by Pamela Morsi
The woman’s expression changed immediately. In an instant she went from warm and welcoming to annoyed and imposed upon.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’ve got two hundred and fifty turkeys to carve and three thousand gallons of gravy to make.”
Mrs. Owens turned her back on me as if I were the golf pro’s new wife asking for an application to join the Junior League.
Stunned. Helpless. I glanced over at Frederic. He looked uncomfortable, covering the awkwardness of the moment with a shrug and a self-conscious chuckle.
“What’s that about?” I asked him.
For a moment he hesitated, then answered honestly.
“There is kind of a…well, I guess you’d call it a rivalry or maybe…well, a differentiation of volunteers,” he said. “We call you, the people who spend the day talking to each other in the volunteers room…we call you the No-Mess Oblige. You come down here every year to see and be seen. But you don’t get your hands dirty.”
I felt embarrassed. More than that, I felt caught. I had always thought that nobody noticed that I never actually did anything. Now I found out that not only was it known, there was even a disparaging name for me and my kind.
I was tempted to just walk away. I wanted to find Teddy, pop open some midpriced bubbly and spend the afternoon sharing gossip. But the memory of those moments in the car were still amazingly fresh. Chester thought I was someone like him now. And Buddy Feinstein thought that adding any part of good to the world was valuable. More than those things, however, was the knowledge that I had promised.
“I really want to help, Frederic,” I said. “Can’t you just give me a job?”
“Okay,” he said. “What can you do?”
The answer, unfortunately, was, “Not much.”
Although this was one place where my working-class upbringing was not really a detriment, the truth was that even as a girl I hadn’t learned a great deal about cooking. My mother had considered TV dinners to be innovative, and convenient that vegetables came in cans. It would have been a lark for many of my friends to take a course at the Cordon Bleu—I had always felt that it was more fun to eat a beautiful meal than prepare one.
“I can wash dishes,” I assured him.
Very shortly I found myself in the scullery room assisting an aging black man named Cecil who was about twice my size. The whole room was wet and steamy, and my Eileen Fisher linen began to droop sadly as soon as I walked through the door.
Dishwashing was nothing like I had imagined. For one thing, there weren’t any dishes. The plates, cups, bowls and dessert dishes were all disposable, though dirty flatware arrived in bus carts. All the giant metal cooking pots and serving trays had to be washed out and put in the huge industrial scrubber. The whole operation was more akin to a visit to the car wash than any ancient memories I had of my mother’s kitchen.
A flexible spray hose hung down from the ceiling over the deep stainless-steel sinks. All the leftover food and grease was washed out with a quick rinse of hot, high-pressured water. Then the pot, pan or lid was laid on a conveyor that slowly moved it through the washer for a sequence of soap, water and hot air that cleaned, sanitized and dried each piece.
Cecil, the man running this high-tech operation, appeared genuinely grateful to see me, obviously not knowing that I was virtually inept and a No-Mess Oblige, as well. He had me taking the clean stuff off the back end of the machine. The metal was so hot, I had to wear big white oven mitts to unload it.
At first I felt a little like Lucy Ricardo at the candy factory. The conveyor moved a lot faster than I did. Cecil had to shut it down a couple of times and help me catch up. But eventually I got the rhythm right, and he and I were working like a well-oiled machine, or maybe a very soapy dishwasher.
The work arrived in spurts. Sometimes there were so many bus carts that they were spilling out the doors. At other times we would be able to take a breather and chat.
“This your first time to work the dinner?” he asked me.
I avoided outright confession of my lazy past.
“It’s my first time to ever see a dishwasher like this,” I answered.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it,” he said. “Although I guess it must be a little intimidating the first time you see it. I’ve been working around them for twenty years.”
“So that’s why you’re so good at this,” I said. “You do this for a living?”
He looked a little surprised.
“Dishwashing? No, I just do that on special occasions,” he answered. “I work in custom sheet-metal fabrication. Among other things, we build restaurant equipment. This is one of ours.”
He ran his hand over the nameplate almost reverently.
Any further discussion was forestalled by the arrival of another swarm of bus carts.
About two o’clock, Cecil made me stop.
“Take a break and get something to eat,” he said. “My wife is going to bring me a plate in about half an hour. I don’t want to be eating in front of a hungry helper.”
I laughed. I liked the man. I liked him and I liked the work. The hours had just flown. But I was hungry. Famished even. In my experience at the interfaith dinner, I could never recall actually eating the food. There was always plenty of wine, celebratory champagne and choice little hors d’oeuvres among my friends. But I could not remember any Thanksgiving when I was actually handed a plate with turkey, dressing, cranberries and sweet potatoes.
Today I was, however, and was waved toward the back door. Outside, in the alley behind the kitchen, I found two crowded picnic tables and a score of cheerful but hungry volunteers. The sun was shining brightly, though the day was chilly. After the muggy warmth of the scullery, the cold felt good. A place on the corner was made for me at one of the tables. And, at the urging of one of the women, a young kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen, went to get me a glass of iced tea.
