The Social Climber of Davenport Heights (26 page)

“I never go to Newman’s,” I assured him. “They overcook the vegetables.”

“So who does this baker work for?”

“The woman who made this pie doesn’t have a job,” I told him. “And she could sure use one.”

“She’s not a professional chef?”

“She’s been working as a cook,” I told him, deciding it might be better not to mention either the term
short-order
or the phrase
lunch counter at the bus station
.

“So what happened?” he asked. “Anyone with this much talent wouldn’t be let go unless she was very undependable, or hit the chef over the head with something.”

“Oh, she wasn’t fired. She left on her own.”

“Did she not like the place? Or was she looking for more money?”

“Neither.” I hesitated and then decided that I had to trust Frederic with the truth. “Her ex-boyfriend is abusive. If he finds her at work he causes trouble for her.”

Frederic raised a speculative eyebrow. He took another bite of the peach pie, savoring it.

“Well, Jane,” he said, “I think this woman’s troubles are over.”

My mouth actually dropped open. I couldn’t imagine that it would be this easy.

“Mario!” Frederic called out.

The huge man who’d let me in appeared from an inner office.

“You need something?” he asked Frederic.

“Taste this pie,” Frederic said.

The big man looked at Frederic, then me. With a shrug, he enthusiastically cut himself a more generous slice than his boss’s. He held it in his hand and took a bite out of the narrow end.

“This is really good,” Mario announced with his mouth still full.

“The woman who baked this is coming to work for us tomorrow,” Frederic said.

“That’s great!” The big man was nodding.

“Her name’s…” He turned to look at me.

“Shanekwa,” I answered. “I…I don’t know her last name.”

“Her name’s Shanekwa,” he said to Mario. “We’ll find out her last name tomorrow. She has a problem with a jerk that follows her around and causes her to lose jobs. I don’t want her to lose this one.”

The big man nodded as he swallowed a bite and was poised to take another one. “Don’t worry,” he told both of us. “I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

“Thank you,” I said to him. “And thank you, Frederic. I promise to keep coming here for the rest of my life, and I’ll always order dessert.”

“I’m counting on that,” he told me.

When I got back to my car, I called Loretta on my mobile. She was ecstatic with the news.

“This will be great for her,” Loretta said. “She’s a really good worker and they’ve liked her every place she’s worked.”

“She’ll be back in the kitchen,” I said. “So it won’t be like the bus station where anybody might spot her.”

Loretta laughed. “I sincerely doubt that Ellis and his cronies frequent that side of town.”

“I know she needs a place to live,” I told her. “I’ve got small guest quarters over my garage that are empty. It’s not much, just three rooms, but it has a separate entrance and it’s somewhere for her and her son to stay until she gets on her feet.”

“The place she gave up was tiny,” Loretta said. “And she can get everything she owns in a duffel bag and a couple of boxes.”

“We can get some secondhand furnishings,” I said. “We can fix it up really nice.”

“Jane, you are a wonder,” Loretta said. “I can hardly believe that you managed this.”

“Believe me, it was easy,” I assured her. “As soon as Frederic tasted that pie, he would have crawled over hot coals to get her to come to work for him.”

“You have to tell her yourself,” Loretta insisted.

Shanekwa was upstairs. I stayed on the line while someone went up to get her.

“Hi!” She greeted me like I was a friend. “Did you talk to Brynn? What did she say?”

“I got her voice mail,” I answered. “I’m going to try again tomorrow. But that’s not what I’m calling about.”

I made it brief, but I covered everything.

She was a little bit stunned at the news. “They just want me to make pies?” she asked.

“I think you’ll have to work that out with Frederic,” I said. “But he hired you just on the basis of that peach pie.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. I began telling her about the restaurant.

“It is absolutely my favorite. Some people say Newman’s is the best in town, but I’ve always liked Le Parapluie best.”

I talked about Frederic and working at the citywide Thanksgiving dinner.

“He’s a fair, generous man who doesn’t suffer from any of that excessive ego chefs are famous for. He says you’ve got talent and he appreciates that.”

I explained about the little guest quarters over my garage.

“It’s small, but it’s really all brand-new. I’ve never even furnished it, the space has just been used for storage.”

When I ran out of things to say, I began to realize that she was just too quiet on the other end.

“Shanekwa, is something wrong?”

