Circling the Drain (9 page)

Billy Foo knows how to spice things just right—sizes folks up when they push through the door, assesses them in a snap. The sign outside the restaurant is a faded red marker.
Food
, it says, nothing else. But folks find themselves there feeling hungry and lost, when they need a real lift, when things haven't worked out their way.

They don't even bother choosing their own spice (although the waiter always asks
Do you won medium or won spicy or won mild, that dish?
), trusting Foo to know just what they need. Besides, Billy Foo has the power to override and he exercises it.

Foo's fed everyone: kings, queens, witches and anarchists. He's spiced soup for dignitaries, merchants and fools. He's made bouillabaisse for baseball teams, stew for softball leagues, gumbo for lion tamers and bisque for those in pain.

And he had always been right: always given them what they needed, not what they asked for.

Until the night Lady Peacock walked in.

A vicious storm prosecuted those on the streets that night and icy black rain tumbled from the sky in angry sheets. When she pushed open the double glass doors, cloaked in a damp, though still-shimmering blue feathered robe, Foo was spouting forth to his pupil—his protégé—Joe.

Foo lectured about heartache and toothache, kindness,
evil, betrayal and any other thing that happened to swim in range of his angry swinging arms and furious booming voice. Foo yelled at Joe and—though Joe had been diplomatically trying to defend his assertions that maybe, just
maybe
, coriander could have some healing purposes and just
maybe
mixing two tablespoons of hope into each batch of every dish would make the world a better place—he meekly conceded that Foo was right.

Of course Foo was right, yell, yell, yell like he did, he was the teacher and Joe was the student and if Joe wanted to learn anything well then he had better try and
listen
a little, hadn't he better? And Joe nodded.

By then Foo was panting and pretty much done, his anger lightly sprinkling the room as it drifted down from the heights it had reached, when Lady Peacock appeared.

They both stared.

Mild
, Billy Foo muttered, and in that moment she looked Mild: all wilted and small and wet. When she removed the cloak her clothes hung off of her like damp newspapers: lumpy and shapeless and gray.

But somehow Joe sensed Foo's mistake.

Joe had studied Foo's method for some time now, trying to assess whether it was psychic, instinctual or merely some kind of stereotype-driven success story. Joe was a wobbly boy, knobby and pimpled, but quiet inside in a way that made people trust him. And he wanted to help, but that wasn't what told him that this one was different. No, somehow he just sensed the Lady was slippery.

She shivered slightly, hair drooping in dark strings around a milk-pale face, and she crossed her arms as though afraid some part of her would leap away.

But her broken heart showed in the way she shuffled to the counter and gave them the once-over. People always
gave Billy Foo the once-over—he was a midget and he was always right.
I am always right!
he frequently asserted when people thanked him—but Joe didn't get noticed so much and it made him shy. He turned back toward the stove and heard the Lady plunk herself down on one of the green vinyl stools.

I need soup
, she said.
I need soup that will heal me up and make me pay for trying to destroy my true love. I need it hot, really, really spicy hot. I knew to come here. I knew to come to Billy Foo
. She batted her lashes, but her look was fierce.

Joe, peeking over his shoulder, tried to look casual though they weren't paying him any mind. Billy stood on a milk crate looking hard into her eyes.
How did you hear of me?
he asked.

She didn't answer him, just looked back with her mouth in a tight little knot, a strong little smile.

I spice the food
, he said, but Joe saw him deciding what to do—after all, she wanted soup to make her repent and no matter how delicious a delicately spiced soup was, it wouldn't make her pray forgiveness, wouldn't sear her throat and come down after her stomach like a furious fist of fire. It wouldn't make her cry. Or so he thought.

I spice the food
, Foo said again, unblinking, and stared deep into her eyes.

I know soup
, she spat at him.
Don't underestimate me
.

And for the very first time Joe saw Billy Foo unnerved.

The hum of the restaurant faded. It was dry and warm. Outside the rain clattered down. Joe snuck glances at her face, trying to catch sight of whatever fire had leapt from her eyes to those of Billy Foo because, for the first time ever, Billy Foo began to do
what the customer requested
.

There was a pink flush in his little mustardy cheeks and
he mumbled to himself,
Hot, she wants hot, I'll give her punishment, I'll give her hot
.

Then her voice came from behind them:
Don't sacrifice flavor for fire
.

Billy Foo's ears reddened, but he said nothing, just pulled his lips into a flat angry line and kept his eyes open wide while his hands flew like quicksilver.

