A Catered Thanksgiving (5 page)

T
wo minutes later Perceval answered the door.

“Sorry, but there's no way we can use the side entrance,” Bernie told him as she stepped inside.

Libby followed her sister, shutting the door behind her. The hallway floor was marble, while the walls were papered with chinoiserie wallpaper, the kind, Libby knew from reading her sister's decorating magazines, that cost at least 120 dollars a roll, if not more. A round, inlaid rosewood antique table sat in the middle of the foyer, supporting a large blue and white Chinese porcelain vase filled with an expensive arrangement of exotic blooms.

We should have charged them more, Bernie thought as she took in the whole setup. “Nice flowers,” she observed. “Where did they come from?”

Perceval let out a long sigh. “Bogart's.”

Bogart's was one of the premium flower vendors in Westchester County.

Then Perceval sighed again. “Only the best for my brother will do.” And he gestured at the wallpaper.

“So I see,” said Libby, who was also thinking that they should have charged Ralph and Perceval more.

“Usually,” Perceval said, continuing on, “we have people like you—”

Bernie interrupted. “Like me?”

Perceval gave a vague wave in the air. “You know, tradespeople—”

Libby interrupted. “Now, there's an expression I haven't heard for a long time.”

Perceval shrugged. “As I was saying, we usually have tradespeople go in the servants' entrance. However, due to the weather, Monty is prepared to make an exception in this case.”

“How nice of him,” Bernie said, not having gotten over being addressed as “you people.” She could feel her temper flare.

“Uncharacteristically so,” Perceval replied, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in Bernie's voice.

Libby said nothing, preferring to concentrate on signaling to Bernie that she should let the comments go. For her part, she was just glad to be in out of the snow.

“My brother is really very peculiar about certain things,” Perceval informed them as he studied his reflection in the gilt mirror hanging on the wall. “Obsessively so, really.”

“It's so quiet,” Libby noted just to have something to say as she wiped her feet on the entrance mat.

Perceval patted his hair down and picked a piece of lint off his jacket before replying. “That's the way my brother likes it,” he said as he gave his hair another tweak. “Not that the rest of us do,” he confided in a lower voice after looking around to make sure no one was there. “Monty doesn't even have cable in this place. He says the programming isn't worth the money. He says it's all garbage. I feel as if we're back in the nineteenth century.”

“That's a drag,” Bernie observed at the same time Libby said, “Sounds good to me.”

Perceval scowled. “I'm definitely on your side,” he told Bernie. He was about to say something else when he heard footsteps. “My brother,” he said, straightening up. “Here. Let me show you the kitchen.” And he set off at a brisk pace, with Bernie and Libby trailing behind him.

As they walked, Bernie noted that the hallway looked like something out of
Architectural Digest,
with its deep-gloss eggplant-colored walls and ornate gilt mirrors hung every twelve feet or so. The living room and the dining room had been furnished by someone with an English country house fixation. There was chintz on the sofa, leather on the armchairs, oriental rugs on the dark wood floors, and what looked to Bernie's eyes like a really good selection of paintings hanging on the walls. She was sure she'd seen some of the artists in the Met.

“American Impressionists?” Bernie asked Perceval.

“They're my brother's passion,” he answered, slowing his stride.

Bernie halted and pointed at a portrait of a woman. “Is that a John Singer Sargent?”

“Yes, it is,” Perceval replied.

“Wow,” Bernie said. “I'm impressed. I've just seen his work in museums.”

Perceval gestured vaguely toward the rooms on his right. “I'm told that all the paintings in the house are of museum quality. Stupid waste of money, if you ask me, but then no one has. Now, if you will please come with me.” And he continued on.

As Bernie followed him, she couldn't help noticing that the farther away they got from the foyer, the smaller the rooms became and the shabbier everything looked. Rooms shot off at odd angles from each other, while corridors meandered without any seeming direction. Bernie began to feel as if she was in a maze.

And then there was the paint job. In contrast to the front of the house, the back end appeared not to have seen a paintbrush in years. The walls were scuffed, and there were water stains on the ceiling. The rooms that she and Libby went by were furnished with pieces that looked as if they had been bought at a rummage sale and thrown in higgledy-piggledy without a thought to their arrangement.

