He and Bart wound up escorting Mr. Boudreaux all the way home. Then Mr. Sitwell felt obliged to ride the train back with Bart in order to ensure the pistol was properly returned to the cabinet. He did not get back to his rooming house until eleven thirty that evening.
When he returned to the house the following morning, he found Bart sitting calmly on the back porch, staring up at the sky and whistling to himself. A strange, trilling birdcall that stopped as soon as he noticed Mr. Sitwell watching him.
“Morning.” Bart smiled.
Mr. Sitwell nodded. “I want you to stay inside the yard for the next few days. Hear me? No running errands for Mamie today. No going beyond the gate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I mean it now. That was very foolish what you did last night, bringing that pistol. You understand that, don’t you?”
“If you say so.”
“If I say so?” Mr. Sitwell shook his head. “You act as if you don’t even realize what you did.”
“And you act as if you don’t remember why I did it. I wasn’t trying to start nothing with those people. It’s not my fault I can’t run. It’s just a fact. Imagine it’s why they cut my toes off in the first place. Because they didn’t want me running.”
“They? I thought you said you didn’t remember what happened to your foot.”
“I remember. Just don’t like talking about it. The toes are gone and talking about them is not going to bring them back.” He frowned. “It’s not the only mark on me, you know. Just the one you’ve seen. But I got plenty of marks. You want me to show them to you, all the other places I been cut up, tell you about them too?”
“No. Of course not,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Just promise me you will stay in the house until I tell you it’s safe to go out.”
“Whatever you say, sir,” Bart said. “Also, there’s a white man in the kitchen.”
“Excuse me?”
“A white man. That’s why Mamie got me out here, waiting on you. Told me to tell you as soon as you showed up for work this morning.”
He walked into the kitchen and saw it was true. A large white man in a gray suit was seated at the kitchen table while Mamie stood by the stove. He glanced up as Mr. Sitwell walked past him, but instead of acknowledging Mr. Sitwell’s presence, looked back at the floor and muttered to himself, words that, although Mr. Sitwell could not actually hear them, were quite clearly angry curses.
He went and stood next to Mamie.
“Who is that?”
“Another cook,” Mamie said between clenched teeth. “Mr. Pound brought him here. Apparently the plan is for me to reproduce the sauce we prepared yesterday. This man will watch me work and transcribe the recipe for Mr. Pound.”
“The recipe?”
“It seems Mr. Pound is under the impression that I am unable to read and therefore incapable of transcribing a recipe myself. Can you imagine? How does he think I could possibly function as a cook in a house such as this without the ability to read a recipe book?”
“I don’t understand. . . . Why?”
“Well, Sitwell, from what I gather—not from anything said to me, mind you, but from what I have learned secondhand from Jennie—Mr. Pound has decided he is going to manufacture our sauce. To sell it, without a word to either you or me about it. Can you imagine?”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “No, I cannot.”
“Jennie says he and Mr. Barclay are in the parlor right now discussing it. Apparently, he now claims his deal with Barclay hinges upon it. Again, all without a word to you or me.”
Mr. Sitwell glanced at the white cook. “Did you give it to him?”
“Of course not. And neither shall you.”
“Why not? Give them what they want and send them on their way.”
“Because I am not a fool,” Mamie said, a little too loudly. The white cook looked up and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I may play a fool on occasion for the front of the house, so perhaps Mr. Pound has an excuse for thinking me so. But Mr. Barclay knows better. And so do you. If Mr. Pound wants that recipe he should talk to one of us, not Barclay. And he should pay for it.”
“Pay for it?” Mr. Sitwell sighed. “Mamie . . . I think you have misunderstood the man’s intention. He does not actually mean to manufacture the sauce. This is about a wager. I’m sorry if the man insulted you, but none of this actually concerns us. He’s upset with Barclay, wants to rub his nose in it. It’s something between the two of them.”
“Then let it stay between the two of them and keep the sauces out of it. I have made more than enough sacrifices for this house. I’m not going to allow these people to start stealing recipes from me as well.”
“Why must you think of it as stealing? All he is asking is that you prepare the sauce once more. Same as yesterday. What harm is in it?”
“I’m not going to give them the recipe for free and neither shall you. Do you hear me? I forbid it.”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “Must you speak to me like a child?”
“Must you behave like one?” Mamie glared at him. “All I’m really asking is that you act like you’ve got the sense we both know your mother gave you. And say nothing.”
The door swung open and Jennie rushed in. “Mr. Barclay would like to speak to you, Sitwell. Wants you to come to the study.”