She made some kind of noise. Some kind of unexpected noise. “Are you crying?” I realized it just before I said it.

I was astounded and appalled. Was this another one of my doing-good attempts that wasn’t good at all? Was my unwanted help just another intrusion.

“Shanekwa, I’m sorry. Don’t cry. You don’t have to take this job if you don’t want it.”

Her reply was a hiccup.

“It’s not the kind of work you’ve done before, if you don’t want to do it, then you shouldn’t.”

She couldn’t speak.

“I know it’s a different part of town than you’re familiar with, but I think you’d like it. I’m sure we could get a great preschool situation for your son. Close to both your home and your job.”

Still she said nothing.

“Or if the guest quarters are too small for you and your little boy, you can stay in the house with me,” I said. “I thought that after being in the safe house, you’d want the privacy of your own place.”

“You…you…” she managed to choke out.

“What?”

“You are so…so nice to me.”

I answered without thinking. “Shanekwa, you were nice to me.”

“I gave you a pie,” she said. Her words brought on a fresh flood of tears.

“It was a wonderful pie,” I told her when she regained some composure. “And you gave me some great advice about my daughter.”

“That was nothing.”

“It was something to me,” I said. “Anyway, I didn’t talk to Frederic to pay you back. I talked to him because your mama used to say you were the best pie baker in town. You deserve a chance to prove it.”

I
WAS SO EXCITED
, so wound up after I got off the phone I just couldn’t see myself going home and getting into bed. I thought about trying to call Brynn once more, but it was one-thirty in the morning in Boston. If she wasn’t in bed, I didn’t want to know about it.

The back parking lot was clearing out and I decided I couldn’t just sit there. I began driving aimlessly up and down the streets. I felt the same sense of triumph, flush of success, that I used to feel when closing on a big money deal.

And just like on those days, I sort of naturally directed my car to the Yesteryear Emporium. Of course, the store would be closed and of course I would drive right by. But it didn’t exactly happen that way.

Certainly the building was dark, but right near the front door, in the area where Scott had his desk, a light was burning. I pulled into one of the many empty parking places on the street. It was probably just a security light, I told myself. I’d just peek in and see if he was there and if he was, I’d see whether he looked really busy or not.

When I got to the window, I realized that peeking in wasn’t
going to be the casual glance that I intended. He’d put up a paneled barrier between himself and the street that required someone to be at least seven feet tall to look in. There didn’t seem to be any movement on the other side of the panel, but somehow that wasn’t enough to discourage me.

I looked around for something to stand on. There was nothing readily available. Then I examined the brick on the front of the building. The gaps in the mortar were pretty deep, especially on the corner. As a kid, I’d climbed up the sides of buildings using those gaps. I slipped out of my slides and carefully set my right foot about four bricks up and got handholds a little higher. I pulled myself up, putting my left foot into the brick as well, and gazed over the top of the obstruction.

Scott Robbins was sitting motionless staring at his ancient Underwood typewriter. He was a nice-looking guy. Not in the way that most of the men I knew were attractive. He was slightly unkempt and definitely unfashionable. But I found him attractive despite that.

He glanced up and caught sight of me and actually jumped. His unexpected move startled me and I almost lost my footing, but managed to keep my place.

Scott was chuckling then and shaking his head.

“What are you doing?” he asked me, the sound muffled through the window.

“I’m the human fly,” I called back.

I puffed up my cheeks and pressed my face against the glass, distorting it. Eyes crossed. Nose squashed.

He was still shaking his head as he walked around the long counter toward the building’s entrance. His limp was more pronounced than usual and he was leaning heavily on his cane.

I hopped down from my perch, retrieved my shoes and met him at the front door.

“You are an absolutely crazy person,” he said.

“Yeah, and your point is…?”

“Come inside before my neighbors start calling the police,” he said.

I glanced up and down the deserted street. “You have neighbors?”

He shrugged. “There’s a flophouse in the next block. And I think there might be a guy sleeping in a box in the alley.”

I nodded. “Well, at least it’s good to know you’re not alone in this part of town.”

It was curious why he didn’t ask me what I was doing there. Which was fortunate, because I hadn’t thought of any plausible excuse. He led me around the counter to his little office area, now furnished with a 1970s vintage Early American sofa upholstered in orange flowers.

“Lovely,” I said facetiously.

