We soon drew within sight of the Field Pea Restaurant, an unassuming structure with all the architectural grace of a warehouse. Having been in operation less than a year, the restaurant had earned for itself a modest but respectable reputation among the folk of Derby, Filbert, and Berea. This had been my impression from overheard conversations at school and recent newspaper advertisements that boldly declared We Promise Big and Always Deliver, which seemed to me a slogan more suited to a furniture or appliance store than to a restaurant. I saw that the parking lot was crowded, bringing to mind a simile in one of Josephine Humphreys’ novels—Rich in Love, I believe—in which she likens the cars pulled up around a diner to creatures at a water hole.
“I certainly hope we will not have to wait to be served,” I said to Thomas, and when he did not answer, I added, “I cannot abide waiting in lines.”
“Sometimes there just ain’t a choice ’bout it,” Thomas said calmly. I could have argued that indeed we did have a choice in this case, but I held my tongue. We pulled up behind a family of seven or eight who had exited the restaurant and appeared to be heading toward their car. There were several boisterously hyperactive children in the family who were darting about and squealing, flailing their arms in a great release of energy. The mother was attempting to shepherd them with the laying on of her hands, but they were far too quick for her. We crept along behind the incontinent horde and stopped when they dashed toward a large and decrepit automobile, an Oldsmobile I believe, of the approximate vintage of my 1967 Ford Fairlane but far more flamboyant in the design of its tail fins.
Thomas waited patiently as the family flung open the doors and piled into their car, a process fraught with noisy delays. I heard them, for I had lowered my window ever so slightly. One of the young children, a little boy, released his hold on a paper that he was flourishing above his head—perhaps a disposable place mat—at which point the wind caught it. The child began to chase it across the parking lot, pointing and shrieking, in spite of his mother’s ineffectual pleas of “Here, Davey! Leave it alone! We’ll get another one next time! We’ll get you ten of ’em if you want ’em! Come on back here, Davey! Watch out for that car!”
An older child followed to assist Davey, and presently the father of the brood emerged from the car and stood to bellow, “I’m countin’ to three, and then we’re leavin’ ya both here!” When someone inside the car sounded the horn, he stooped down and yelled, “Stop that, you little numskull! Do it again and I’ll break your kneecaps!” The world is full of unrestrained parents; balance and dignity are in great want. Apparently, the children, accustomed to their father’s idle threats, saw opportunity for sport, and once again the horn emitted a series of low, hooty blasts as the car rocked—I could actually see it sway—with small bodies throwing themselves over the front seat to have a turn at the horn.
Though I was transfixed by the spectacle and filled with horror at the thought of what it would be like to spend an hour in the home of this family, Thomas watched it all without expression except to cock his head to one side and state, “Motor on your car’s idlin’ fast, Rosie. How long’s she been soundin’ this way?”
Moments later as Thomas at last eased my Ford into the vacated parking space, we watched the Oldsmobile creep toward the exit, small heads bobbing in the backseat like corks upon a turbulent sea. “Right lively bunch goin’ there,” he said. Though he never spoke of the matter, I had begun to wonder of late whether Thomas felt the void of children in his life, his sole offspring not having survived infancy. In the traditional sense, he would have made a splendid father and grandfather, his gentleness and good humor sufficient for the many inconveniences attendant with the rearing of small children. At the Tuttle family’s summer reunions, numerous young children invariably attach themselves to Thomas, screeching with laughter at his foolishness.
Making our way toward the entrance of the Field Pea, I saw Joan through the glass doors waving at us over the heads of other people inside the small lobby, which appeared to be bloated with a great congregation of diners waiting to be seated. Actually, I suppose that what I took to be a “great congregation” was perhaps no more than twenty persons. My heart sank. Delay of any sort has always annoyed me. As we entered through the glass doors, I was relieved to hear Joan call to us from her position near the front of the crowded lobby. “We’re next, I think!”
“’Scuse us, please,” Thomas said as he tapped a white-haired man on the shoulder. “Our party’s up here waitin’ for us.”