I listened with interest to the discussions around me. I learned that the servers, those who actually saw the people, were chosen specifically for the job from among people who regularly worked in local shelters. Because many of the homeless had emotional problems, it was thought best not to frighten them away with new faces. And for those who were not from the street, the working poor, it was concluded that they would feel more welcome if no one from their jobs, their church, their children’s school saw them accepting this free meal. That was also the reason why, for media coverage, they always had one of the No-Mess Oblige volunteers in front of the camera.
“You have to admit,” one of the women said with a delighted chuckle, “that old lady with the Christmas tree on her chest puts on quite a show.”
Everybody laughed.
The woman with the Christmas tree was, of course, my mother-in-law. That brooch she always wore was jade set with garnets, and a diamond star at the top. Edith spoke often, and with enthusiasm, about her annual television experience. It was one of the many things she had in common with Oprah.
“So what’s your name, honey?” I was asked by a very obese woman with a mole on her cheek and a half bale of hair confined to a sparkly net.
“I’m Jane,” I answered simply.
“Do you have children?” she asked.
I was a little surprised at the question. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly ordinary one, but in my experience, after getting a person’s name, it was typical to inquire, What do you do?
But perhaps that wasn’t of prime importance to everyone.
“Yes,” I told her, and most of the rest of my table, who looked on politely. “I have a daughter, Brynn, she’s nineteen.”
“You don’t look much past nineteen yourself,” a very thin and bowed older man assured me.
I laughed, delighted, and thanked him.
“I know what you’re going through,” the woman with the mole assured me, shaking her head. “I remember when my twins were just that age.”
I smiled without comment.
“I hope you’re planning a big holiday feast. Do
you make pies? I have a special pumpkin pie recipe. I made it for years. The twins always loved it.”
“Brynn’s away at college,” I said.
It was a flat statement, factual. Not meant to convey any of how I felt about her staying away.
“For me and my husband, I suppose this is our big holiday meal,” I told her, indicating the food on the paper plate in front of me.
She nodded.
“Me, too,” she said.
“The twins always came home for holiday dinners. Of course, they went to the university here in town. Scholarships, both of them,” she said proudly. “Nicki in art and Ricki in mathematics. But, honestly, Ricki painted as well as Nicki and often went to her for help with math problems.”
The woman laughed infectiously and it was hard not to smile.
She continued as gushing mom, telling me in great detail of all the myriad accomplishments of her two daughters. I didn’t reciprocate. Brynn had never been especially accomplished in anything. I’d made her try art, music, dance, pottery, poetry, horseback riding, baton twirling. She did moderately well at everything, but never excelled. And she never seemed to take any special interest in any of it. Even now, in her second year of college, her grades were fine, but they were all the same. B’s in everything. There was not one subject that she was better in than any other. She’d yet to even choose a major.
The twin daughters of the woman with the mole, however, could do everything. They both played piano, sang in the church choir and played soccer.
I dodged all questions directed my way. It was easier than trying to explain how proud I was of my Brynn, who’d never really done anything. I didn’t understand it myself. But it was true. I was proud of her. Just for being my daughter.
I finished my surprisingly tasty meal and took the opportunity of throwing my plate away to sneak out of the kitchen and check on my friends in the volunteers room.
Even before I reached the door, I could hear the merriment going on inside. I put a hand to smooth my hair from my face and felt the dampness at the nape of my neck. I must look hideous! I made a quick detour to the ladies’ room to confirm my suspicions. I was absolutely right. The oomph had gone out of my hair, leaving my professional look limp and draggy, held together only by the stiff magic of superhold hair spray. My face was no better. My foundation had melted and disappeared, leaving the rough, slight ruddiness of my complexion visible. My dyed eyebrows and tattooed eyeliner looked good, at least, though the crow’s-feet around my eyes were no longer completely disguised. I made a mental note to give the plastic surgeon a call. After forty, life was just patch, patch, patch.
Oculoplasty, of course, would not help me today. My hairbrush and makeup were in the volunteers room. There was no way to repair the damage done. Briefly, I considered sneaking out of the building, driving to the mall and throwing myself upon the mercy of the cosmetics counter at Macy’s. I might have actually done it, but it was Thanksgiving and the stores at the mall were closed.
I stared at myself under the fluorescent glow in the restroom mirror. Just staring, not really knowing what to do. I hadn’t realized how much I had begun to resemble my mother. People had always thought that my mother was attractive. She was, in sort of a rough way. Style for her was the moderate-dress section at JCPenney. But she had a good figure and always managed to carry it off. Mom had raised herself out of poverty, and somehow that always showed.
I had raised myself out of working class and was determined that no one should ever suspect.
I tried fluffing my hair with my hands. It worked a little bit. I still didn’t look great. I decided it would have to do. I couldn’t comfort myself with the knowledge that no one would notice. Among my crowd, noticing was a sacred calling. I had the option of not seeing anyone and heading back to Cecil and the folks in the kitchen, but I had family and acquaintances among the No-Mess Oblige and they would wonder about me if I didn’t show my face.
Besides, I reminded myself a bit smugly, I had nothing to be ashamed of. While they had been frittering away the day with gossip and champagne, I had been engaged in actually doing good.
