space for his bundle next to the ornate array of catered food.
“Nice of you to come, Luther.” Parker got up and took the cake from him.
“I guess I have to become accustomed to these modern ways.” Luther seemed embarrassed. “In my time, friends and neighbors always supplied the food for these types of occasion.”
“Of course, of course.” Parker blinked at him. “But I didn’t want folks going to a lot of trouble.”
“It was no trouble, my wife baked it. She sends her regards, Chester, but she’s not up to coming out tonight. And although I’ve been able to serve you in an official capacity in your time of loss, I felt I should come tonight in my unofficial capacity as a neighbor.”
“Yes, haven’t seen your missus in ages. Lycentia had mentioned something about a cruise, wasn’t it? Did she enjoy it?”
“Immensely, but it’s left her somewhat drained, so we’ve decided that she spend Christmas with relatives to save her the strain of entertaining. We’re planning something for the spring.”
“Well, I must give her a call as soon as the holidays are over,” one of the women said. “This has been a dreadfully busy season with the Alcott wedding and poor Lycentia passing.”
“Yes, yes.” Parker nodded. “Everything is all up in the air. When I think about the plans that Lycentia and I had. But she always said to me, ‘Chester—’”
“I’m sure, Chester,” Luther said as he stared straight into his eyes, “that whatever plans you may still have won’t be terribly disrupted.” Parker almost cringed under his gaze. “Because,” Luther continued slowly, “Lycentia would have wanted it that way.”
“Oh, yes, Luther.” Parker began to chatter. “Yes, she would have. Why, just before you came in we were all talking about—”
“I know what everyone in this house was talking about.” Luther took in the entire room with his dark, immobile face, and Willie felt the urge to move back into the shadowed hallway upstairs. “The same thing that’s been discussed every time two or three people from Linden Hills have gotten together lately. And I can tell you that it’s all been taken care of. The Tupelo Realty board met with the Wayne County Citizens Alliance today and there’s little doubt that the referendum on the housing project will be put on the ballot next November. Now, the only thing left is to vote on it, and with our combined efforts there’s no chance of it getting through.”
“Now, there’s a man who’s talking sense,” Bob said. “Luther, I’ve been trying to tell these folks that we all have a responsibility to the welfare of this county, and if the Alliance can see through that and work with us, then we should work with them. It’s not about black or white, it’s about our civic duty.”
“It’s nothing of the kind.” Luther’s voice was soft and low, but it carried throughout the room. “You know, Bob, my father often said, ‘Lie to everyone in this man’s world if need be, but never lie to yourself, because that’s the quickest road to destruction.’ The Wayne County Citizens Alliance is full of some of the most despicable racists on this side of the continent. And there isn’t a soul in this room that doesn’t know that.” Luther almost smiled at the expression on their faces. “And you’re only saved from being beneath their contempt because your education and professional status are above reproach and, more often than not, above theirs. But the people who would move into that new development don’t have that saving grace, so the Alliance is free to engage in myths about inferior schools and deteriorating neighborhoods while all they’re really fearing is the word nigger. And they’ve no intention of letting this county finance a breeding ground for their nightmares.
“We must give them credit for one thing: they’ve become civilized enough by now to recognize that there are two types—the safe ones that they feel they can control and trust not to spill tea on their carpets while they use a dozen euphemisms to form a coalition to keep the other type from moving too close. And I suppose that since I’ve just spent an entire afternoon listening to all that, I’m a bit reluctant to hear it all again tonight from you.”
“Now, Luther, that’s a bit harsh.” Bob pushed the meat around on his plate. “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have been able to meet with those people.”
“I met with them and I’ll vote with them.” And this time he did smile. “Because I know that their nightmares are real enough to send them running from the other side of the hill. Real enough to get this entire district red-lined through the banks, and my realty company wouldn’t be able to finance another mortgage, and I’d have to watch the property values of Linden Hills go plunging into an abyss. And do you think I’m going to let that happen because a handful of fools can’t stomach the thought of living next to another group of people that happen to look like me?”
Willie wanted to applaud Nedeed. He had said all the things that Willie had wanted to hang over that banister and shout: Yeah, you turkeys, I’m one of those people in Putney Wayne you didn’t want near you. Maybe I don’t carry a wallet full of credit cards, but I’ve never carried a switchblade, either. Lester should have been out here for this. At least Nedeed was honest—Willie looked down at the suffocated room—deadly honest.