“If you tell me that’s a valuable antique, I’m hanging up my gloves.”

“I’m sure it has sentimental value,” I told him.

“Not much,” he said. “I found a chair that I wanted, and part of the price of it was taking this thing with me.”

“At least it’s found a home,” I said, making myself comfortable on it.

“Yeah, and it kind of fits me, don’t you think?” he said. “We’re both worn, quirky and unfashionable.”

He was grinning at me, daring me to agree. He seated himself in his typing chair, hanging his cane upon the armrest.

“Well, I do have to admit that giving away a museum-quality antique is pretty quirky,” I told him. “You know the foundation would have been happy to let you loan it to them. That’s what people do. They loan their best to museums.”

“I didn’t want to loan it to them,” he said. “I wanted Hattenbacher House to have it.”

“It’s not the way it’s done, Scott,” I explained. “Rich people rarely give their art or antiques to museums. Either the museum buys it from them, or they loan it. Loaning is actually fabulous for the owner. They can take it back or sell it anytime. They don’t have to be responsible for damage or security and they get a nice tax deduction for charity.”

“Believe me,” he said, “I don’t need a tax deduction. I wanted to give it to them.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” he asked me. “I know what kind of sacrifice you made to keep that house from becoming condos. Why did you throw away all the money?”

“The money was nothing compared to the real value of that place,” I answered. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I had profited from its destruction.”

“That’s the same kind of motivation that got me to give away that sofa,” Scott said. “That, and I was hoping to really impress you.”

The last was surely a joke, I thought. When I looked at him, however, I couldn’t really tell if he was being charming or simply sincere.

“Did it impress you?” he asked.

“Well…well, yes…of course,” I stammered.

“Mission accomplished.”

He was looking at me in a very strange way. It wasn’t exactly sexual, but the fact that sex even came to my mind was pretty amazing. Scott just kept staring, as if he couldn’t take his eyes off me. It was in some way flattering, but it was also a little disconcerting. Uncomfortable, off balance, I said the first thing that came into my head.

“So, what’s the deal with your leg?”

He seemed momentarily startled, but regained his composure quickly.

“It has its good days and bad,” he said. “This is one of the latter.”

“How did you get hurt?”

“I damaged the nerves,” he said vaguely. “And I’ve got some scar tissue from that.”

He didn’t actually answer my question, but I wasn’t crass enough to press further. I observed his desk. It was messy, books and reports were spread everywhere. A piece of paper was still in the Underwood, but I could see that he’d already typed out
Sincerely yours
.

I gestured toward it. “Luckily, I caught you just as you were finishing up.”

“Finally,” he admitted. “I’ve been at it all day.”

He turned in his chair, gathered up several pages and removed the paper from the typewriter, adding it to the bottom of the stack. Turning back to me, he held it out in my direction.

“Have a look,” he said.

I did, though I did not read it word for word. It was well written, intellectual, thought-provoking. It was twelve pages of graphs, statistics and explanation. I managed to get through the first couple of paragraphs. “What is this?” I asked him.

“It’s about the dangers of free trade,” he said. “Everyone knows it opens up markets and creates jobs in the third world. But without constraints, corporations can go country shopping for the lowest wage earners and the least restrictive environmental regulations.”

I nodded slowly.
Everyone
might know about free trade, but I didn’t. I’d spent the last couple of decades lunching and shopping. Well, not entirely. But beyond my little world, I really hadn’t ventured very far. To me the economy was stock
prices, real estate values and prime lending rates. He’d written about third world labor practices and greenhouse gases.

My own ignorance was an embarrassment to me. I’d been the smartest girl in Sunnyside Junior High. I’d gotten a scholarship to a prestigious prep school. And had made the dean’s list at State. I had been a very bright young woman. I’d parlayed that promise into…into a very false start.

There was no address heading and the salutation was blank.

“Who is this letter for? It’s a little long for the newspaper,” I pointed out.

“The
Courier
would never print something like this,” he said. “As far as they are concerned, if it didn’t happen in Mervin County, it just didn’t happen.”

“Are you suggesting that our local newspaper suffers from provincialism?” I asked, feigning shock.

“Of course not,” he replied. “International events are always covered in great detail if they involve some kind of ball or stick.”

“Who are you going to send this to?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “I honestly don’t know,” he admitted. “I’d like to send it to every world leader, U.S. senator and press organization. I can’t do that, so…so I’ll think of someone. I always do.”