“Well, here we are,” Perceval announced when they got to the end of the hallway. He pointed to an unpainted wood-laminate door that had smudge marks around the door handle. “This is your kingdom.”

“Kingdom?” Bernie asked.

“Kitchen,” Perceval clarified. “Now, Monty likes to keep this door closed when not in use,” he explained. “It cuts down on the draft.” And he leaned over, grasped the door handle, and pulled it toward him. Libby felt a blast of Arctic air come barreling out. “Hopefully you will do the same. You can open the heat vents if you want,” Perceval said. “Although Alma never needed to.”

Poor Alma,
Libby couldn't help thinking. She probably had to go home every night and soak in a hot tub to get the chill off.

Perceval wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck. “And, anyway, I don't think it will do much good. And now, if you don't mind, I have business to attend to.” At which point he took off, leaving Bernie and Libby to enter the kitchen by themselves.

“We should have worn long underwear and heavier socks,” Bernie muttered as she took a step inside. It felt as cold in here as it had outside. “And face masks.”

“Maybe it'll be better when we light the ovens,” Libby suggested.

“Maybe,” Bernie said. But she didn't think so, and she could tell from Libby's tone of voice that she really didn't think so, either.

“G
od,” Libby said, looking around at the room she was standing in. “I don't think this kitchen has been remodeled for thirty years.”

Bernie put the mushrooms she was holding down on the counter. “At the very least,” she said. “Give it another ten, and it'll become retro instead of merely outdated. You can tell that no one but the maid ever set foot in this place.”

Over the years Bernie had observed that people who had people cooking for them rarely bothered spending the money to update their kitchens. Why should they? They weren't going to benefit. In fact, some of the oldest, grungiest kitchens Bernie had ever worked in had belonged to some of the fanciest houses.

Libby gave an absentminded grunt of agreement as she went over and opened the door of the oven. It needed a good cleaning, but she thought that she could get the turkey, the sweet potato casserole, and one of the stuffings they were making to all fit in there. Hopefully, the oven was correctly calibrated, because she'd found that lots of times they weren't. Not that it mattered if you used your oven every day. Then you knew whether it ran hot or cold. Unfortunately, there was no one here they could ask about the oven's propensities. They'd just have to do more checking.

“We did bring the meat thermometer, didn't we?” she asked Bernie.

Bernie nodded. “It's in the box with the apples. Even though, theoretically, we don't really need it, since the turkey has that pop-up button thingy.”

“I hate those things,” Libby announced with a vehemence she normally reserved for prepackaged white bread. “They're totally inaccurate. Pay attention to those and your turkey will turn out dry and lifeless or undercooked.” Neither of which was acceptable.

“Maybe,” Bernie said, “but lots of people love those pop-up buttons. Don't ask me why. They just do.”

“They're a symbol of what's wrong with America,” Libby announced.

Bernie stopped counting the onions. She was sure they had three more. “How's that?”

“Overreliance on technology.”

Bernie laughed.

“Seriously,” Libby said. “You should know if the turkey is done by feel and smell alone.”

“But you are using a thermometer,” Bernie pointed out. “I'm sure that was considered radical in its day.”

Not being able to come up with an immediate answer to that statement, Libby decided a change of subject might be politic. “Where are the oysters?” she asked. “I know we packed them.”

“Yes, we did. I checked them off.”

“Then where are they?” Libby demanded.

Bernie started rummaging through the boxes. After a moment she was forced to conclude that the oysters weren't there. She cursed silently. “I bet we left a carton in the van,” she said and she went out to look.

Libby put the loaf of bread she was holding down and studied the kitchen again. No toaster, she realized, not that it really mattered, because she'd have to toast the white bread for the corn-bread stuffing in the oven, anyway. If she used a toaster, she'd be standing there for the next half an hour. She guessed she'd find out if the oven was properly calibrated or not sooner rather than later.