The man turned on him with a glint of challenge in his eyes, then relaxed and smiled. “Well, if it’s not Thomas Tuttle, my old pal from the hardware store!”
Thomas punched him in the arm playfully. “Hey there, Dayton, better watch out who you’re callin’ old,” he said, and they both laughed heartily. Thomas opened up a path before us, although one woman whose hair was dyed an unusual shade of pinkish peach, the color of shrimp, and whose gaudy garb and artificially enhanced features gave her the aspect of a strumpet, complained loudly to her companion, “They shouldn’t let people get in line if their whole group’s not here!” Slowly we threaded our way through the small crowd toward Joan.
The restaurant boasted no elegant decor, but being relatively new, it appeared to be clean. In fact, I noted that the small individual bulbs in the inexpensive chandelier above our head sparkled as if recently polished. A low brick partition separated the lobby from the dining area, and carved posts of dark wood extended between the brick wall and ceiling. If one listened, the clink of dinnerware could be faintly heard beyond the dividing wall. Soft music—a guitar rendition of “Greensleeves”—was playing over the intercom.
Beside Joan stood a middle-aged man of medium height—in fact, certainly no taller than Joan herself and perhaps even shorter—who was watching our approach; at least I believed he was doing so, although his eyes were all but lost in what appeared to be a myopic squint. He had reddish blond hair that “was goin’ through a recession,” as Thomas was fond of saying, thus exposing his entire forehead and a great deal more.
He was not a handsome man, though his looks certainly improved as we drew nearer and his squint relaxed. His skin had the raw, scrubbed look typical of persons with his color of hair, and a pronounced cleft was centered upon his chin. The cleft was the type of conspicuous feature, on the order of a scar or birthmark, that would be cited first were one to describe this man’s appearance. In fact, he could very well be reduced to that single characteristic. I could imagine Thomas referring to him later as “that man with the hole in his chin.”
Had I been choosing a mate for Joan according to physical charm alone, I certainly would have set my sights higher than this man. Since it was not my assignment, however, I could muster no regrets over his looks. Besides, one does not live for fifty years without learning to exercise caution when it comes to the relationship between physical appearance and character. I recall that my grandfather, though overweight, was sometimes spoken of as a handsome man.
Joan introduced the man to us as Virgil Dunlop, and he extended his hand to Thomas almost shyly. “Joan’s given me good cause to look forward to meeting you folks,” he said. He had a pleasingly deep voice and a drawl that marked him as a native southerner, most likely from a coastal region—Savannah perhaps, or Charleston, or even as far north as a Virginia port. Turning his attention to me, he said, “And you must be Margaret. Joan informs me that you know more about literature than anyone she’s ever met. In fact, she says you’d wipe out the bank if you ever got on Jeopardy.”
I could think of no reply to this remark and so offered none but turned my shoulder slightly so that I was no longer facing Virgil Dunlop. Joan was speaking now with the hostess of the Field Pea, who was pointing to the steno pad in her hand and explaining something with a great show of earnestness and much gesticulation. A teenager behind me stepped on my heel, and though she instantly apologized—albeit in such a careless, insincere tone that she might have saved herself the t
rouble—I cast her a reproving glance. “I said I was sorry!” I heard her hiss to her mother behind me. I suppose, since I had so few pairs as a child, that I am more fastidious about the condition of my shoes than the average person. Scuffed heels are one of my particular peeves.
Virgil Dunlop asked Thomas how his vacuum cleaner sales were going. Joan had obviously tried to equip him with conversational topics for the evening.
“I don’t sell ’em, just fix ’em,” Thomas said, much too loudly, as men are wont to do, especially in public. “I must’ve put on more’n a dozen new belts this week. Seems like every woman in town had a busted belt!” Several people behind us chuckled, and I heard someone—most likely the white-haired man whom we had passed earlier—say, “You won’t find a nicer man than Thomas Tuttle.” Spurred on by what he sensed to be an audience, Thomas raised his voice another level and said, “From what I hear about the food here, that’s what we all might have when we get finished eatin’ tonight—busted belts!” There was more laughter, though I distinctly heard the teenager behind me mutter, “Oh, please!”
