Livvie's Song

by Sharlene MacLaren

  “Here’s today’s copy of the Plain Dealer,” Joe said, sliding a newspaper toward him. “You should check the classified ads.”

  “Thanks.” Will took the paper and started scanning the “Help Wanted” column. When he heard Joe fire up the gas stove, though, he glanced up and watched him drop a big dollop of butter into a cast-iron pan, where it sizzled. Then, he opened the icebox and leaned inside, emerging seconds later with two eggs, two fish fillets, and a jug of milk.

  “I saw that the Service Motor Truck Company had some openings in the production line.” Will turned to the speaker, a casually dressed man who looked to be forty or so, sitting at a table against the wall behind him. “I read a sign that was nailed to a lamppost up on Canal Street last week. ’Course, they’re probably filled by now, but you could give it a try.”

  Will nodded. “I thank you for that.”

  The fellow gulped down the rest of his coffee, gathered up his belongings, and pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the wood planks. “Good luck there, mister,” he said as he headed toward the door.

  “See you later, George,” Joe sang out.

  Will turned and saw the man wave before exiting the restaurant.

  “That there’s George McNarney,” Joe said, nodding toward the door. “Good man, George is. He and his brother, Ralph, run the meat market where Olivia gets her supply.”

  “Olivia?”

  “Yeah, that nice-lookin’ lady you saw in here last night, with them whippersnapper boys. Quite the handful, them two. She owns this place, buildin’ ’n’ all, in case you didn’t already figure that out. She rents the apartment upstairs. It’s empty now, as you probably heard. And she rents out the third floor to various clubs and such. It’s mostly just a big hall—like a ballroom, I guess you’d say.” Joe adjusted one of the burners on the stove, then turned back to face Will. “In the spring and summer, the Ladies’ Garden Club gathers up there for their weekly meetings. They hold some sort o’ community garden show up there, too. Then, there’s the Kiwanis Club and the Boy Scouts comin’ in for their weekly get-togethers. In the summer, there’s always somebody fundin’ some kind o’ charity ball or ’nother. Oh, and on Saturday nights, there’re dances up there, sponsored by the Wabash Rifle Club. They bring in country bands and a lot of local yokels. You got your fiddlers and guitarists and drummers. There’s a piano up there, too. Most nights, you can hear that music clear down to LaFontaine.”

  “Hm. How about mouth harps? You ever hear someone playing one of those?”

  “Can’t say I have,” Joe said, crinkling his brow. “But I recall your sayin’ you carried one on you. Maybe you could jump up onstage some Saturday night.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ll probably go up there some night just to listen.”

  Joe’s forehead wrinkled again. “Livvie don’t much care for them dances, but it’s revenue, I tell ’er, and she ought to be happy for every spare nickel comin’ in to put toward ’er mortgage. She and Frank got this buildin’ from some rich guy over in Chicago. Truth be told, she’d’ve preferred to rent the restaurant space from that feller, but he got plain tired of comin’ up here to check on matters, so he sold it to Frank for a steal. ’Course, it still ain’t cheap ownin’ a big piece of property, with all the maintenance and upkeep and whatnot.”

  “Is Frank Livvie’s husband?” Will asked. He finished off his second piece of bread, wishing for one more slice.

  Joe cracked a couple of eggs in a bowl and whisked them together with a smidgeon of milk. “Yep. He got hisself killed, though, back in early spring o’ last year. Happened right here in front of the restaurant as he was gettin’ ready to cross the street. A big ol’ workhorse pullin’ a wagonload of furniture spooked when a dog barked and ran in ’is path. He reared and came straight down on Frank, crushin’ ’is chest. Sure was a tragic thing.” Shaking his head, Joe dipped the fish fillets in the egg mixture, dredged them with flour, and placed them in the pan. The melted butter crackled, and a plume of steam rose. He adjusted the flame and let the fillets sizzle.

  At that news, though, Will’s appetite had drastically waned.