He pushed through the swinging door.
“At last, he arrives,” Mr. Pound said as Mr. Sitwell entered the study. He was standing behind Mr. Barclay’s desk while Mr. Barclay sat in a chair that had been pushed to the side of the room and was angled to face the window. On top of the desk was a bowl in which a small portion of the previous day’s sauce had been placed.
“Now, finally, let us take care of the matter once and for all.”
“Sir?” Mr. Sitwell looked at his employer. I don’t understand.”
Mr. Barclay sighed. “Mr. Pound seems quite intent in involving you in our negotiations.”
“I want that recipe from yesterday. The one for the sauce,” Mr. Pound said. “If you want me to take this plant off your hands, Barclay, then you will give it to me. It is as simple as that. Yet somehow, so far, I cannot get a straight answer as to who prepared it. For all I know none of you did. Perhaps it was purchased from a can.”
“No, it was not purchased from a can,” Mr. Sitwell said. “The truth is, and I apologize for any confusion about this yesterday, Mamie and I prepared it together. And, unfortunately . . . she is not amenable to sharing the recipe at the moment.”
“Is that right?” Mr. Pound said. “Well, we don’t need her to be amenable, do we?”
He held out the bowl of sauce. “Smell it.”
“Sir?”
“Your parlor trick. As you did with the wafers and the wine. Perhaps she can’t tell me what you put in it, but you can certainly tell me what she did.”
Mr. Sitwell looked at Mr. Barclay, who said nothing. The man looked hideously rattled, as if his interactions with this man over the past few days had aged him several decades.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
Mr. Sitwell looked down at the bowl.
“I . . . need a minute. The sauce is a bit more complicated than the wafers, you understand. Mamie is quite the artist in the kitchen as you are surely aware, having tasted her cooking. Her contribution to the sauce, the special seasoning she created to accommodate your dietary restrictions, was far more elaborate than mine, if less substantial in terms of actual volume.”
Mr. Pound nodded. “You do understand that I intend to compensate you, don’t you? Separate from my negotiations with Barclay.”
Mr. Pound began rummaging through Mr. Barclay’s desk. He pulled out a piece of paper from a side drawer and wrote a number on it. He handed it to Mr. Sitwell, who stared down at it, noting the three zeros.
“That is what I am prepared to pay you. Again, that is entirely separate from my negotiations with Mr. Barclay. You see I do mean to manufacture your sauce. Furthermore, once you sign proprietary ownership to me, I would like to put your image on the label of the can. It was always our intention to put someone on the label—why not you? That way, everyone will know to associate the product with you. It will mean that your role as the creator of the sauce will be recognizable even by those colored citizens who, like yourself, cannot actually read the copy. For everyone else you will be identified as what you even now seem determined to prove yourself to be: the epitome of the loyal servant.”
Mr. Sitwell looked at Mr. Barclay, who clucked his tongue but said nothing.
“Perhaps we should send for Mamie,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Include her in these discussions . . . Particularly as the most valuable portion of this recipe is, in my opinion, attributable to her. The precision and care that she puts into pretty much everything she prepares make her recipes hard to emulate. A talent like that . . . should be respected.”
“Yes, well, speaking of talent . . . Once we have finished with this I would like to offer you a job. And I do not mean as a butler. I would like you to become my taste tester.”
“Taste tester?”
“I am intrigued by your parlor trick, believe it could prove quite useful to me. You see, there are many products on the market today that make false claims as to their contents. It occurs to me that, for a man in my business, the ability to accurately account for the composition of my competitors’ products would be invaluable. In other words, I believe you could make me a great deal of money.”
He nodded toward Mr. Barclay. “The man you currently work for, unfortunately for him, does not always recognize talent when he sees it. Does not recognize human potential because he does not believe in it. This severely limits his ability to profit from it. But I do not share his limitations.” Mr. Pound smiled.
Mr. Sitwell turned toward Mr. Barclay.
“What would you have me do, sir?”
Mr. Barclay stared out the window.
“Sir? Are you alright?”
“Just as I feared,” Mr. Barclay said. He nodded toward the yard outside. Three men were standing by the northern gate, peering into the yard.
“They’ve come back,” Mr. Barclay said. “Some of the men from yesterday’s tasting, no doubt.”
Mr. Sitwell squinted at the men. He knew at once that they were not from the tasting but, rather, from the Magazine.
“You see that, Pound? This is all your experiment has wrought. Now they know where I live and have no doubt returned seeking handouts.”