I continued to look through the carefully worded, exhaustingly thorough missive.

“It’s pretty impressive,” I told him honestly. “You do this kind of thing all the time, don’t you?”

He nodded soberly.

“When did you start?”

“This one? About two days ago.”

“No, when did you start this letter-writing avocation.”

“Oh, I don’t know, years ago, I guess.”

His answer was deliberately casual. He was not being completely honest, I was certain of it.

“On what particular occasion years ago?” I asked with great specificity.

He laughed then.

“You’re not particularly good at dissembling,” I informed him.

Scott apparently knew that already. He raised his hands, conceding without argument.

“You want a beer?” he asked. “Soda? I could probably come up with a glass of wine.”

“No, thank you.”

“Water?”

“When did you start writing letters?” I asked again.

He sighed with resignation, giving up the effort to ignore the question.

“When I was in the hospital,” he said. “I got shot up in Vietnam. That’s what’s wrong with my leg. I took some shrapnel, then I developed a blood clot. I had five surgeries, including two skin grafts.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I thought maybe you’d been in some kind of accident, but I never thought that.”

“Actually, my recovery is considered a medical success,” he said. “I’m walking around, living a normal life. Really lucky.”

“Thank God.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I was in the hospital for several months. I didn’t have any family to visit me. No girlfriend. All in all, it was pretty boring. I didn’t have much to do except read. And most of what they had to read was the newspaper.”

His tone was so very matter-of-fact, it was almost chilling in the fear and loneliness that it didn’t mention.

“What was most interesting to me, naturally, was the war,”
he said. “I was a kid really, barely nineteen. I didn’t know very much about anything, but I’d just spent eight months in the middle of that war. I knew what was happening there.”

Vietnam had hardly made a blip on my personal radar screen. There was certainly plenty of talk about it at school, but it had never touched me personally. David had had some kind of deferment.

“I realized they were getting a lot of things wrong,” Scott continued. “At first I thought it was just the
Stars and Stripes
, but then I started reading other papers, national newspapers, and I was disappointed in them, too. It was as if they were missing things, important things, that were obvious to me.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You know where I come from, Janey,” he said. “I’d never even imagined that a newspaper might be wrong about something. I started watching the TV news. They weren’t doing any better. I didn’t blame them or believe there was any kind of conspiracy. I just thought they weren’t seeing things from my perspective.”

“And you wanted to help them,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “One morning I was railing about an article in the
L.A. Times
and one of the other guys on the ward told me to let the guy know what an idiot he was.”

“So you did.”

“I was far more polite than that,” he assured me. “But I did get myself a pen and some paper and quickly wrote the guy a letter. I didn’t really explain things very much. I expected him to call me. I stuck close to the phone for three whole days. I thought I’d be able to tell him directly why he was getting it wrong. I was so innocent of the way things worked. I didn’t know that papers don’t respond to letters, they print them.”

“They printed your letter.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’d just whipped it off. It was full of bad
grammar and misspellings. I wrote it just like I would have said it. I think I even used the phrase
sock it to me
.”

“Oh no,” I moaned sympathetically.

“I didn’t give any reasons for what I thought,” he said. “I didn’t list any of the facts that backed up my opinion. I sounded bigheaded, bullshitting and brain-dead.”

I giggled. I couldn’t help myself.

“Immediately,” he said, “I wrote another letter, a better letter. That one never got printed, of course. It’s one of life’s truths that if you write something that’s truly insightful and accurate, it never gets published. But whenever you make errors, factual or clerical, they always get into print.”

His exasperation was leavened with humor.

“Anyway, that’s my story,” Scott explained. “The war was nothing like I thought it would be. It was also nothing like what I saw on TV and read in the newspapers. I thought people deserved to know the truth. I began writing letters that, I think, tell the truth. And I’ve been doing it ever since.”

“These letters must take a lot of your time,” I said. “How often do you write them?”

“It depends on what’s happening, what I’m thinking about and how difficult the subject happens to be,” he answered. “Usually I’ll write a couple of things a week, but there have been times when I’ve written about three different topics in one day.”

I was astounded. “That’s like a full-time job.”

“Why do you think I’m up writing at midnight? The research alone can sometimes take weeks.”

I was trying hard to understand but I didn’t.