by John Rechy
Hilde pushed the door just a breath, to locate Linda, next to her father. If she got any darker, she'd be the color of that awful day-maid, Hester! Hilde would have fired her in a minute, but Mrs. Stephens felt guilty about those people—even to the point of driving to God-knows-where-she-lived to pick the black woman up when they required extra help on a Sunday…. Linda was wearing a powder blue dress. Good! It was the judge's favorite color and would soothe him.
Barely touching the door, Hilde allowed herself a farther fraction of vision for a full view of the judge's imposing back. Noticing, as she always did, how erectly he sat, she was inspired to straighten her own back even further. He was savoring—she knew—each crisp bite of chilled lettuce, flavored just exactly right with her own dressing. It was an indulgence that she—and, she felt certain, the judge—lived with, Mrs. Stephens's insistence that the salad be served first. Her family was, after all, new, acquired wealth, whereas the judge was old, inherited wealth.
Already, the judge had had his two before-dinner Dubonnets, Hilde knew, with the pleasurable sense of ritual having been restored. She had often made a point of being near the room, preferably in the room, when the judge would point out to new visitors that two Dubonnets had been his custom long before “that Rockefeller feller"—that brought appreciative laughter and, always, a smile from Hilde—had learned it, from him. Mrs. Stephens drank bourbon, like her Texas father, after whom she had been named—a loud, vulgar man with a flushed face; Hilde had overheard him refer to her as an “imported servant.” And he called cornichons “sour pickles”!
Hilde moved to the right of the partition and saw Linda lean slightly—sway—toward the judge. She had a way of doing that throughout dinner. Then the judge's posture would yield, for a second, just a second, in fond acknowledgment of his younger daughter.
Through as wide an opening as she ever allowed herself, Hilde saw the judge place his salad fork, tongs down, on his plate. He did that soundlessly, and he leaned back. Across from him, Mrs. Stephens did the same, except that her fork created a slightly unpleasant tinkle. Without having to see him do it, Hilde knew the judge blinked at the unwelcome sound.
Hilde whirled around to the white maid sitting on a chair at a small table and waiting to be summoned. Hilde made a signaling sound, like a hiss, and the maid rose, smoothed her uniform, and marched invisibly as she had been instructed to do from the white kitchen, through the ecru breakfast room, and into the grand dining room to gather the salad plates.
When the door swung widely, Hilde stood there for a full view of the Stephen Stephens III family seated in the magnificent pale gold dining room and about to enjoy her superb Sunday dinner. Mrs. Stephens, Tessa, and Mark on one side, the judge and Linda on the other. A bottle of Pinot Chardonnay commanded the table, for now. Everything was in order! The serving maid entered.
At the sight of the maid's subdued presence, Mrs. Stephens touched her face, Tessa gathered her hands on her lap and looked at them, Mark pushed his glasses closer to his eyes, Linda leaned away from the judge, and the judge sat upright as if in the presence of an undeclared enemy.
Now! Hilde moved her large, solid body into the white kitchen and faced the prepared ingredients for this Sunday's special dinner. Prepare all of Tessa's favorite foods, Mrs. Stephens had instructed her at least five times; and the judge had nodded, once, in assent.
Stroganoff! Superb! In the grand tradition! And not served on rice—as Mrs. Stephens might have wanted but never said so—but on golden noodles.
Before her, already flavored with exact measures of paprika, ground pepper, and salt, the julienne strips of prime filet mi-gnon awaited transformation. A creamy cloud of sour cream was ready. The one deference Hilde made to the ordinary—to Mrs. Stephens, of course—was the addition of … mushrooms! That would have been barbaric had it not been that she used only two and diced them almost out of existence before she sauteed them in butter with the chopped onions, their flavor further asserted by the dry white wine. On another plate, aloofly alone, the skinny slivers of cornichons, those little imported delicacies that brought a delectable shock to the creaminess, were ready.