  “I been helpin’ her out for the past year,” Joe went on, flipping the fillets, “but I’m headin’ for Chicago real soon here. I got a daughter and some grandkids there—and a job in a mighty snazzy restaurant downtown. ’Course, Livvie’s not too keen on me goin’, but she’ll make do. She’s been scurryin’ around, tryin’ to find a replacement for me, but, so far, nobody’s asked ’bout the position. Pay’s not the best, you see. But she can’t afford more. The account books don’t look too good. Unfortunately, Frank went a little overboard with bank loans. Livvie didn’t know too much about the financial end of things before he died. Now, she’s learnin’, slowly but surely.”

  “I used to do a lot of cooking and kitchen work when I lived in New York City,” Will said. Man, he should have bit off his tongue before opening his big yapper, but his doggone sympathy for the woman’s state of affairs had robbed him of all common sense.

  Joe made an about-turn, his thick, white eyebrows spiked with interest. “You don’t say! Where’d you work? What sort of experience d’you have?”

  “Uh, not the sort you’re lookin’ for, I’m afraid. I was more or less an assistant to the chef—cook, rather.” “Chef” sounded too hoity-toity. “It wasn’t a highfalutin place, by any means.” No way would he divulge any more than that. If he ever wanted a decent job in this town, he had to keep a tight lock on his colorful past.

  “Sort of like Livvie’s Kitchen, then?”

  “Um…well, not exactly. It was some bigger.”

  “Bigger!” Joe turned and flipped the fillets again, sprinkled them with some salt and pepper, and lowered the heat. He walked back to the icebox and removed a pan. Yesterday’s meat loaf, perhaps? Sadly, Will found that his immediate need for nutrition had been replaced by a nervous stomach. “What sorts of things did you do—as the assistant?”

  “Anything and everything, I suppose.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, I peeled potatoes and carrots, prepared the meat, sliced vegetables, did some canning, washed dishes, baked bread…you name it, I did it.”

  “What about the cookin’ itself?”

  “Sure, if Harry—er, my boss needed me to fry up something, I did it. I even baked a few cakes and pies for special occasions. But that wasn’t often. Christmas, mostly.”

  “Did you like it? I mean, are you comfortable in the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s like…well…therapy, I s’pose you could say.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Joe, removing the lid from the pan and slicing off a good chunk of cold meat loaf. “That’s somethin’.”

  “What is?”

  “Your comin’ into town like this, just showin’ up at the restaurant twice in two days, and now announcin’ that you used to help run a restaurant.”

  “Well, I didn’t say that exactly.”

  “No, but it sure sounds like you got the capability for handlin’ yourself in a cookhouse. Can you work under pressure? Are you used to cookin’ for large groups?”

  “What? Well, yeah, we served a good lot of people at once.”

  “No foolin’! New York’s got some big restaurants. I wonder if I ever heard of your former establishment.”

  “I told you, it wasn’t anything fancy.”

  Joe angled him a calculating gaze. “You think you might be interested in my job?”

  Will’s heart thumped so hard, it skipped a whole beat. “Your—here? Oh, no, I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do what you do. No way. I’d never do it justice. I mean, you got quite a reputation. No way could I fill your shoes.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be fillin’ my shoes, young man, no more’n I filled Frank’s. You’d be puttin’ on your very own shoes and impressin’ folks with your own skills. Everybody’s different, so folks wouldn’t be ’spectin’ you to cook up meals the same as me. Maybe you’d even have so
me ideas for spicin’ up the menu.”

  The very notion of being responsible for cooking the meals at a little diner, especially one that needed rescuing, revved his inner engine. He’d spent ten years doing time for a worthless crime. What he wouldn’t give to help someone in need! And it did sound as if this Olivia had found herself in a financial bind. Was it possible that Harry’s years of mentoring him in the prison kitchen had been a part of some divine purpose? Harry had often quoted a verse in the book of Romans that read something like, “All things work together for good if you trust the Lord.” Will had a terrible memory when it came to the Scriptures, but the gist of the verse was simple and unforgettable. God works in the details of life, and He can take even the bad circumstances folks encounter and make them turn out for good.

  “’Course, I’d need to convince Olivia,” Joe added. “She’s a stickler about certain matters when it comes to runnin’ her business.”