“Yes, well, they’ve come to the wrong house then, haven’t they?” Mr. Pound said.
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “Perhaps I should go speak to them. Tell them to leave.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Pound commanded. “Our business has not yet concluded. Your services are needed here.”
Once again, he was behaving as if he had forgotten who it was Mr. Sitwell actually worked for. Mr. Sitwell turned his back on him and looked at Mr. Barclay.
“Sir? Are those men disturbing you? If they are disturbing you, I shall send them away at once.”
“Yes, they are disturbing me.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. He left the room and walked down the hall.
He walked back to the kitchen. Mamie was standing by the counter, frosting a cake while the angry white cook watched her.
“What did you say?” Mamie asked him.
“Give me a moment.” He pushed through the back door and found Jennie hanging laundry.
“Have you seen Mr. Whitmore?”
“He is gone.” Jennie frowned. “For good, I’m afraid. Have you not heard? His uncle was assaulted this morning. Some sort of altercation with a group of men from some gang in the Magazine, apparently an attempted robbery. He had to be taken to Charity Hospital. Mr. Barclay told Whitmore not to go, that he was needed to drive the car and so if he did leave, he’d best not come back. He blames Mr. Boudreaux for what happened yesterday at Mr. Pound’s tasting, seems to forget that the man is still Whitmore’s uncle. I didn’t know Mr. Boudreaux but it sounds terrible and I am sorry for it. Also I am sorry that it means you will have to perform double duty once more. It seems there is no one else to drive Mr. Pound back to his hotel.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, and walked toward the northern fence alone.
“What is it you want?” he said to the three men standing on the other side of it.
“Bring the boy out.”
“Why? What do you want with him?”
“What do you think we want? Restitution.”
Mr. Sitwell squinted. “How did you know to find me here?”
“My cousin works on the boardwalk. Seems he saw the three of you getting off the train in the Magazine as he was getting on. He said he also saw you in the fields just as strange tragedy struck, again in the company of a young boy. Given your propensity to show up in the wrong place at the wrong time, and always with a dangerous child, it seemed perhaps you might be the one we were looking for. Apparently, you once bragged to him about working in a big house on Prescott Avenue. Just a hunch. And lo and behold. Here you are.”
“The child didn’t do anything.”
“He came to the Magazine carrying a gun.”
“He was terrified. There were grown men throwing rocks at him for doing nothing more than standing on a corner, waiting for the omnibus.”
“Bring him out anyway. Bring him out, we wish to speak with him. Bring him out, or we shall come in to get him.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Where do you think you are? This isn’t the Magazine. There are armed guards all around you, every one of them an off-duty policeman. You take one step on this property without Mr. Barclay’s consent and you will be shot before you make it to the front door. You know it as well as I do.”
The man smiled. “So that’s it, is it? You actually think you can hide the boy behind this fence. Think no one can touch you because you work in a big house, have a master who sits inside it all day eating tea cakes and crumpets while children in the Magazine starve. And yet the truth is that’s not your house. You just work there, and that means you’ve got to come out eventually. And when you do . . . so help me, if you don’t bring that boy out to me, every black face I see walking off this property is going to pay for what happened last night.”
Mr. Sitwell glanced behind him toward the house. He frowned when he saw Mamie standing on the back porch watching them.
He shook his head. “It was a mistake. Don’t you understand that? The child was frightened, that’s all. What could you possibly gain from hurting him? How is that going to help the children starving in the Magazine while men like my master, as you choose to call him, eat tea cakes and crumpets?”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “What if I could get you money?”
“Money? What money?”
Mr. Sitwell pulled the slip of paper Mr. Pound had given him out of his pocket and handed it to the man. “That much. To compensate you. For whatever pain and suffering you experienced as a result of a terrified child you have already pelted with stones having a gun for his protection. Wouldn’t that bring more satisfaction? And of course, my assurances that none of us will ever set foot in your neighborhood again.”
“You’ve got that much, have you?”
“I don’t have it now but I can get it. Come back this evening, once I’ve finished work. I can give it to you then.”
The man nodded.
“Does that mean we have a deal?”
“Just bring the money. And this better not be a trick. You can’t hide in that house forever.”
Mr. Sitwell waited for them to back away from the gate, then returned to the kitchen.
“What was that about?” Mamie asked him. “Who were those men?”
Mr. Sitwell shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.”
He pushed through a swinging door.
“I’ll do it,” he said when he returned to Mr. Barclay’s study.