Joe wondered while Foo worked. He wondered at the speed of Foo's hands and the flush of his cheeks, at the anger in his movements, and the strange effect of the woman in the blue-feathered cloak. Joe wondered what could make a person act so unlike himself. What could make a person so muddle his instincts in favor of being Right?

Foo placed the bowl of soup in front of the Lady, then he and Joe leaned against the counter to watch. A pungent, sweet aroma wafted through the air. They all closed their eyes and took a sniff.

Steam rose from the bowl in wisps, curled the hair around her face into ringlets. She opened her strange gray eyes and looked up at them:
Now this smells like what I need
.

Joe noticed then that she was pretty and young. That her fierceness was a sharp, fresh wind rushing across the grassy plains that raised him. He blushed a deep, unmistakable red.

But Billy didn't say a word. Just watched her face, pale and dotted, and kept his lips in that little line.

It wasn't until the third spoonful that her face began to change shape. She flushed red, then lavender, then the dark purple hue of an eggplant. All that was to be expected, but at the third spoonful her face began to fight itself. Her features slipped and slid; the whole shape of her head seemed to wiggle and roll. Tears coursed down her cheeks, her en
tire body shook, but she poured one jiggling spoonful after another down her throat until Joe thought the punishing soup was going to melt her bones away. And then—her face pale and slippery now—she tilted the bowl back and drank from its rim. Soup blended with her tears, her face smeared with liquid and Joe and Billy looked on.

When she placed the empty bowl on the counter, there was silence except for the staccato rain and the slap of passing cars and she said, real low and growly:
You spice the soup, huh?

Foo, who'd been leaning back this whole time with his arms crossed, alternately watching and not watching her, nodded slowly, his eyes locked in a wrestling match with hers.

I'm a soup maker, too
, she whispered, and Joe saw the challenge in her eyes as plain as day.
But my soup isn't just about spice. It's about substance
.

Well, obviously those were fighting words. Jeez, Joe thought, might as well tell a novelist that you don't read trash or a filmmaker that B movies aren't your thing after they've just laid it on the line, delivered their masterpiece into your lap.

Billy didn't take it in stride.

Really
, he hissed.
Well, why don't you just make me some soup and show me what substance is all about
. And he spat the word
substance
so that it became
ssssssubstance
with a big gust of anger to carry it her way and lay it, all withered and black, in her lap.

She came around behind the counter, and so commenced what would come to be known and whispered about for years as the Soup Duel.

Joe handed over his apron, which she tied with a few quick, efficient gestures, Then she began to move so deftly
and with such assurance that after a while he stopped trying to follow her motions or track the ingredients and instead tried to imagine who she could possibly be. A fairy? Dream collector? Supreme Minister of Soup? Joe almost guessed it then: relative, but his mind bounced off the thought and ricocheted into other places, places where the Lady Peacock was naked except for a shorter, frillier apron and a pair of high silver heels.

As though Foo could read his thoughts, Joe flushed deeply, squinted and watched the blur of her spin and fly. But Billy Foo wasn't looking at Joe, and after months of Foo's scrutiny and teaching patience, after months of his territorial beratements—
I spice the soup!
—such odd behavior made Joe nervous for him. Gone was his usual quippy self and instead, perched silently on his milk crate, tiny hands clasped in front of him, Foo watched the woman move with a little plastic smile on his face.

Sit down
, she told him, and though Joe had never seen Billy Foo ordered around, he sat. She placed a steaming bowl in front of him. The liquid it contained was a dark periwinkly blue full of tiny lumps and amorphous shapes floating just below the surface; it looked like a troubled late summer night sky: portentous, but beautiful.

Eat
, she demanded, and leaned into the counter, balancing her face on her bony hands and her elbows on either side of the soiled place mat's edge. Foo glared at her; they stayed like that for a long minute: this strange speedy woman and Billy Foo locked in the throes of the Duel.

He took a spoon from Joe and gently stirred the thick blue broth. The vapor from it gave his sallow skin an iridescent pink sheen. He swallowed one spoonful. And another.

By then Joe watched as intently as she, waiting for some
thing to happen, but there were no fireworks, there was no explosion of steam. Instead, Billy Foo's features began to soften and melt, tears gathered in his eyes. As his pace quickened, as he practically
shoveled
the soup down his throat, Billy Foo began to weep openly.

The Lady turned to Joe.
I'm Mina Peacock, Lady of Liquids, chef to the difficult members of my family
, she said.
What's your name?