The countertops were absolutely bare. There wasn't a blender or a mixer or a Cuisinart in sight. Libby decided that they were probably all stored in the cabinets. She began to look through them to see what she could find. It wasn't much. She found a stash of camping food; old coupons; a manila envelope, which turned out to have building plans, which, as far as Libby could tell, had never been implemented; some old dented cans of corned beef hash; bags of chips; salsa; and a few sprouting potatoes and garlic that had gone soft.

Finally she found what she was looking for—an old blender, a handheld mixer, an eggbeater, and several other kitchen implements that looked as if they were at least twenty years old. Which was a good thing, Libby reflected, considering that there was only one electrical outlet in the whole kitchen. She had an idea that if she plugged in a blender and a mixer together, she'd probably blow all the fuses.

She sighed as she looked at the acid green Formica counters and the backsplash and the dingy white linoleum floor that had become scratched and pitted from years of use. Someone had painted the walls an unattractive shade of mustard yellow, not that mustard yellow could be attractive under any circumstances, and the fluorescent lights overhead just made the color even more hideous.

The walls themselves were barren of decoration except for two calendars from the local gas station. Libby knew this because A Little Taste of Heaven got one every year for Christmas. But they kept theirs on the desk in the office and changed it every year, unlike these. One was five years old and the other was seven.

Libby studied the refrigerator and the dishwasher. They looked as old as the stove and in about as good shape. Libby walked over and opened the refrigerator. There was practically nothing in it except for a pack of diet soda, a package of cream cheese, a jar of mayo, two containers of yogurt past their expiration date, and a container of moldy strawberries.

Well,
Libby thought,
at least we won't have to make room in the frig for our supplies—not that they really need to go in there.
Given the room temperature, everything could stay out on the counter and would be fine. Still, Libby thought as she got the onions and the celery ready to be chopped, what did these people eat? They had to put their food somewhere.

Fortunately, Libby had brought her own knives, because she could tell from looking at them that the knives in the kitchen drawer were dull and of inferior quality. Too bad she hadn't brought her pans as well, because the ones here were cheap and cooking with cheap pans just made things harder.
Oh well,
Libby thought as she got ready to make the stuffing for the turkey. They would just have to do.

She was making two, one as requested. That was the oyster stuffing. The other one was Libby's personal favorite—a corn-bread stuffing. She liked it because unlike the oyster stuffing, it had a fresh, light taste. And, anyway, she really didn't like oysters.

Not that she'd ever admit this to anyone, but they grossed her out, which was a totally nonfoodie thing to say. But it was true. Cooked or raw, they still looked disgusting to her. Oyster stew sounded very good with all that cream and butter, and if you could disguise the way the oysters looked, it would be perfect. In fact, she wasn't a big fan of raw clams, either. She liked her shellfish cooked, thank you very much.

Or maybe she didn't like oysters because she'd nearly bisected her hand opening one, thought Libby as she put the loaf of white bread she'd made a couple of days ago on the counter and started slicing and cubing it. She needed ten cups for the oyster stuffing and ten cups for the corn-bread stuffing. Making the bread into evenly shaped cubes settled her down, and she stopped thinking about all the pitfalls that the dinner they were about to make could hold and started concentrating on possible solutions to said problems.

She was almost done with the bread when Bernie walked inside, carrying the two cans of oysters.

“I come bearing gifts,” she said.

“Thank God.” Libby put her knife down. Having oyster stuffing without the oysters just wouldn't do. “Where did you find them?”

“In the back of the van. Somehow they managed to get wedged in the back next to the tire. On a different note, I ran into Field on the way in.”

“Really?” Libby said. “What did he have to say?”

“He said he'd be in in a while to see how the turkey is doing.”

“He's probably coming in to see if we turned the heat vents on or have the door open,” Libby groused. “Living with him must be like living with Ebenezer Scrooge. He's not even paying for this dinner, and it's in his own house.”

Bernie leaned over and stole a bread cube off the counter. “No. He seriously likes to check on the turkey's progress—at least that's what Ralph told me after his brother left.”

Libby spread the bread cubes on the two small dented baking sheets she'd found in one of the cabinets. “I'm surprised he even sets foot in this place.”

“I think it's a one-time event,” Bernie said, surveying the scene in front of her as she formulated her plan of attack.