“Good,” Mr. Pound said. “Then it’s settled. Run and fetch my transcriber from the kitchen. Afterward you will accompany me back to my hotel and I will arrange to have sketches of your likeness made for the label.”
“Very well, sir,” Mr. Sitwell said.
He walked back to the kitchen.
“Your services are needed in the parlor,” he told the white cook, who let out an exasperated groan and stomped toward the front of the house.
Mamie looked at him, stunned.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
“I think I do,” Mamie said. “You have made a choice, haven’t you? Without consulting me. Which means it looks like I have to make a choice too.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the Fowler. I have just decided to accept their offer of employment.”
Very calmly she removed her apron and left.
* * *
Mr. Sitwell signed the agreement with Mr. Pound then told the white cook the recipe for the sauce. After that, in Mr. Whitmore’s absence, he drove Mr. Pound back to his hotel. When they arrived Mr. Pound contacted an artist and had Mr. Sitwell pose for a series of sketches so that, at some later date, they could be used to create a label for the sauce.
When Mr. Sitwell returned to the house that evening, Mamie was still gone. In fact, the only one in the kitchen was the cook brought in to transcribe. He was now standing by the stove boiling pots of water.
“Where’s Mamie?”
The man turned and looked at Mr. Sitwell. He started to say something then shook his head and looked back down at his pots.
Mr. Sitwell walked outside. He found the three boys sitting in the yard on a stump near the broken water pump.
“What is he still doing here?”
“Boiling water.” Bart shrugged. “Been doing it since you left. Mr. Barclay asked him to stay and help with dinner on account of Mamie left like that.”
“She’s coming back, right?” Mac asked. He looked worried.
“Of course she is,” Mr. Sitwell said. He knew she was upset, but that was because he had not yet had a chance to explain the situation. Once he had, she would realize he’d had no other choice. For while it was true that perhaps none of it would have happened had he not disobeyed her instruction to keep the boys in the house, that too had been a matter of necessity. One thing had led to another; a series of unfortunate events had transpired. But that was over now and things could finally get back to normal.
“Why are you three just sitting here? Dinner starts in less than an hour. Why aren’t you helping Jennie get things ready for tonight?”
Frederick nodded toward the kitchen. “Man told us we are not allowed in there while he’s sterilizing the pots. Told us to just sit here and wait until we were called.”
Mr. Sitwell went back inside the house. As he walked past the new cook he said, “You realize that that’s entirely unnecessary? Those pots are perfectly clean.”
The cook shook his head and said nothing.
Mr. Sitwell pushed through the swinging door.
He found Mr. Barclay still in his study, still seated in the chair turned to face the window and looking much the same as when Mr. Sitwell had left four hours before.
“Mr. Barclay? Sir? May I speak with you for a moment?”
“What do you want, Sitwell?”
“The man Mr. Pound brought in . . . Why is he still here? Mamie has already prepared the night’s dinner and I am more than capable of serving it. We have no need of him.”
“It is not for you to say what we have need of, Sitwell,” Mr. Barclay said. “In any event, I was not aware that you still worked here. I thought you were leaving me to go work for Mr. Pound.”
“Me? No, sir. Certainly not. I am quite satisfied with my position here.”
“And you have told him this?”
“Yes, I have. While he was having my likeness sketched for his label. If it seemed as though I were going along with it, it was merely because I was trying to assist you in your negotiations. You understand that, don’t you? I thought it was what you wanted. To end this business once and for all.”
He sighed. “In all honesty, that’s the reason Mamie left as she did. It had nothing to do with you. She is very upset with me, did not understand why no one spoke to her about Mr. Pound’s plans for that sauce. She is, after all, the cook. She saw it as a betrayal on my part.”
Mr. Barclay laughed. “Betrayal? Of Mamie? That is funny. When clearly the one who has been betrayed is me.”
Mr. Sitwell was confused. “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Barclay turned away from the window and looked at Mr. Sitwell. It was only then that Mr. Sitwell could see how red and swollen the man’s face was.
“You are my servant,” Mr. Barclay said, so angry he seemed to spit his words at him. “You work in my house. That sauce was produced in my kitchen on my stove using ingredients that I paid for. All of which means that, in truth, the sauce was mine.”
“Yours, sir?”
“Mr. Pound had no right to involve you in our negotiations, no right to offer you separate payment for anything. But you chose to ignore that fact, to accept his offer and thereby assist in my humiliation.”