When the butter in the pan released just the hint of a hot sigh, Hilde fed it the red pieces of meat. They sizzled, turned lightly brown, just a degree darker. With an expert movement of her hefty wrist, she bounced the heavy skillet, and the strips of meat responded to her unspoken command and turned over on their uncooked side to assume the same shade of brown all over. With a silver slotted spoon, Hilde fished out the pieces and allowed them to rest, briefly, on a separate, warmed plate. Now the onions, wilted quickly—and the detested mushrooms for Mrs. Stephens! In the skillet the white wine released an unmistakable aroma, altered into another just as delectable by the addition of the sour cream, which mustn't curdle, just be heated enough to re warm the strips of the filet, returned to the skillet.
Now the cornichons! Hilde slid the green moist slivers into the tanned creaminess. They floated proudly in the sauce. The aroma would filter into the dining room like an announcement of perfection. The judge's nostrils would sniff just barely to accept her culinary bouquet sent from the sheet-white kitchen, through the ecru breakfast room, and into the faded-gold dining room crowned with a chandelier of cut crystal.
The judge received the bouquet, and leaned back just a tilt, savoring it deliciously. Not even Perino's Restaurant, where he had lunch, could boast the excellence of Hilde's stroganoff. She was a superior woman, his housekeeper, brought here from Europe by his father while on a tour. Hilde was one of the few people the judge respected, and trusted. Of course, they hardly ever spoke, but their silence contained total understanding. Iron-gray hair trimmed weekly, dressed in a subdued-toned suit that rejected wrinkles, his tie centered exactly, the judge faced his family. Intact!
Oh, would Hilde remember the mushrooms? Alana Stephens wondered. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to keep her hands from her temples. The incisions had healed more easily this time. But did she look better than, or even as good as, after her first face-lift? She had been horrified to see Margaret Manfred at Chez Toi; her face looked as if her features had been erased and painted on.
Stroganoff, Tessa knew. She had not eaten meat in weeks. Stroganoff. Her favorite, everyone kept saying. Was it her favorite? Or had she just once claimed it was, to please her father? If it had ever been her favorite, was it, still? A twist of nausea alerted her to the possibility of change.
The fucking sour pickles, Mark thought.
Linda smelled the stroganoff and wished, just for once, it would be served on rice. Later tonight she would have a hamburger on her way to the West-Sky. Would they let her in after what happened the other night?
Accidentally, Alana's foot touched her older daughter's. Tessa winced. In panic—knowing this would annoy the judge but having to do it—Alana pretended to drop her napkin. She bent for it—saw Tessa's hands knotted into hard fists—but saw also what she dreaded: Tessa was barefoot. Rising, Alana faced her trim husband and smiled. She felt the skin pull inordinately. Were the smile lines gone? Please no!
The maid appeared with the noodles, and they served themselves, the judge with a flourish. After all, this was all, all his, his creation—everything was an extension of him, yes.
Now the maid was coming around with the asparagus tips. The judge could not believe it: The sauce was thick! No. The light swimming in from the distant pool had created the illusion of thickness. He smiled inwardly at his momentary accusation of Hilde; he felt—somehow—she would be sharing this moment of doubt—doubt turned into triumph—with him.
As long as it clearly established another well founded tradition, the judge could—might—accept the breaking of one. There were, of course, several contingencies, the main one being that it be broken in an orderly way, and to bring about tighter order. Hilde had done that by asserting that it be she who would serve the main course when it was a specialty. Her heavy but solid and firm body would appear, affirming her silen
t presence loudly. She would hold a platter, a dish, firmly, as if it were a gift to be released only to its qualified recipient. When she served, she did not bow; she just leaned—like Linda. The judge would nod in acknowledgment when she stood at his side.
Mrs. Stephens was served first. Hilde knew she would look for the mushrooms, perhaps even shoot her a subtle reprimand; so Hilde stared straight ahead. Then she moved to Tessa's side. Glancing down, she saw the girl trying to avoid the meat. Hilde thrust a warning look at the judge; the judge intercepted it and its meaning and fixed his eyes on Tessa. Feeling the onslaught of the collected stare, Tessa lumped pieces of meat on her plate.