No one at the table was eating. Wineglasses were turned,
napkins wiped clean mouths, and coffee cups were stirred. One woman got up and left the table without a word, but no one’s head followed her out of the room. Luther picked up a clean plate, filled it, and took her seat, completing the circle of twelve. His knife and fork caught the rays from the chandelier as he delicately sliced into the tender meat. He chewed slowly and looked around the table.
“Is everyone else finished as well? I hope not, since I’ve brought dessert—and I hate eating alone.”
One by one, the other knives and forks were lifted as the meal continued with the pathetic motions of children being forced to eat. The rhythm of the utensils was much fainter now, but Willie could still hear it plainly upstairs because it went unchallenged by any conversation. They cut. They chewed. They swallowed.
This outpost, this douce, this dumb, this dead, in which
We feast on human heads, brought in on leaves,
Crowned with the firsi, cold buds. On these we live,
No longer on the ancient cake of seed,
The almond and deep fruit. This bitter meat
Sustains us … Who, then, are they, seated here?
Is the table a mirror in which they sit and look?
Are they men eating reflections of themselves?
Realizing that no one else was going to speak, Willie went into the bedroom. Lester was carrying fresh water out of the bathroom for the steamer.
“Hey, White, I was just about to come get you. I thought you got lost.”
“Naw, Nedeed came in and I wanted to get a better look at him.”
“Christ, I bet they’re down there bending his ears with their gripes.”
“No,” Willie said. “As a matter of fact, they all shut up. Now they’re just eating.”
She was on her knees, surrounded by piles of dusty, yellowing cookbooks. She had hoped to find some other records left by Luwana Packerville, but the woman seemed to have disappeared. The damp concrete bit into her knees as she tore open the third cardboard box and found another stack of wire-bound recipes. She knew that these also belonged to the same woman, Evelyn Creton Nedeed; there was no need to open the covers and see that name written again in large block letters on the inside. And reading the carefully printed instructions for breads, stews, roasted meats, and puddings only knotted her stomach, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in days. But she still dug into the box, enduring the dust that entered her nose and dried her throat, hoping that something of Luwana Packerville’s was wedged in between the thick, heavy cookbooks.
Her heart quickened when she saw a wad of papers but she unfolded them only to find columns and columns of canning dates: Thirty quarts of snap beans, May 1892. Twelve quarts of pickled tomatoes, September 1893. Twenty pints of blackberry jam, August 1896. The papers were thrown down in disgust. She was wasting her time. Forty years were gone. These recipes were from another lifetime. Evelyn Creton probably never knew Luwana Packerville. As she roasted her meats and canned her apple butter year after year, she didn’t know that a woman had gone insane because she was barred from the very kitchen that Evelyn Creton later filled with her damned cookbooks. Even at that moment, on her knees, she could visualize the shelves she had kept them on. The same cherrywood cabinet that now held her own paperback guides for countless diets and nutrition plans, her encyclopedia of international cuisine, three hundred ways to a better quiche, and a hardcover edition of the modern woman’s Bible, The Joy of Cooking. Evelyn Creton had obviously found joy in that kitchen as she filled her shelves with these recipes. And she didn’t seem content to stop with just that. With a fanatical precision, the woman had even recorded the dates on which she purchased and used the ingredients for each recipe.
Potato Casserole
June 5th—Purchased: 50 pounds of potatoes, 12 pounds of cheese, 10 pounds of onions, 16 pints of cream.
June 5th—Used: 37 pounds of potatoes, 9½ pounds of cheese, 10 pounds of onions, 12 pints of cream.
She baked continually and in equally huge amounts.
Walnut Bread
June 6th—Purchased: 20 pounds of flour, 15 pounds of sugar, 2½ quarts of butter, ½ bushel of walnuts, 10 quarts of milk.
June 6th—Used: 15 pounds of flour, 7 pounds of sugar, 2½ quarts of butter, ½ bushel of walnuts, 8 quarts of milk.
But none of it made any sense because on June 7 she’d started all over again, adding two bushels of raisins to the same recipe. June 8, she substituted pecans for the walnuts. June 9, quarts of sour cream for the milk.
The woman cooked as if she were possessed. What drove her to make that kitchen her whole world? Between the buying, baking, and recording she had to be in that kitchen all day—and probably all night. There were only three of them in this house, so they couldn’t have eaten all of that food. Maybe she was selling those things. But how could you sell gravy? In one day she had made forty quarts of chicken gravy, and the next day, turned around and made another forty with onions instead of mushrooms. She used a lot of onions in her recipes. And there were no food processors in those days, so Evelyn Creton must have done a lot of crying.
