Jill Churchill: Silence of the Hams

The decorating plan was in keeping with the Victorian house — lots of ferns and lush greenery — but everything was white and bright and clean instead of characterized by the dark sobriety that had been fashionable when the house was new. Jane and Shelley had arrived early, but so had many other curious neighbors. Nearly all the little tables on the porch were occupied by people sampling Conrad's cooking when Jane and Shelley arrived. Conrad, in a chef's white jacket and hat, greeted them with a tray. "Ladies, how good of you to come!" he said heartily. "Have a seat or roam around as you like.”

Conrad was a large, florid-faced man who obviously enjoyed eating as much as cooking. He wasn't fat, just big and fairly solid-looking, as ex-football players often get in middle age.

His wife, Sarah, was behind him, passing out plates and silverware. She was a small, thin woman with tiny, delicate features and a mop of curly dark blond hair held back with clear plastic combs. She had a shy, quiet manner, and though she was smiling, she looked as if this sort of mingling was painful.

Shelley introduced herself and Jane to Sarah Baker, who said softly, "Oh, I remember you from school days, Shelley. And I've talked to Jane on the phone a couple times. Thanks for coming. If you'd like to sit down while there's still a place to, I could bring you some of our special tea, and Conrad will be back around with sandwiches.”

Jane, whose motto was "Never pass up a chance to sit down," took her up on the offer. The tea, when it arrived, was a very nice Earl Grey with the merest hint of a floral scent they couldn't identify. "I may never cook again," Jane said, sampling a cucumber dip Conrad had brought around with tiny sandwiches, some of his homemade potato chips, and a generous serving of cherry crisp.

“Delicious," Shelley said around a mouthful of salmon mousse.

A tall woman who looked like an elongated version of Sarah Baker stopped at the table. "Shelley, nice to see you," she said.

“Grace Axton, this is my friend Jane Jeffry. Jane is Mike's mother."

“I'm glad to meet anyone who could raise such a great kid," Grace said. "We can already tell it's going to be nearly impossible to replace him when he goes to college in the fall. In his new truck! He's so proud of it."

“Mike's here?" Jane asked. In the dark, most motherly recesses of her mind, she'd been half afraid he'd forgotten everything in his thraldom with the vehicle.

“In the back, helping with cleanup before he starts deliveries. Have you seen the kitchens?"

“No, we didn't know we could," Shelley replied.

“Sure. We're anxious to show off everything.”

Shelley said, "Grace, I hardly recognized Sarah. I mean, she looks the same, but I remembered her being really bubbly and outgoing."

“People change," Grace Axton said shortly, and added with a laugh, "I didn't used to have a neck like a chicken, either, but we're not in high school anymore."

“You have a perfectly fine neck," Shelley objected, "but if you saw the back of my upper arms—" After a few chummy, if depressing, comments about aging and the exchange of the names of a couple plastic surgeons, Grace moved off to greet other newcomers.

Mike stopped by to thank Jane again for the truck, then, carrying a cardboard box full of paper bags and cartons, went on his first delivery. As he went down the sidewalk, Shelley murmured, "I can't believe it. Look who's coming."

“What a hell of a nerve," Jane agreed as Robert Stonecipher stepped in the door and glanced around critically. With his showy white hair and handsome features, he looked as if he had been designed as part of the decor. Or he would have, had he not been scowling.

“And he's got his pet dog with him," Shelley added, glaring at the sour-looking old man who was right behind Stonecipher.

“Who's that?"

“I can't think of his name. I always want to call him Foster Brooks," Shelley said. "Foster Hanlon, that's it. He's been hopping up and down and talking ugly about the deli opening, too."

“But they've lost the battle. Why would they show up for the opening? You'd think they'd be embarrassed to visit the site of their defeat. Who's the woman with them?" Jane asked, eyeing the newcomer. She was not especially young, but was one of those terribly "fresh" people who always look as if they'd just stepped out of a tepid shower and a brisk rubdown with something organic that was awfully expensive and environmentally sound.

“Oh, you know her, Jane. That Emma per‑ son who taught the aerobics class we took. Emma Weyworth — no, Weyrich.”

Jane shuddered at the memory. In a rare fit of healthiness, Shelley had insisted that the two of them shape up and had enrolled them in the class at the community center. They lasted fifteen minutes. When the instructor called for a short break, they gathered their belongings and crept away. But Emma had seen their break for freedom and followed them to the parking lot to try to drag them back with a lot of what Jane considered highly personal and insulting remarks about how much they both needed to improve their bodies.

“It figures she'd be hanging out with Stonecipher," Jane said. "Health nuts, both of them."

“I think she's his secretary as well," Shelley said. "Or a paralegal or something.”

The threesome entered the house and Jane and Shelley went back to sampling and reviewing the food they'd been served.

They visited with a few other neighbors, some of whom had vaguely (and silently) opposed the deli, but had been won over by the quality of the food and the decorating. "It really doesn't look like a business," one said grudgingly. "I was afraid it was going to be a real blight. But except for the sign out front, you'd think it was just a well-kept old house.

It must have cost a fortune to renovate it. I hear it was Grace Axton's money. I don't imagine the Bakers came back here with a pot to pee in.”

Conrad was circulating with another tray of goodies, to which Jane and Shelley shamelessly helped themselves. The deli was becoming more crowded by the minute, and they finally, reluctantly, gave up their places at the small table, leaving a humiliating pile of crumbs.

“It looks like we rubbed our food in instead of eating it," Jane whispered.

“Let's peek at the kitchen before we leave," Shelley said, nearly tripping over a toddler in her haste to distance herself from the scene of culinary devastation.

It was a kitchen to die for. Vast white countertops, steel sinks, two brushed-chrome fronted dishwashers, and every imaginable appliance. Around the soffit hung an array of copper utensils that made Jane's mouth water, even though she knew she'd hate having to clean them. Today the food was being served on plastic plates because of the crush, but in the future the serving dishes would be the oval green plates that were stacked in the open cabinets. The serving dishes alone represented a mind-boggling financial investment.

After admiring everything, Jane said, "I'll meet you outside. I have to find a bathroom.”

“Just down that hallway," Grace Axton said, entering the kitchen and catching Jane's words.

Jane followed Grace's directions. While she was washing her hands, she heard a crash. By the time she'd dried her hands and disposed of the paper towel, she could hear someone screaming. She stepped out of the bathroom.

A crowd of people was descending on an open doorway along the hallway between the bathroom and the kitchen. As she neared the door, someone shoved a sobbing Sarah Baker out of the doorway and into her arms.

“Sarah! What's wrong!”

Sarah was blubbering, "He's dead! Oh, my God—"

“Dead? Who's dead?" Jane asked, fearing the answer was Conrad.

Grace Axton pushed through the crowd and grabbed at Sarah. "Honey, come away from here. Come on.”