Now Linda. Hardly any noodles on her plate! Hilde dismissed any possible implication of insult: The girl was always watching her figure. And now Mark—certainly he hadn't deliberately spattered the sauce when he placed the serving utensil back; she actually had had to retreat slightly. And now the judge! Hilde gave the plate a slight shake, to expose the cornichons prominently. The judge served himself, asserting the abundant presence of the green slivers. Satisfied, he made his usual slight nod toward Hilde. She returned it just as slightly.
Hilde marched out, having left her profligate gifts.
The judge felt a hearty appetite grow at the spectacle on his plate—golden noodles, tanned stroganoff, bright asparagus tips. He looked at Tessa, demanding to read appreciation on her face. Tessa's lips pulled at the edges as if she were practicing to shape a smile. To the judge, it seemed that she was leering. He looked away, glancing at Linda, wearing blue, light blue. Soon conversation would begin.
Instead, the telephone rang. Alana Stephens's heart skipped. Not possible. He was brazen, and she loved his daring, but he couldn't be that daring. Somewhere in the house, the phone was answered. The judge had instructed that only calls that came to him on a special line were to be conveyed at Sunday dinner. All other calls were written and then given later to the recipient. Otherwise, Sunday dinner was never to be interrupted.
The judge felt particularly satisfied today. On so many levels he had done right. With his daughter, and in court. Yes, the man deserved to die. The judge had cast the deciding vote, had written the majority opinion: “Motive was not ameliorative. Crime defined itself. Crime is cruel and unusual, not its punishment; punishment is an assertion of order against anarchy.” In that opinion, and often in others, the judge quoted his grandfather; that great-man's opinions filtered down, intact, through Judge Stephens, to soothe our troubled times. From his symbolic perch on the highest court of the state, Judge Stephens had read his opinion. One more step and he would be appointed— … Yes, one more step and he would have what he wanted more than anything else in his life except perhaps— …
That damned art piece of Alana's! His eyes had drifted involuntarily, as they often did, toward it in the room beyond. Framed in silver, the white canvas surrounded a plastic half-sphere filled with floating mercury. Within the enclosure, the mercury would form different dripping patterns. When a certain concentration occurred, the circle turned, to create new twisted shapes. It was like a Rorschach print, a silver Rorschach, melting—and its disordered unpredictability set the judge on edge.
Enough! He savored the first bite of stroganoff. Ah, the exquisite texture of the sauce, the inspired touch of the cornichons! He glanced at Alana, to keep his eyes from moving toward the mercury “art-piece.” Was she still sulking about his ruling? He didn't mind. She was harmless in her flagrant liberalism. He even encouraged her charity events, and her lunches at that vulgar Chez Toi. Harmless. His friends on the bench treated all that with proper deference—they had wives, too! Harmless. Her attitudes, breathlessly expressed, had lent a welcome touch to a good story about him in Los Angeles magazine. The article said he allowed her “activism,” listing her various causes and charities—and the classes she attended; she was always taking classes at the university. Harmless. That had all made him seem wiser, tolerant of human foibles.
Next time, she would insist—demand—that Hilde put more mushrooms and fewer cornichons in the stroganoff, Alana Stephens promised herself. The dish had a harsh taste. And the wine was too dry; she liked it fruitier. That, of course, was the judge's choice. And look at him—so proud because he had had his way, always, always.
Tessa licked around the piece of filet. She had always despised stroganoff, she knew now. A piece of the meat punctured by the fork, she lowered it to her plate. It made a sound much louder than she intended, because she felt all eyes on her—but mainly her father's. She looked at him, and his stare was forcing her to eat the meat. She raised the fork again. Before it reached her mouth, she saw it—stripped, tanned, dark-tanned. Like Linda. She gobbled the piece of meat and swallowed it.
Leaning toward the judge, Linda looked at her sister. Why did she have to come back? She poked at the stroganoff, searching for mushrooms, separating the noodles. Tessa's favorite dish, ugh.
Mark pushed down his anger with the creamy sauce and filet. Tessa's fork rested on her plate again. He studied his sister. He felt guilty. But what could he have done? What he did: stand by, watch, not protest.
