56

Cold Turkey

Delbert was really put out that I’d spent all my money on fertilizer. He had to wait until I ran in and took the fare from the cash box in the back office. I asked since he had to wait anyway, why couldn’t he unload the fertilizer? He argued it wasn’t like suitcases, that suitcases were part of a person’s trip, but fertilizer wasn’t. I got him to do it by saying I’d give him a big tip (which I wouldn’t). Finally, he left, mumbling curses which I would report to Axel, if Axel ever got within speaking distance.

It was time for dinner. I left the fertilizer on the front porch and half walked, half ran to the kitchen, taking the short cut on the wooden walk to the kitchen’s side door.

Walter, dependable as always, was just taking Salisbury steak out of the oven, a more dignified version of hamburger. There would be my mother’s dark rich gravy to pour over it.

“I took ’em in their first course. Melon balls. I didn’t have much to do so I made some.”

In a glass dish were perfect little rounds of watermelon, honeydew, and cantaloupe. I congratulated Walter on his inventiveness.

“Miss Jen called, too. They’re on their way back. Miss Jen said the sun was something fierce.”

“Did you tell her it was Florida?”

Walter hawked a laugh around and shook his head.

Of course, Miss Bertha objected to her Salisbury steak, fussing her fork around her plate as if poking and prodding meat and potatoes would turn them into whatever glamour dish she had in mind.

I told her, “It’s not hamburger; it’s a high-quality ground beef. Ground round, I think I heard my mother say.”

Mrs. Fulbright had taken a bite and proclaimed it delicious. She did this all the time, like a fond parent trying to get a baby in a high chair (a pretty good description of Miss Bertha) to mimic her actions. But Miss Bertha only demanded, as usual, something else besides “this muck” to eat.

Referring to anything my mother cooks as “muck” is the same as calling gold or silver shavings “sawdust,” but my day had been so spectacularly successful (at least as far as I was concerned) that I could rise above my daily and ordinary self and offer something else. My mother had left, exclusively for me, some ham pinwheels. These are made of pastry dough spread with perfectly seasoned ground ham, and then rolled up and sliced (something like icebox cookies). After baking they are lathered with rich cheese sauce. This scrumptious dish, beloved by me, is also a favorite of Miss Bertha’s, at least as much as she favors anything.

So this dinnertime I offered Miss Bertha a ham pinwheel in place of the Salisbury steak. This was such an instant success that I decided not to mix a lot of fiery English mustard into her cheese sauce as I was tempted to do. And I reminded myself to divide the cheese sauce three ways (for I was also going to let Walter have a pinwheel), which did not mean an equal three ways, for my portion would be biggest. (Now, I will say this for Aurora Paradise, and that is she eats just about everything. I mean, unless she throws it at you instead, like the chicken wing and the stuffed tomato.)

The two old ladies’ meal proceeded in relative peace after Miss Bertha got her ham pinwheel. My own and Walter’s dinners were also peaceful. I had the largest pinwheel, half a Salisbury steak with my mother’s lucious gravy, the au gratin potatoes, and peas as green as an Irish meadow. I saw to it Walter got just the same meal, except for not as much cheese sauce.

Following dinner, I stayed in the Pink Elephant saying good-bye to all of my new friends at the Rony Plaza, who pleaded with me to come back next year, telling me I was the most entertaining guest they had ever had. The manager said he would hold “my room” and was even considering putting a bronze plaque on the door with my name. I think he would even have offered to hold a sunset.

What a day, what a day.

I wrapped the cord around the fan and lay the palm tree against the wall and scooped sand back in the bucket. Will and Mill had been agitating to get their fan back, needing it (they said) to “create a disturbance.” I told them please to keep it away from me.

I hauled the fan up to the Big Garage and knocked at the door. The noise behind it quickly subsided as if someone had shot it dead. When Will finally came to the door, he refused to open it more than an inch or two, as usual.

“Here’s your fan.”

“Good. Leave it.”

“Why not open the door and take it inside.”

“Just leave it.”

“This is really stupid. I’ve already seen what you’re doing, haven’t I?”

“Leave it. Good-bye.”

I heard laughter. There was a girl’s voice, probably June’s, and Paul’s crazy laugh. As I walked away, I thought it wasn’t what the secret was but the whole nature of secretive-ism that Will and Mill loved. It didn’t matter that I’d seen some of the “production.” Simply leaving it behind restored the secret of it.

When I went back to the kitchen Walter told me Aurora Paradise had been hollering down the dumbwaiter when he went into the back office. “It was way past the cocktail hour is what she said and she wants her Cold Comfort.”

I sighed. Then I went to the office to sort through the bottles, and found no Southern Comfort, only gin and vodka and Wild Turkey. Well, the Wild Turkey would do, so I took it and miniatures of crème de menthe and brandy. Back in the kitchen I mixed up a couple of juices and ice in the blender, then dumped in the liquor. I poured it, frothing, into a tall glass, speared some melon balls on a long swizzle stick and held it up for Walter to inspect.

“Cold Turkey,” I said.

We laughed.