Katherine Page - The Body in the Bouillon

“Do you need some more help, Mrs. P.? I have a spare half hour and it's all yours.”

The voice belonged to a tall, languid-looking young woman with, depending on one's frame of reference and charitable inclinations, a long Modigliani or Afghanhound-like face and black hair cropped close to her head. As she spoke, she took off the jacket of her suit, an Anne Klein Faith had considered herself last year, and rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse. She wasn't beautiful, yet everything about her was—the way she walked, her voice, and all the separate parts: luminous gray eyes, smooth glowing skin. It didn't add up, but came close enough.

“I can always use help, Denise. Grab an apron from the closet and you can finish these salads with Mrs. Fairchild here while I scoop out the Grape Nut pudding for dessert." Mrs. Pendergast spoke in tones bordering on affection.

“Are you a new Pink Lady?" Denise asked Faith as she slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and grabbed a handful of lettuce.

“A what?"

“A Pink Lady. That's what we volunteers are called because of the pink dusters we're supposed to wear. I told them I was happy to come and do whatever they wanted, but nothing could induce me to put that thing on."

“I don't think I'm one. Nor," she added, "have I ever drunk one. I'm just helping here until the lunch crew recovers from the flu." Faith hoped Miss Vale wouldn't suddenly decide to fling a duster her way to wear in the kitchen. She'd have to be firm and cite Denise as precedent.

“Do you live in Byford, Mrs. Fairchild?" Denise asked.

“No, I live in Aleford, and please call me Faith. My husband is the minister at First Parish, and we have a two-and-a-half-year-old boy. How about you?"

“I live in Byford—for the moment. Try prying a teenager away from the friends he's made. I decided it wasn't fair for Joel to lose both his father and friends, so we're here for at least two more years."

“I'm sorry to hear about your husband. Was his death recent?" Faith asked, switching into the empathetic minister's wife voice she thought she ought to be cultivating. It was a slight shock to watch Denise explode into laughter. Hysteria?

“I should only be so lucky. No, the creep is very much alive and living in L.A. with wife number three, formerly mistress number three hundred and three, who didn't want wife number one's kid around. Wife number one didn't want him either. I'd been raising Joel pretty much alone anyway, and I wasn't going to back out on him. Plus we got the house, no problem, and actually both of us have never been happier."

“It sounds like you didn't exactly have a match made in heaven," Faith commented.

“I was just plain stupid and not young enough to have age for an excuse—but maybe not that stupid. I never had my wedding silver or towels monogrammed, for instance.”

Faith laughed. She hoped Denise would be around a lot in the next two weeks. Besides being entertaining, she might have picked up what was going on at Hubbard.

“What do you do here—as a volunteer?" Faith asked, also wondering why?

“ I started by driving some of the residents to temple for services on Friday nights—the rabbi had asked for volunteers from the congregation, and then when one of the people I drove, Mrs. Rosen, broke a hip and was recuperating in the nursing wing, I visited and read to her. One thing led to another and I became a volunteer. I love being adored and I don't have a whole lot else to do with my time. If I weren't so selfish, I'd go out and get a job, but I don't want someone telling me what time to be there and what to'do.”

Obviously she didn't need the money, Faith ob- served, looking at her neat little Patek Philippe watch and the heavy gold necklace she wore. Her fingers were conspicuously bare of rings.

“How about you, Faith, why are you doing this? Christian love?"

“Nothing so selfless, I'm afraid," Faith answered. "I was on my way to visit a parishioner and Miss Vale mistook me for someone coming to volunteer and brought me here. But since Ben is in nursery school in the mornings, I can help for a while." She decided not to tell Denise about Chat's letter. Until she had more of an idea about what was going on, she wasn't going to mention it to anyone even vaguely associated with Hubbard House.

“That is so typical of Sylvia—Sylvia Vale—and yet somehow she never puts a foot wrong. Here you are. The problem's solved even though she was completely screwed up about it.”

The salads were done and only needed dressing, which the residents put on themselves.

“Do you want us to do the bread, Mrs. P.?" Denise asked.

“Yes, and I'll mash the potatoes, and then it will be time to get the trays done."

“You should be doing this instead of me," Faith remarked. "You know so much."

“Not a chance. Remember I'm selfish. I don't want to have to be here every day at a certain time. Besides, I have a hair appointment tomorrow. With this cut, I have to go all the time. It gives me another purpose in life, and it's almost as nice as the old days in high school when my friend Linda and I used to iron each other's hair, smoke cigarettes we took from her mother, and gossip. Somehow my hairdresser Richard's stories don't seem as interesting as which cheerleaders went all the way and whether the math teacher was seeing Debbie Jackson outside school, but Richard pampers me and I love it.”

Faith was still searching for someone who could cut her hair—if not exactly as she'd had it before her northern migration, at least in some approximation. She didn't want Denise's cut, but she recognized the hand of a master. Before she could ask her where Richard wielded his scissors, Denise looked at her watch and exclaimed, "Have to run! 'Bye, Faith. Nice meeting you. 'Bye, Mrs. P. You've got a treasure here. Let her do some of the cooking. I think she knows how." She winked at Faith. "Joel and I love Have Faith's wild berry jam.”

A faint whiff of Coco lingered after she left, mingling with the smell of the brown bread, Parker House rolls, and cranberry muffins they'd been putting into baskets. Mrs. Pendergast lumbered over.

“Put a few more muffins in each. We've got them to spare today. And you know these ladies always bring big pocketbooks to meals." She laughed.

Faith hadn't pictured the stately inhabitants of Hubbard House as the types who filched rolls from the dining room, but then it could also be yet another example of Yankee frugality—she could hear the soft murmurs, "Don't want them to go to waste, you know." She added some more to each basket and went over to help Mrs. Pendergast fill the trays. The tray slips were tucked under the silverware, and she saw that one of them was for Farley Bowditch. He must be in the nursing-care wing.

“I'm going to have to leave soon, Mrs. Pendergast, but I could bring this tray up on my way out. Mr. Bowditch is a friend."

“That would be fine. It isn't hard to find. You go back the way you came, but instead of taking the stairs, take the elevator and go to the second floor. We're in the basement of the annex. When you get out of the elevator, go straight and turn right. His room is in the middle of the corridor." She hesitated. "Do you think you can stand another day?"

“I think so." Faith smiled. "See you in the morning." Mrs. P. hadn't been a font of information—not yet anyway—but Faith was getting fond of her. She'd get even fonder if she could take over some of the cooking.

She picked up the tray. Farley had opted for the fish, and it lay in overcooked splendor on a Wedgwood plate with a blanket of red paprika and a morsel of parsley. She popped a cover on it to keep it hot and set off.

It was easy to find the nursing-care wing, but Faith decided to get deliberately lost on the way back. Of course she could always ask Sylvia Vale to show her around, but it was more fun—and instructive—to go alone.