  The assurance of things working together for good flew out the window when Will remembered the attractive little lady who actually ran the place. Joe could probably suggest that she hire him, but she would make the final decision. And something told him their first meeting hadn’t impressed her one jot.

  “Like I said before, I don’t think I’m your man,” Will said. “Surely, there’s somebody else out there a lot more qualified.”

  “If there is, he ain’t expressin’ interest. I won’t lie to you, young man; this is not an easy job. First, you got Cora Mae to contend with.” Joe followed this remark with a chortle. “She gets put off pretty easy, but she’s a good, hard worker, loyal as the day is long.”

  “You mentioned the lady’s having some financial struggles. I don’t see how I could help turn that around.”

  Joe turned back to the fillets, sprinkled a little more salt on them, and poked their centers with a fork. Will’s appetite had started to revive, and his mouth was watering at the aroma.

  “It wouldn’t take much,” Joe said. “Maybe you could look at the books, yourself. Are you good with numbers?”

  Was he! The fellow had no idea. In his former way of life, he would have looked at the numbers, figured out how to triple them, and then, when the time was right, run off with all the profits. Thankfully, ten years in prison had given him a new attitude, not to mention faith in God, albeit faltering and babyish, and the assurance that he’d been forgiven his sins and granted a new chance at life. Still, a job as head cook in a local diner sounded too good to be true. He thought about all that Joe had said. “You know, I think it’s best if I just run on over to that Service Motor Truck Company and see if they’re still hiring.”

  The bell above the door jangled, and both men turned to see the newcomer. It was Olivia, hefting a big box brimming with supplies. Instinctively, Will leaped off his stool and went to relieve her of her load, but she promptly set the box on a table and looked from him to Joe and then back to him. “It’s you again,” she said with a scowl.

  Man, he sure hoped the Service Motor Truck Company had a spot for him. He’d even offer to sweep their floors. No way would a proper little lady like her hire a no-good bum like him.

  ***

  “What do you mean, you offered him a job?” Livvie demanded of Joe, trying to keep her voice to a whisper. She put her hands on her hips. “We don’t know anything about him.”

  Joe wiped the counter where the “mystery man” had been sitting. “Settle down, Olivia. I didn’t exactly offer him the job. That would be your responsibility.”

  “Well, he’s going to have to wait a long while, because I’m not hiring him. He’s a hobo, Joe. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “’Course I did. I been talkin’ to him, and, for your information, he didn’t have any odors comin’ off o’ him. I wouldn’t call ’im a hobo. Hobos tend to live off folks’ handouts and sleep in alleys or under bridges. If you’ll recall, he offered to pay double for his meal last night, and he paid in full today, as well, even told me before leavin’ that he’s been stayin’ at the Dixie Hotel. Me? I think the guy’s just down-and-out.”

  She felt the edges of her heart soften just a hint, but not her resolve. “Well, just the same, he doesn’t look half capable of cooking an egg, let alone frying up a steak. You said he worked as a cook’s assistant. That’s a lot different from running a kitchen.”

  “In a much larger restaurant,” he added. “The fella told me they served a lot of people at one time.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t give an actual count.”

  “What’s the name of the restaurant? We could write to them and ask for a reference, inquire about his credentials.”

  “You don’t have time to wait for a reply, Liv. Time’s runnin’ out. Besides, he didn’t give me the name, said I wouldn’t know it, ’cause it wasn’t a fancy place.”

  “So, he’s being deliberately vague. Why’d he quit working there? Did he get fired? And why didn’t he look for another job in New York, assuming he truly came from there? For all we know, he could be lying through his pearly whites. Does he even have teeth?”

  Joe let out a long sigh and gave his head a shake. “Livvie, Livvie, Livvie. Yes, he’s got teeth. Nice ones, I recollect. As for your questions, I guess you’d have to ask him yourself. He’s headin’ down to the Service Motor Truck Company to inquire about a job. George McNarney told him he saw a sign sayin’ they were lookin’ for workers. Good chance he’ll land somethin’ there today, and then you’ll be out of luck.”