“Your humiliation?” He looked at the swollen veins on the man’s neck, his eyes bulging in absolute fury. The stress of his negotiations with Mr. Pound had clearly taken a serious toll on the man’s health.
“You are upset, sir. I understand. . . . Because of the stress of your negotiations. Perhaps we should talk about this later, once you’ve had a chance to recover.”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Barclay said between clenched teeth. “The Southerners will be here soon and, if you do indeed still work in this house, then I imagine I need you to serve the dinner. But the new cook stays.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Mr. Sitwell bowed and took his leave.
He shut the door behind him. He was confused. How could Mr. Barclay think he would want to humiliate him? After all he’d done, all the years he’d spent working in that house. He had been the man’s gardener, his footman, his butler, his cook, and, as of that afternoon, his chauffeur as well. On many occasions he had been several of these things at the same time. Whatever the house needed, whenever the house needed it, there was Mr. Sitwell doing the best he could to provide. How then could Mr. Barclay possibly question Mr. Sitwell’s loyalty? Was that not the definition of loyalty?
He looked out the window and saw a car pull up to the front of the house. He reached down to straighten his tie and began walking toward the front door.
It didn’t make any sense. If nothing else, surely he was that: loyal. For twenty years he’d been nothing but loyal. Loyal servant to Mr. Barclay, loyal ally to Mamie. How could either of them question his intentions? Think that, after all they’d been through, he would ever intentionally betray or humiliate either of them?
He opened the front door and two grim-faced men stepped inside and handed him their coats. He took their coats and hung them in the closet.
Of course, the situation with Mamie was a bit different. He could see how, from her perspective, it might have appeared that he was betraying her, but that was only because he had not yet had time to explain why he had done it. He was quite certain that once she knew the circumstances, she would understand that he hadn’t had a choice. And yet he also felt that, all things considered, she might have given him the benefit of the doubt. She might have thought to ask herself, before she removed her apron and left the house, Wait a minute. This is Mr. Sitwell. Before I come to any unfounded conclusions let me at least hear him out. He felt he deserved that much consideration, had earned that show of trust.
Mr. Sitwell went back to the kitchen and began preparing a pitcher of drinks for the guests.
Also it seemed ridiculous, given how long they’d known each other and all they’d been through together, that he and Mamie should have their most serious argument over a sauce. And not even a very good one. Mr. Pound had paid him for the recipe and it was enough money to satisfy the men at the gate, yet Mr. Sitwell still did not believe the man had any intention of actually trying to manufacture it. It was quite clear that the whole point was to humiliate Mr. Barclay; the amount of money Mr. Pound had paid for the recipe only underscored how much of it he could afford to waste in the face of Mr. Barclay’s current insolvency. Having succeeded in making this point, Mr. Sitwell had no doubt that Mr. Pound would now put the ridiculous idea behind him and go back to his plans to mass-produce his breakfast wafers. Mr. Pound had gotten what he wanted and, once he’d recovered from the stress of actually dealing with Mr. Pound, Mr. Barclay would realize that he had gotten what he needed. Now all Mr. Sitwell had to do was resolve the situation with the men who’d shown up at the gate.
He put the drinks on a tray and pushed through a swinging door.
“Did you have occasion to read it?” one of Mr. Barclay’s guests said as he entered the room. “I’m curious as to what you made of it.”
“Made of it?” Mr. Barclay asked.
“The book I gave you when we were here last Tuesday.”
“Oh. Well, yes, a rousing tale to be sure.”
“It’s based on a true story, did you know that?”
“No, I hadn’t realized.”
“More or less. Author did take some liberties with the facts. Still, there is enough truth in it that I thought you might find it useful.”
“Useful?”
“Well, it occurred to my cousin and I that you were not actually familiar with the area. The labor situation is quite different from what you have up here. Thought the book might help you gain a sense of what you will be getting in to.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“What if I told you that, in truth, Cherokee was a Negro.”
Mr. Sitwell looked up.
“A Negro?”
“That’s right. So were all the other members of his gang,” the man said. “Matter of fact, the town where the story takes place? It was pretty much surrounded by Negroes. It’s located near a large swamp and slaves used to run into it all the time, trying to hide from the patrollers. They’d run off a plantation and hightail it straight in there, which was smart because it was dangerous in that swamp, full of alligators and disease. Didn’t nobody actually want to go in after them. From the outside it looked like the swamp just gobbled them up. But the truth was there was a pitiful group of Indians hiding in there who were willing to take these runaways in. Not just runaways, but sometimes deserters from the army too. And all of them hiding in there, more and more as time went on. Slept in the trees and ate roots and berries and whatever else they could find. Every last one of them filthy as rats. Wasn’t an easy way to live, so, as you can imagine, the ones who survived were just about the nastiest, wildest creatures you could possibly imagine. The only reason that town exists is because a group of brave men and women recognized the importance of establishing a trade route through the area. The very route you plan on taking advantage of now.”