The long windows in the dining room had been left bare to allow the perfect garden to “enter,” and it did, with enormous roses in a harmony of colors, including a rare bud Alana cultivated, caring for it herself. It was a pale, pale lavender rose that defined its color only at the edges of the extravagant leaves. It was a work of beauty, and she felt she had created it.
Alana could have good taste, the judge would allow, but not always. Some of the modern art works she acquired—like the despised mercury piece and other swirling, coiled things—were monstrous. He had, however, adjusted to the pool. It still ruined the elegant old house from a certain angle, he constantly noticed, although it had been added years ago; it clashed with the classic architecture of the house. But there was one compensation: Linda loved it. During a particularly difficult review of a case, he would even walk to the window, knowing she was lying there enjoying the sun, tanning more deeply, her hair streaking blonder. He would wait at the window until she would “feel” his eyes—though sometimes he encouraged that awareness by making an accidental noise—and then she would look up, slide her sunglasses off her eyes, and stretch her long arm toward him in greeting. She was the only one of his “children” who had never distressed him. He had always known she would be like him.
Linda leaned one golden shoulder toward her father. The tip of a smile touched one side of his lips. He was aware of Tessa's dark eyes. He had pulled them to him. He had won.
Mark saw the knotted stare between the judge and his sister. She looked like a depleted Cassandra, all visions of doom erased, or just blurred. He touched her on the arm, to break the powerful stare.
“Tessa! How do you like the stroganoff?” the judge asked the girl. “It's your favorite.”
She swallowed another piece of meat. She almost choked on it, coughed. Alana held a glass of water to her. Mark was about to get up, to help her, when the coughing stopped. “My favorite,” she said. “Thank you, father.” She forced another piece of tanned meat into her mouth so he could see her.
“It's our way of welcoming you back into the family unit,” the judge pronounced.
“Yes, yes,” Alana Stephens said eagerly. “We should have a toast.” She reached for her glass, began to raise it, but nobody followed. She sipped from the glass. At the end of the meal would there be a telephone message for her—and, if so, and it was from Rob, how would he phrase it?”
Mark let his knife fall heavily on the plate, knowing his father reacted to sounds as if to an attack. The judge stared directly at his son for the first time since they had sat down to dinner.
Wearing those glasses he doesn't need! How dare he make that noise at the dinner table? Strange boy—not in the family tradition. No, not yet. But he was young—eighteen?
“And your car?” the judge asked Tessa. “How do you like your new car?”
“Her new red car,”
Alana Stephens encouraged.
The car was parked where they had shown it to her the day she came back. Tessa reached into a pocket of her skirt and brought out two keys, a metallic keyholder. She held them out, acknowledging the gift. “Thank you, father, mother.” She remained holding the keys suspended over her plate. “I intend to drive it— …”
“That's what it's for,” the judge barked.
“… —very soon,” Tessa finished.
“Well, it's a beautiful day for a drive,” Linda encouraged her sister to leave.
“Did you enjoy the day?” the judge asked his younger daughter. “You can't get any more tanned, my goodness.”
“Give me sun every day any time, Dad,” Linda said.
“Yes,” the judge said.
“Mark went to a fascinating lecture yesterday at school—the day before?” Alana introduced conversation. “Didn't you, Mark?”
“What was it on?” the judge asked dourly, knowing he would disapprove.
“It was postponed.”
“What's the lecture on?” the judge demanded.
“On nothing,” Mark said.
The judge controlled a wince.
“How fascinating,” said Alana. If there was a call, how could she get away tonight? It was Sunday—and evening—so she couldn't be at the psychiatrist's, or at a charity, not at luncheon at Chez Toi— … Chez Toi! Jimmy Steed at Chez Toi. Such a vulgar man, and he had stared at her so openly. Still, she felt a wave of warmth at the incongruous memory…. Her eyes floated in an arc, from Tessa, to Mark, Linda. She felt a plunging desolation. She turned around, searching out her lavender-tinged roses, but she couldn't see them from here. She faced the table. She brought her napkin lightly to her eyes, feeling the origin of tears. But there were none. Why? Why should there be tears? But why were there none?
“Tessa, eat!” the judge ordered. “You're so thin, thinner than ever, look at Linda.”