Joe
, he told her with trepidation.

Joe, you've just witnessed a man drinking down his own ego
, she said.

He could think of no reply.

She dried her hands on the apron, untied it and wrapped herself in the Peacock coat, shimmering and bright. Don't go, Joe was thinking. Stay.

She paused by the entrance and looked back at them.
Billy, you don't need to be worshipped
, she said quietly.
You just need to be kind
.

And then she left.

When the door closed it was quiet for a moment, except for the sounds of Billy Foo's sobbing, and then he turned and choked out the words:

Little sister…

And Joe hoped she'd be back.

 

Every time it storms, they wonder. Though Foo would never admit it, Joe sees him watch the door, tensing up each time it swings open and a damp customer stands, pooling water, in the front of the place.

Medium
, Billy Foo whispers, but with a change in his tone. Joe can hear it. There is some respect mixed in now. And though Joe can't be sure, sometimes, for just a small moment, he thinks he hears the musical sounds of doubt.

They came on a plane, silently. Dianne made nervous chitchat at first but Sarah was seventeen and having none of it.

Listen, she said to her mother, laying a hand on her arm, it's okay to be afraid.

I
know
that, Dianne said. Excuse me but who's the
mother
here?

Sarah had the window seat. She watched the sky change and the land pass beneath them and thought of her black-haired boyfriend back in Virginia. She could picture him in his room, practicing the oboe, a green bandanna tied around his head. She could even imagine what T-shirt he'd be wearing, which faded jeans, and the image birthed such a longing that the girl glanced at her mother, afraid these thoughts might be audible. Then she glanced away.

 

In the airport, the baggage carousel turned slowly, spitting suitcase after suitcase down the long black belt. They stood in a cluster of passengers; the room bustled with people yanking bags.

Do we have to go right there? Sarah asked with a slight whine in her voice.

Dianne looked at the girl, at her serious expression and her terrible haircut, which Dianne wasn't allowed to com
ment upon because she'd promised not to, and after all, her daughter had come along on this unhappy trip.

Sweetie, I don't know…

But Sarah had already drifted off, as though the futility of her suggestion was factored into the request, as though she'd known the answer all along—which irritated Dianne, who didn't like to think of herself as predictable.

Let's go to Nana Irma's, Dianne said, grabbing a familiar gray bag off the ramp. Let's just get it over with and then in the morning we'll go see Papa.

The girl nodded. She was walking on the heels of her shoes, a strange awkward walk that, combined with her ill-cut shock of orange and pink hair, made her look like a rooster or a crippled clown.

 

It had been sunny when they left Virginia, but Pennsylvania was misty and gray. They rented a car and set out. As they drove it began to rain, lightly at first, and then to pour. Sarah stared out the window while her mother hunched over the wheel, peering through the unfamiliar windshield at the muck of weather.

They drove through hilly towns, each one like the other: tall narrow houses, vacant stores, imposing churches, sloping land. Sarah pointed and asked questions about the area until Dianne's clipped answers or hurried
I-don't-knows
became frustrating and impenetrable.

Sarah watched her mother curved over the wheel, her blond hair swept back in a ponytail, and thought how beautiful she looked and young for a mother—even with her brow furrowed and her lips moving slightly as she mumbled to herself: where are the landmarks from when I was little? where's that quick left? what happened to the highway that
used to pass through here? Then Sarah, guessing they must be lost, insisted they pull over to get directions.

That's so scary, Mom, Sarah said, I never knew you could forget the place where you grew up.

I didn't forget, her mother snapped. Just let me concentrate. And then they were quiet again.

Soon they entered a neighborhood peppered with pink flamingos dug in lawns, small iron men holding lanterns, and statues of the Virgin Mary. Then they pulled into her grandfather's driveway.

Sarah couldn't remember the last time she'd been there, only that everything had looked bigger then, cleaner and nicer than now. She tried to think of the last birthday card or gift from Nana Irma, but couldn't.

Let's just sit here for a minute, Sarah whispered.

No, let's get it over with, her mother said, and opened the driver door and got out.

They looked up and saw Irma on the balcony above, watching them. Hi, Dianne yelled up in her most cheerful of voices. Hi there, Irma!

Irma didn't wave back, just disappeared inside and then appeared a few seconds later from the side of the house.

Hello, she said when she was close enough not to have to yell. I wasn't sure when you'd get here. I was about to go to bed.

She didn't look at Sarah, only at Dianne. Did you stop off for a drink or something?