“I’m confused,” Mr. Barclay said. “I thought you said you were related to the protagonist. And now you’re telling me he was a Negro?”
The two men looked at each other.
“You didn’t read it, did you?” one of the men said. “Cherokee Red is not the protagonist. He’s the villain. They just put him on the cover, probably thought it would sell more books. The real protagonist is a character by the name of John Farley. And this character is based on a genuine personage who happens to be our uncle.”
“Uncle? You don’t say.”
“He was the town sheriff, right after the war. Not a job for the faint of heart, let me tell you. Some of those swamp niggers had been brought in to work in town. I think some people there had the idea to bring them in, clean them up, offer them a little money, and deal with them that way. But of course that didn’t last. One of those nasty swamp dwellers got it into his head that somebody owed him money. Couldn’t even count but he come into town one day, dirty and stinking and ranting and raving about being cheated, pointed a gun right at the man he’d been working for. That man would have been dead if he hadn’t thought to hide behind a mule. The crazy fool shot the mule before one of the man’s neighbors came up behind him with a shovel and put him down.”
“How dreadful,” Mr. Barclay said.
“Turned out this man was Cherokee’s cousin or some such thing. He was so angry, he attacked the town the very next day. That was how it started. People realized they weren’t going to take it anymore, that it was long past time they did what they had to do, what they should have done a long time before. Either they were going to let themselves be overrun or they were going to stand up and fight. So they went in and cleared that swamp. Braved the alligators and the filth and the disease and ran them all out, every last one of those swamp niggers; made sure they knew better than to come back. Nobody wanted to do it, but it had to be done. Someone had to step up.”
He leaned forward and gave Mr. Barclay a serious look.
“Are you prepared to step up? To do what needs to be done? Before you make this purchase, I think it’s important that you think about that. I know you are moving because you are thinking about the cost of labor and I’m trying to tell you honestly, that it’s not quite as straightforward a proposition as you might think. You need to ask yourself if you can handle them and if you don’t know the answer, if there is any hesitation in your mind, then I’m going to suggest that you consider keeping my nephew on, to run the day-to-day operations of the plant. He’s been doing it for fifteen years, took over from my brother. And, trust me, he knows how to handle them.”
“Interesting,” Mr. Barclay said. “I will certainly take that into consideration. Thank you for sharing your insights.”
“Not at all. We are selling you the plant but, as I said, we have strong ties to the area. We’d like your endeavor to be a success. Because that benefits everybody.”
Mr. Sitwell set down his tray.
“That will be all,” Mr. Barclay said.
Mr. Sitwell bowed and took his leave.
He returned to the kitchen. He sat on a stool by the window and thought about what he’d just heard. It was a lie of course, every word of it. Yet somehow, like the lies of the book, it had had the effect of reminding him of the truth. He might not have been familiar with the history the man had spoken of, but he knew for a fact that Cherokee was not the one responsible for starting the violence, realized that in truth he had always known.
Because Mr. Sitwell was the one responsible.
He looked around the empty kitchen. He thought back to that last day at the Farleys’ house, the first and only time he’d heard his mother lie. This lie had so upset Mrs. Farley that after the cake was finished, she’d asked him to bring it out to the dining room. When he got there Mr. Farley was already seated at the table. He looked angry as Mr. Sitwell lowered the cake onto the table. Then, to his utter surprise, Mr. Farley had pulled back the chair beside his and told the boy to sit down.
Mr. Sitwell remembered doing as he was told. Then Mrs. Farley had cut the cake, set a piece before him, and told him to eat. He remembered looking at the cake and then at her holding out a fork. He remembered being very hungry but also hesitating before he took the fork, a little frightened that she actually meant to stab him with it. Then he had done as he was told.
It was the most delicious cake he had ever tasted.
“What did I tell you, Hank?” Mrs. Farley said. “The cake is fine. Lotta made it. You know Lotta. She would have never put poison—”
Mr. Farley had reached across the table and pulled the plate out of reach of the boy’s fork.
“Like that, do you? You want more? All you have to do is tell the truth and it’s yours. A man has come to stay with you, hasn’t he?”