  Livvie let that notion settle in her mind for the briefest moment.

  Joe laid a hand to her arm and lightly squeezed. “I got a feelin’ about this guy, Liv.”

  “Yeah, so do I. And it isn’t good.”

  “It seems to me he’s your best bet for now,” he said, dismissing her concerns. “If he doesn’t work out, you can put the ‘Cook Needed’ sign back in the window. I’ll be here for at least the next week to train ’im and see what skills he’s got. I’ll know in short order if the job’s too much for ’im. In fact, I’ll even fire ’im myself if it don’t look like he’s cut out for it.”

  “And then you’ll be gone,” Livvie said, well aware that her lower lip had shot out and her shoulders drooped.

  He chuckled and gave her chin a light pinch. “You ever gonna forgive me for that?”

  She fixed her gaze just above his white head of hair and crossed her arms in front of her belted, floral shirtwaist. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re very good at poutin’, you know that?”

  “Apparently not good enough,” she said, whirling around to hide the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. She was ever determined not to let her emotions show, even to Joe. Just then, Quinn Baxter and Sam Campbell strolled in, and Joe waved them from behind the bar.

  “I’m going upstairs,” Livvie declared. “I have some laundry and a few other chores I need to tend to. You best lock that front door at two, or more folks’ll come trickling in.”

  “Hey, Sam? Go back and turn the lock on that door, would you?” Joe asked, and the fellow complied. When Livvie started to walk away, he said, “Give some serious thought to what we talked about, would you, girl?”

  She nodded silently, then headed for the stairs leading to her apartment, her chest heavy with a mixture of doubt and a strange sense that Joe was right. Time was running out, and she had to find a cook. Soon.

  Chapter Four

  “I will hear what God the Lord will speak: for he will speak peace unto his people, and to his saints.”—Psalm 85:8

  All day Saturday, Livvie kept an eye out for Mr. Taylor, half expecting him to show up at noon or, at the very least, suppertime. But he never came. Maybe he had started working at the Service Motor Truck Company and was taking his meals somewhere in that locale. She doubted the company operated on Saturdays, but what did she know? Many factories remained in operation six days a week.

  Even Alex inquired about “that big man with the beard,�
� asking if they’d ever see him again.

  “I have no idea,” she told him. “I suppose it depends on whether he liked Joe’s cooking well enough.” She tried to make light of his question, but, deep down, she wondered the same thing.

  “Everybody likes Mr. Stewart’s cooking,” Alex said, bouncing a rubber ball on the wood floor. “Too bad he’s leavin’, huh, Mom? Who’s gonna take his place?”

  “If you’re going to bounce that thing, young man, go outside,” Livvie said, ignoring his query. Rather than walk out, though, he ceased with the bouncing.

  In the kitchen, Joe stood with his back to them and flipped a hamburger patty on the grill. “Maybe Mr. Taylor don’t feel ’specially welcome here.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Livvie asked, moving to the long counter and out of earshot of the handful of customers who still lingered after the supper hour. Alex followed behind, giving the ball a few more bounces. Livvie turned a disapproving gaze on him.

  “You did give him your meanest stare when you walked through the door yesterday. He offered to carry that box for you, and all you could say was, ‘It’s you again!’ like he was from the wrong side of the tracks and had no business takin’ up space in your restaurant.”

  “Mom, did you do that?” Her older son’s scolding tone made her face warm with the flush of embarrassment. In fact, the heat moved down her neck, and she broke into a sweat. How often she’d gotten after her boys for looking down on folks who were less fortunate. As if they had anything to brag about! Goodness, they could barely scrape two pennies together, but at least they had each other. Had she really been so crass as to turn her nose up at the man simply because she hadn’t known him, hadn’t liked his appearance, and, for reasons she couldn’t identify, hadn’t trusted him?

  “Well, I might have been a little rude,” she finally admitted.

  “That’s not nice, Mom. He didn’t seem like a bad sort to me.” Fortunately, Nathan occupied himself in the back room with his trucks and puzzles, or he surely would have added to the lecture. Oh, she hated it when her own children pointed out the error of her ways!