She sighed, knowing her search was futile, but she still emptied the box. At the bottom were two slim volumes covered in black silk. They were also recipe books, but their thickness and width set them apart from the others. There was no name printed on the inside cover but the block letters and the method of recording date by date the amounts purchased and used for each recipe marked them as belonging to the same woman. At first the contents confused her. Now most of the ingredients were measured in ounces and pinches, and the dates were crammed together so tightly they were almost a blur.
Her knees were becoming numb as she read, and her fingers tightened around the silk covers as she began to make sense out of the pages. She needed more light. She stood up too quickly. Her head swayed drunkenly and her eyes went dim. She reached for the railing on the cot, clutching the books to her side. She prayed that Luther wouldn’t choose this moment to cut off the lights. She needed to sit down and rest for a while and then take her time to read through these two books very carefully.
Because there was no way that Evelyn Creton could have kept this set of recipes up on those cherrywood shelves.
December 22nd
Willie, eat it … Eat it … Willie opened another glass door and ran down the dark corridor, his knees pulling the bed covers from his shoulders and chin as he tried to escape the hands that shot out from the long row of erect coffins on his right side. But each step materialized another casket, another pale hand with bright red fingernails growing and curling like snakes around the cake that was offered in a shrill echo emerging from those open depths. Willie, eat it … Eat it … He pressed his hands over his ears and ran faster, trying to avert his eyes from the ghostly fingers, bloody snakes, and crumbling brown sweets that seemed to stretch ahead of him into eternity. His sneakers pounded down the narrow hallway and his body was soaked with sweat. He could feel the perspiration moving slowly down the insides of his thighs as his shirt clung to his back, armpits, and chest. But, oh God, he was so cold. Willie, eat it … Eat it … The screaming now replaced the sound of his heart, so the faster he ran, the louder it became.
And the faster he ran, the longer and more frantic the hands with their crushed gifts. To close his eyes was to risk stumbling, and moving to the left was to meet instant death in a huge vacuum. His legs were tightening, his chest burning, but there was nowhere to go but straight ahead. Any moment now they would touch him. A glass door miraculously sprang up in front of him and with a shriek of triumph Willie burst through it and landed awake on his bed.
The screaming echoes followed him into his room as he watched the lights from the passing fire engines streak across the ceiling. When the sirens moved off into the distance somewhere down in the streets of Putney Wayne, Willie could hear his heart beating again. Trembling, he reached to gather the blankets and sheets tangled under his feet. He knew he would have to shake like this until he got warm again. And onc
e he was warm, he could go back to sleep. But, Christ, did he really want to sleep? What if that dream wasn’t finished? He stuck his icy hands between his thighs and buried his nose under the blanket. He never should have eaten all that stuff Parker wrapped up for them. It was too late at night to have pigged out that way, but the roast beef was so tender he could have cut it with his breath. And that cake … His saliva still held the flavor from the rum, butter, and raisins. He should have left well enough alone and stopped after the second piece, but he hardly had to chew since it was whipped so finely it slipped down his throat like liquid. Nothing like the cakes he had eaten at home. Willie’s mind snapped around that last thought. In fact, it was nothing like the cakes he had ever eaten in anyone’s home.
He settled himself deeper into the covers with a slight frown over his closed eyes. But Nedeed said his wife made it. Willie could visualize the curve of his mouth, the exact placement of light and shadows on his lips as he formed the words, “It was no trouble, my wife baked it. She sends her regards, Chester …” He knew that the kitchen in Nedeed’s house didn’t look anything like his mother’s. There was no way that his wife had to jam a piece of cardboard into the top of the oven door to keep it from flying open. She probably had one of those kitchens straight out of an ad in Good Housekeeping: microwave, dishwasher, and all kinds of shiny gadgets. But no matter what type of bowls or stove you have, milk is still milk, flour is flour, and sugar, sugar. And there’s always something different about food when it’s straight out of someone’s home. That cake was too perfect. And the way the butter, rum, and raisins went down all smooth and easy, it didn’t give him much time to think about it—he had almost missed tasting her absence. Willie curled himself tighter into the warm spot that his body had finally made under the blankets. He must remember to mention all this to Lester in the morning. Why would Nedeed lie? Just as Willie released his last conscious breath, the sirens began to scream again in the distance. He turned over in his sleep and shuddered.