We got lost, Nana, Sarah said. Mom couldn't remember how to get here.

Yes, well it has been a while, hasn't it? Irma replied, and smiled stiffly, then turned and led them into the house.

 

It was late and most of the lights were off, but in the dim glow of the streetlights Sarah saw her grandfather's old familiar things as she and her mom hurried past: the wall of books, the rolltop desk, the model ships. The place was immaculate, it didn't look lived-in at all, but it was the same apartment she remembered: living room windows guarded by heavy blue curtains, floors covered with thick white carpet. A long gray couch with chrome armrests. Tasseled lampshades on stout white lamps. Small dark tables laden with delicate ashtrays and glass candy dishes. Mirrored shelves of china and porcelain animals.

Irma led them straight to the study where the foldout couch had been made up, and they dropped their bags in the corner of the room, next to Sarah's grandfather's favorite chair and his pipe collection.

I hope you don't mind, Irma said, but I'm exhausted. We can visit in the morning.

Sarah stared at the pictures on the fireplace mantel and those that hung above it. When Irma closed the door behind her, Sarah spoke, her voice low as if Irma was still with them.

Mom, she said, all the pictures of us are gone.

Sure enough. Above the fireplace were pictures of Irma's dead first husband and their daughter, Tammy; pictures of Tammy and her husband at their wedding; pictures of Sarah's three stepcousins, their pointy little faces rounding out as they aged.

There were no more pictures of her grandfather.

There were no more pictures of Sarah or Dianne or Sarah's father, Richard.

Just the
real
family, Dianne whispered and Sarah turned and hugged her close.

 

Later they curled up in the slanting pullout sofabed. Sarah let her arm dangle over the side as her mother shifted behind her.

Honey, Dianne said once she'd gotten settled, I wish you could have known your real grandmother.

It was a familiar refrain. It tightened Sarah's chest, but she lay quietly as her mother stroked her hair.

My mother would have gotten such a kick out of you. She would have just loved you, sweetie, and you would have loved her. She wasn't like this—she would have made us cookies and stayed up late talking. She was an awful lot of fun, a real character, always full of stories—

I know, Mom.

Dianne sighed and withdrew her hand and Sarah's scalp felt cool where her mother's touch had disappeared.

Anyway…Dianne said. Good night, honey. And she turned over.

 

Dianne fell asleep first.

Sarah stared at her grandfather's chair and thought of him when he was younger, before the Alzheimer's, or when it was in its early stages and they just called it Old Age. When he would tell her the same story about a giraffe and a monkey over and over—a story he never finished, forever getting stuck at some part of it and beginning again. She had loved this, had loved sitting on his lap and hearing him talk, had loved that he smelled softly of tobacco and aftershave. That he let her twist up his pipe cleaners into little men or ships or birds.

In the dark Sarah could see the faint outline of dips and hollows in her grandfather's chair as though an invisible body sat there, shaping the nubby plaid. She thought of him sitting in the chair eight hours a day while he drifted off
somewhere in his own head, staring at nothing. And then she, herself, drifted off.

Sarah woke in a sweat some time later. She'd dreamt of her black-haired boyfriend, Taylor, of his woeful eyes and of a baby held in his arms as he turned towards her in a train station. She rose unsteadily, bewildered by the dark unfamiliar place, then made her way across the dim room to the door and tiptoed down the hall.

The night before, she'd climbed out her bedroom window and into the wet summer evening where Taylor waited in his Jeep, the motor running, the lights off. Are you ready? he'd asked, and she'd felt like a hundred electric butterflies had been released; the air strummed with energy. She'd licked her lips, then smiled and nodded, shy suddenly, nervous. They drove through the quiet streets. Ahead of them, heat lightning split the sky and there was a rumble of distant thunder. When they reached Stony Ridge, Taylor turned off the engine and they watched the sprawl of the town below. I love you, he whispered, and Sarah reached out and touched his lips. I love you too, she whispered back, and they undressed under the open air.

Afterwards, as he'd held her, it began to rain and she laughed when he scrambled to put the top back on the Jeep. Then he climbed inside again, damp and naked, and nestled beside her, pulling her close. Sarah had felt the beat of her heart and of his and she'd thought: We did It, and she'd thought: I am a woman, and she'd felt her love well up and pour out of her. She'd snuggled even closer, warm where their bodies pressed together. They'd stayed like that most of the night.

Now, she pushed open the bathroom door and flipped the light switch. The fluorescence was blinding and for a moment she couldn't see at all, then her eyes adjusted.