Virgil Dunlop smiled and shook his head. “It’s curious how things go in runs like that, isn’t it? My father used to be manager of a marina outside Charleston, and I remember him telling about one week in December—this was back in the sixties—when fourteen people came in asking for new oars.”
“How ’bout that!” Thomas said. “Fourteen oars in a week. And in December, did you say? Funny time for a rowboat convention.” I attempted to catch Thomas’s eye; it was imperative that he settle down. He had moved away from me, however, and was telling Virgil Dunlop about using a wooden oar as a makeshift splint when he had broken his leg as a boy.
Joan turned now from speaking with the hostess, a faint line of worry creasing her brow. “She said they probably won’t have a table for four in non-smoking for at least another ten or fifteen minutes. They just seated a big group of twelve by moving some tables together, and all they have now is a table for two. She said we could have that one now and they could put two more chairs at it, but it would be pretty crowded for four. Or they could give it to somebody else and we could wait. She’s gone to check on extra chairs. I told her we’d give her an answer when she comes back.”
Virgil Dunlop rubbed his hands together. “Well, ten minutes goes by fast, and anyway, waiting generally makes food taste all the better. But why don’t we let our guests decide?” He directed a deferential smile toward Thomas and me. Thomas had not told me that we were to be Joan’s guests for the meal. Perhaps he had not considered it important, or perhaps Joan had failed to tell him. Or, most likely, Thomas knew that I would staunchly refuse to come if I felt that we were in any way being the recipients of someone else’s hospitality. Receiving favors is something I have always found difficult.
Thomas looked at me and raised his eyebrows as if asking my preference. It was not a choice that I cared to make. I knew not which form of discomfort was most desirable, to be jammed together at a small table or to stand and wait for an additional ten minutes.
From somewhere behind us, a woman’s voice suddenly penetrated the heavy murmur of talk around us. “Nothin’ can be worth waitin’ this long for! Let’s go, and for pete’s sake call for reservations next time you get the bright idea of takin’ me out!” Though I did not turn to see who was speaking, I was quite sure it was the same woman who had earlier complained about our moving forward to join Joan.
All talk subsided so that the reply, an immediate remonstrance from a male voice, was clearly audible. “Hey, remember it was you who wanted to go out tonight!”
Their quarrel continued as they made their way to the exit. “Anyway, they don’t even take reservations here, and you knew that before we came!”
“Yeah, and you knew it was Friday night, so why’d you drag me to a little two-bit place like this to stand like packed sardines for …”
The hostess was returning, apparently having heard the altercation, for her eyes were wide and her lips a thin, tight seam.
“Man alive, the things some people’ll do right out in public,” Thomas said to Virgil Dunlop, who merely shook his head and cast his gaze upward.
And, the thought sprang to my mind at once, the things some men do in private. The woman was offensive, certainly, but I would not judge her outright without knowledge of the man’s daily conduct behind closed doors.
It was at that moment that I heard my name being called, an urgent piping as if in a troubled dream. “Margaret! Margaret!” And then there before me appeared Birdie Freeman, scuttling behind the hostess waving both of her small hands in a crisscrossing motion as if trying to arouse someone from a trance. The puzzled hostess glanced behind her and stepped aside to make way for Birdie, who approached our party and immediately touched my wrist. “Margaret, it is you! I was fixing to take the first bite of my salad when I looked up and saw you standing out here, and I told Mickey I was going to come out here and see if you needed a place to sit. We’ve got a whole table for four, and there’s just the two of us. We’d love to have you join us!”
“There are four in our party.” I spoke firmly though not unkindly, grateful that I could so easily reject her offer.
“Oh! I see,” Birdie said, still smiling but lifting her hand from my wrist. Before she could say more, however, the hostess spoke up, a hopeful light in her eyes. “We could move the table for two over by theirs and seat the six of you together.” She looked at me and her smile faded as she added, “If that would suit…everybody, that is.”
It was an uncomfortable moment. Joan shifted uneasily, shrugged, and looked at Virgil. Her lips formed a smile of sorts, but it was not the type of smile that signifies pleasure. Indeed, it was evident that her plan for the evening did not include two strangers. Thomas pursed his lips as if to whistle and studied the floor.