Mr. Sitwell nodded.
“And what color are his eyes?”
Mr. Sitwell hesitated. Even at the age of nine he was smart enough to suspect his mother must have had a reason to lie, but he had no idea what that reason was. Then he looked at the cake. A part of him must have realized he was being asked to make a choice between blind loyalty to his mother and the opportunity to sit at a table and eat a cake made by her very hand. It was an odd choice to be presented with, just as odd as the contrast between Mr. Farley’s generosity and obvious anger. He racked his mind trying to think of any harm that might come of telling the truth, any harm that might outweigh his need for just one more bite.
“Green,” Mr. Sitwell had said. Then took another bite of his mother’s cake.
That was the real reason they had attacked the village that night. The real reason he would never see his mother or Uncle Max again. He had betrayed their trust, without fully understanding he was doing that, without understanding the consequences until it was too late.
All for a piece of cake.
He looked around the kitchen, saw the cakes Mamie had prepared for dessert sitting on the counter. How many people had died because he wanted to sit at a dining-room table and eat his mother’s cake?
He stood up and walked to the cellar door.
“Mac? Are you boys down there?”
“What is it, sir?”
“Do you still have Jennie’s jars of berries?”
“Yes. You told us not to touch them. Said for us to wait for you to clean them out properly.”
“Bring them to me. Turns out they may be useful for something after all.”
* * *
An hour later he walked outside and met a man by the northern fence. He gave him the money he had received from Mr. Pound, as promised. But he also gave him a cake box.
“What is this?”
“You said something earlier about my master eating tea cakes, while the children in the Magazine starved. And it occurred to me that you were right. You are just as deserving of this as any of the gentlemen in that house.”
Inside was a large cake covered with copious amounts of jelly.
* * *
When he returned to the kitchen Jennie was sitting at the table, eating the soup he had prepared for the remaining servants in Mamie’s absence and set out on the worktable. She smiled when she saw him.
“You’ve come back,” she said. “Thank goodness.”
She shook her head. “What a difficult day. I don’t even understand what happened. What exactly did Mr. Pound want that upset Mamie so?”
“Nothing important,” he told her. “She’ll realize that. I think it was more the stress of these past few weeks. I’m sure everything will be clearer tomorrow. You should go home.”
“But the guests are here, are they not? The boys are downstairs; they ate their dinner and then fell asleep. I imagine it was the stress of thinking about Mamie leaving like that. But I thought you might need me to help serve dinner.”
“No. I don’t need any help. I’ll take care of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Get some rest. Everything will be different tomorrow.”
She smiled.
“In time for dinner, I hope. You’re still coming tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Before he could answer, the white cook stomped back into the kitchen. He looked Mr. Sitwell up and down then turned to Jennie. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“She’s eating dinner. And then she is going home,” Mr. Sitwell said.
“Not until she’s cleaned the upper chambers.” He shook his head. “Go on now, girl. Stop that eating and do as I say. This man is not in charge any longer. He just thinks he is.”
Jennie put her plate in the sink and left the room.
The white cook glared at Mr. Sitwell. “When exactly do you intend to vacate this house? My understanding is that as of this afternoon, your services were no longer wanted.”
“Perhaps. But I suspect come morning neither will yours be,” Mr. Sitwell said.
The cook nodded. He nodded to the two cakes covered in berry sauce that sat on either side of the stove.
“What are these?”
“They’re cakes,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Mr. Barclay asked me to prepare them for him. Turns out his guests are from the same region of the world as I am. The sauce is composed of a particular type of berry they are sure to find familiar.”
While the cook watched him, he picked up a knife and cut two pieces from the cake on the left side of the stove and set them on a silver tray. Then he cut two slices from the cake on the right.
The cook squinted. “Why are you doing it that way?”
“They are identical save for the berries I have used for the compote. They are quite common where I come from but extremely difficult to come by in the city. I believe Mr. Barclay intends it to be a catalyst for conversation. Unfortunately there was not enough for both cakes. The cake on the left is for the exclusive consumption of our guests, in case it should turn out that one slice is not enough to satisfy their needs. You are welcome to try the one on the right if you like. What’s left over was intended as the servants’ portion.”
The cook nodded. “So you are in the habit of feeding the Barclays from the servants’ portion?”
“When necessary. I am indeed.” Mr. Sitwell shook his head. “Listen, you might think you are equipped to work in this house but trust me, you are not. Because being a household chef is not just about being able to cook an adequate dinner. Every household is its own complex organism. To maintain it requires certain talents, which I’m sorry to say but I can tell by looking at you, you do not possess. Even if Mr. Barclay did give you Mamie’s job. You would not last long here.”