As I entered the room, I heard Teddy before I saw her. She was seated next to my mother-in-law, who was talking with excited animation. Edith was wearing a two-thousand-dollar St. John’s silk pantsuit that made her look fat. She had accessorized with the jade-and-garnet Christmas-tree brooch that my comrades in the alleyway had found so amusing.
Teddy, on the other hand, looked especially chic in the institutional surroundings. She glanced up, spied me and grinned broadly.
“Jane Lofton, where have you been?” she demanded with good humor. “I talked to David an hour ago and he assured me that you were here somewhere.”
Edith glanced up and took in my appearance with obvious dismay.
“Good heavens! Is it raining outside?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied, and moved to quickly change the subject. “Has David already left?”
I knew, of course, that he had. He was in the middle of the sixth hole by now, but it was a useful way to divert questions about my dishevelment.
“He’s long gone,” Will Hyfals told me. “On a sunny day like this, it’s a crying shame to be stuck indoors.”
I smiled. Stuck was definitely what these people were up to. Besides Will and Teddy and Edith, Bob and Mimi Parton were there, along with Fayrene Ancil and Laura Martin, Pete McNally and Sugar Van Veen. They were all crowded around one little table as if they had a wad of money riding on twenty-three red.
“Oh, Jane,” Edith said. “We’ve just come up with the greatest idea for expanding this Thanksgiving to the entire city.”
“And it was your mother-in-law’s idea,” Teddy piped in.
“Oh no,” Edith said, shaking her head. “I’m sure it was yours, Teddy, or maybe Fayrene’s,” she suggested, glancing toward one of the woman across from her.
“Well, Bob first mentioned all the seniors who can’t come,” Fayrene pointed out.
“And then you brought up the Meals on Wheels program,” Teddy said.
“Well, whoever,” Edith said. “It’s a wonderful idea and we’ve just got to go with it.”
“It’s an idea that ought to get Edith a nomination as one of Oprah’s angels,” Laura suggested.
My mother-in-law blushed to the roots of her hair, obviously pleased and hopeful that it would do just that.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked.
They all began talking at once, obviously so excited. Teddy hushed everybody in that ever-so-polite and patrician manner she had, and personally began the chronology of events.
“We were talking about what a good thing the dinner is. And what a wonderful service to the community it is,” she said.
“Yes, absolutely,” Will agreed.
We all nodded.
“Then,” Teddy continued, “the conversation drifted to those who don’t participate.”
“There are so many older folks and disabled people who just can’t get here,” Edith piped in. “Downtown is getting so empty.”
“More and more of the less fortunate are living way out in the suburbs,” Mimi said.
Everyone agreed with that, as well.
“And a lot of those people simply don’t have any transportation,” Will said. “Even those with access to the bus lines find the schedule abbreviated on holidays.”
“Edith thought it would be good if we could somehow go and get them,” Fayrene said.
“Then Teddy got the idea that we could pay city-bus personnel and cabdrivers who would normally take Thanksgiving as vacation to pick people up and bring them here.”
“It would be a good deal for them,” Teddy said, “as well as a financial incentive. And we’d be asking the people most capable of doing the job to do it.”
“So,” Edith said, “Teddy called the city manager and asked how we’d go about getting that done. He thought it was a great idea.”
“It is a great idea,”
I told them, more than a little surprised that Teddy could even care.
“Naturally, we’ll need to raise the money,” she said. “I was thinking maybe a more relaxed version of the Chrysanthemum Ball.”
Sugar was nodding eagerly. “We’re talking Latin rhythms,” she told me. “A Cuban buffet, perhaps, and those slinky dresses like Brazilian Carnival.”
With Sugar’s short, pudgy figure, I didn’t imagine that slinky Brazilian dresses would be quite her thing, but I was encouraging nonetheless.
“You know, we could even do it as a Mardi Gras celebration,” Teddy pointed out.
“It could be masked!” Mimi almost squealed the suggestion.
The enthusiasm around the table was generous and genuine. There was nothing these ladies liked better than a party. And there was no better party than one that was for a good cause.
“So this is really great,” I said, congratulating them. “I’m sure it’s going to be a fabulous success.”
“But you haven’t even heard the half of it,” Will said.
“Yeah,” Pete McNally spoke up. “We were all sitting around basking in the potential of this new way to expand the program, when we started thinking about those people who can’t ride the buses or taxis. They simply can’t leave home.”
Laura’s tone was sympathetic. “It’s really sad to just leave them out completely. And some of them have no family, no one to see that they get a nice dinner on Thanksgiving.”
“I guess not,” I replied.
“Fayrene started telling us about the Meals on Wheels program,” Edith said. “Those people take dinner to the needy every day of the year. And we said, maybe we could furnish the food for this one day.”
“And then we said, hey, maybe those people would like a day off.”
“So then Pete mentioned his brother’s pizza-delivery business, you know, Corleone’s—The Pizza You Can’t Refuse.”
I did know the company. It was difficult not to. The local TV station was awash in commercials with Mike McNally dressed up like the Godfather.
“All the pizza locations are closed on Thanksgiving,” Pete said. “And Mike’s delivery fleet is just parked for the day.”