In the moment of hesitation, Birdie must have sensed our collective reluctance, for she patted my arm lightly and, taking in all four of us with the sweep of her glance, hastened to assure us that she did not mean to intrude. “I can sure understand if you want a private table,” she said, her face flushing.
If Virgil Dunlop had not taken matters in hand, we may have stood there indefinitely, testing even further the patience of those waiting behind us as we filled time with all the typical sounds of embarrassment—the clearing of throats, the shuffling of feet, the falsely cheerful stammers of “Well …” “Uh …” “What do you…?”
Smiling at me, Virgil broke the awkward spell. “We’d be honored to make the acquaintance of your friends over a good dinner, Margaret,” he said decisively. “You can introduce us all at the table.” Joan, the odd smile still congealed upon her face, closed her eyes for an instant and then shifted her gaze upward to the gleaming chandelier of which I spoke earlier. I am quite certain, however, that she was not admiring the twinkle of its lights.
As if he had in view an expected end of delightful proportions, Virgil thanked Birdie for her offer, nodded cordially to all of us, and said, “Well, let’s follow this kind lady to her table and get this show on the road!” When he smiled, I saw that the cleft in his chin became less pronounced.
17
Deepness of Earth
Joan telephoned me the following morning at nine o’clock. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” she asked.
“You did not,” I replied. On weekdays I generally rise at a quarter past five, and on Saturdays and Sundays at eight.
She released a long, breathy sigh, ending with a humorless laugh. “Okay, tell me what you think,” she said. She attempted a resigned tone, but a certain tightness and alert concern were unmistakable. “Let me warn you,” she said, “I’ve got my note pad here just like when we go to concerts. I might even write up a report later so I can study all the angles.”
I had suspected, of course, that Joan would exact a return for the price of our dinner at the Field Pea and that my payment would most likely come in the form of a critique such as she was now requesti
ng. Though I had sensed this was coming, I felt completely unprepared. How I wished that my appraisal of Friday evening’s dinner engagement were as instantly and confidently formed as that of a concert or play in a performance hall.
I felt that my impressions of the previous evening were unsubstantiated, that my thoughts had been twisted awry. I had fallen asleep the night before trying to straighten and flatten the experience, had labored through a series of bunched and wrinkled dreams, and had awakened to find no smoothness of fabric upon which to pin a pattern.
“Margaret, are you there?” Joan asked. “I need to talk about all this.”
“Yes, I am here,” I said. “What is it that you want of me?” I was stalling, for I knew that what Joan wanted primarily was my unvarnished evaluation of Virgil Dunlop, and that furthermore she desperately wanted it to confirm her own favorable judgment of the man.
“Please don’t put me off,” Joan said. “I’m as nervous as a cat. I mean, I know what I think, but I’ve got to hear what somebody else thinks. I just don’t know that I can trust myself right now. I’m afraid what I’m feeling might be interfering with the truth. I want you to tell me your honest opinion of Virgil without even stopping to think about how it sounds. Just give me your impression of him, Margaret—everything. I’m ready.”
Thus, with no chart for my course and no shore in sight, I pulled up anchor and filled my sails. “Very well, Joan, I shall tell you what I think. It is only what I think, however, as it is impossible ever to know the heart of any man. It is clear to me that you are seeking an authority who will stamp Virgil with an unqualified seal of approval. I am no authority but I will give you my opinion, though I cannot give you what you really want. You want indemnity against spurious character, a guarantee in the event of defective parts, a warranty for lifelong unimpeachability. These, however, cannot be given, Joan. As I have said before, I do not generally trust men to be virtuous in private; therefore I certainly cannot trust their public image. Granted, Virgil Dunlop seems upon casual acquaintance to be of sound character—considerate, steadfast, decent, and reliable. That he is intelligent, socially adept, and amiable there can be no question. You ask of me what is not mine to give, however, and that is assurance that this man will serve you well all the days of your life.” Though I felt the gale force of many words still driving me forward, I paused.
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