Again the cook nodded. He squinted down at Mr. Sitwell’s tray. “Your slices are not even proportionate.”
“Yes. That way I will be able to tell them apart as I serve.”
The cook removed the slices Mr. Sitwell had prepared for the Barclays from his tray and dumped them back into the servants’ portion. He got two new plates and cut two new slices from the cake on the left.
“Now there is no need,” the cook said. “Understand me. Whether or not you do stay here, this is no longer a nigger kitchen. I am in charge now and so long as that is true, the Barclays do not eat from the nigger portion. Serve the dinner as you are supposed to and then clear out.”
Mr. Sitwell looked down at his tray and then back at the cook. He began walking toward the dining hall, then stopped just before he reached the door.
“The cake on the left is for the guests. I made it for them. If you would like to try one, I would suggest you take it from the servants’ portion, on the right. For that in truth is what it is. Not for Negroes, but for servants. And that is what you are. Same as the rest of us. A servant.”
He pushed through a swinging door.
* * *
At nine o’clock that evening Mr. Sitwell returned to his rooming house for what would be the last time. He found Billy sitting behind the front desk.
“Your book has taken a curious turn. One of Cherokee’s many young cousins in the swamp was apprehended on the edge of town. The man who brought him in claimed he’d been trying to steal turnips. Such acts are apparently frequent but, in this instance, given the circumstances . . . no one is certain it was not a deliberate provocation. Farley’s first instinct was to simply send him home, but then he thought better of it. Because what if the provocation was not the theft but the capture? What if Cherokee is testing them, trying to ascertain how they behave under stress, whether or not Farley will be able to maintain order? You see, some of the townspeople have their own opinions about how Cherokee’s kin should be dealt with, but Farley has let it be known there would be no vigilante justice in his town. He put him in the holding cell with Wash. Then he gives a rather long, boring speech, which, I admit, I skimmed most of. But the point was he sought to remind them that it was precisely at moments such as these that a man revealed his true nature. Cherokee’s assault will not change who they are. Just because they are dealing with savages does not mean they have to become one themselves.”
Mr. Sitwell, who had just reached the foot of the stairs, stopped walking.
“That is not what happened at all.”
Billy looked confused. “It is what happened. I just read it.”
“I don’t care what you read. Those townspeople were not civilized. They attacked Cherokee’s village unprovoked, with the deliberate intention of driving out every man, woman, and child. And when Farley and his men were finished, the erasure was so complete that ever after I have had to live with not only the miracle of my continued existence, but the utter singularity of it. Because, you see, I am quite convinced I am the only one who got out alive. And because of that, I have always known I owe my people something. For a long time, I thought what I owed them was to simply survive. To make sure we are not entirely erased from this world. I had to live so that they could live on through me. But it occurs to me that perhaps this life, this world demands more of me. Perhaps the only way to ensure that the truth is what prevails is to make sure there is no one around to tell these lies.”
Billy frowned. “Sitwell? As usual I’m not sure I understand your meaning, but . . . I wonder. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe this book isn’t about you? I know you come from a small town, and I understand that a terrible thing happened there. But it occurs to me that this is probably true of many such towns in the South. And you keep saying you recognize the names in the book, but are you certain you did not get those names from the book itself? For example, this Cherokee. I notice you’ve taken to calling some man you once knew by that name but, as I recall, on the night you first gave me this book you said that you never actually knew a man by that name. And, on the other hand, there is the matter of Lotta—that’s your mother, right? Well, I’m pretty far along, and as I have told you many times, I haven’t come across anybody named Lotta. Not once. Furthermore, as I have also told you many times, everyone in this story is white.”
“What is your point?”
“Well . . . when you asked me to read this you said that you wanted answers to some questions. But perhaps the reason you have not gotten any answers that seem to satisfy you is because they simply aren’t there. I’m only saying this because it seems to upset you so, when the book doesn’t conform to your own recollections. Perhaps the book is not trying to conform. Perhaps it’s just a story. And a pretty good one at that. Perhaps, if you just took it on its own merit, it wouldn’t upset you so much.”
Mr. Sitwell turned away from Billy and walked back to his room.
He watered his plants.
He listened to the man next door snore.
He sat down on his chair. He had no dreams that night because he did not sleep.
In any event, it was not time for sleep.
It was time to wake up.