She leaned in and stared at herself in the mirror, at her freckled face and sleepy eyes, thinking: I am seventeen years old. She sucked in her cheeks: I am almost twenty, then twenty-five, then thirty. Her face aged as the words danced through her mind, the years swept up and fell away. She leaned her forehead against the cool mirror and thought of Taylor, lying far away and sleepless, thinking of her.

 

All night Dianne felt Irma's family glaring at her; most of her dreams were hostile and gray. Then Dianne dreamed her mother laughing, her head thrown back in delight.

When she woke, she lay still for a few minutes, immobilized by a sadness so immense that she couldn't breathe, the ache of her mother's absence heavy and raw. She closed her eyes, and fought to conjure her mother's face again—she had looked so joyous: her brown eyes all crinkled up, that wide smile. But she had disappeared silently into the ether and Dianne found herself staring instead at the pictures of her stepfamily.

Dianne rose and dressed, careful not to wake Sarah, then shut the door behind her and walked slowly down the hallway.

She could see Irma seated at the kitchen table with a magazine and a cup of coffee. Pearly hair framed her face like cotton candy and she wore a silver pantsuit with peach-colored flowers along the collar. When she walked in Irma did not look up. Dianne pulled out a chair and sat down.

Good morning, she said, smiling as wide as she could manage.

Hi Dianne. Hope you slept well.

Oh yes. Yes, just fine.

Irma acknowledged her with a nod but still didn't look up.

Dianne groped about for something to say, but found herself lost in the mundanities of her father's life—a framed photograph of a sailboat, scraps of yellow paper pinned by colorful magnets to the refrigerator, the heavy glass table.

I couldn't remember if you drank coffee, Irma said, turning a page of her colorful magazine, so I only made enough for me. I suppose if you want some you can fix some. The filters are in the cabinet above the pot.

Thanks, Dianne said, and silently re-vowed her cheerfulness. Thank you. Yes.

She stood and crossed the kitchen, found the filters and then the coffee. She busied herself with the measurement of the water, the doling out of the grounds. It was a pleasant kitchen, really, sunnier than she'd remembered. Everything clean and in its place.

Dianne made half a pot, certain that Sarah would stumble instinctively towards it when she woke. She poured water, she flipped the switch and she waited. Irma didn't say anything else.

Dianne leaned on the counter, watching the pot. This has been hard, she began, then corrected herself. I know this has been difficult for you.

Oh, Dianne, Irma said, setting her coffee down with a thunk. What do you know? You aren't here, so what could you possibly know?

I know, Dianne said sharply, then leaned on the counter and forced herself to breathe.

The clock ticked. She replaced the box of filters in the cabinet.

I imagine it's been extremely difficult, she said without looking at Irma.

Yes, Irma muttered. Yes it has.

Well, Dianne said, and then stopped as the futility of the whole situation rose up and pounded down on her. Well, she said again, softer.

 

When her coffee had brewed, Dianne poured a cup and walked out the screen door to the balcony and sat in a white plastic chair. This was it. This was where the final act had occurred three weeks ago: her father, the smooth-mannered Irving J. Feinstein, standing here naked, urinating off the balcony in full view of the neighbors.

And Irma had called and announced she'd had enough. He's got to go, she'd hollered, impenetrable to Dianne's wheedles and pleadings. The phone call seemed to last hours. He'll go to a Home, Dianne had promised. Just don't leave him, please. And Irma was finally persuaded, if only by the threat of social humiliation if she left.

Irving sitting in his chair for whole days at a time hadn't been the only precursor. There was his belligerence, his scolding. There was his loss of control, and the fact that he could no longer be left alone for any period of time. He's too helpless, Irma had said over miles and miles. I can't take it. And even then, even though Irma was seventy-two and her father eighty-six, Dianne couldn't help but think of Irma as a bimbo, a gold-digging tramp who'd married a man too old for her.

Dianne leaned her head back against the shingles of the house. It was a cool morning, foggy and damp. Off in the distance, rows of laundry hung from clotheslines and here or there she saw the movement of people behind their windows. When she was younger, she'd thought of the clotheslines as sweet-smelling markers of home—she had helped her mother empty basket after damp basket, clipping their
sheets to the line with wooden clothespins. They'd had a bargain: Dianne helped hang the wet laundry in exchange for clothespins to decorate and transform into dolls—her mother had helped her make them; she'd had a whole village at one time.