A Northern Light(59)
"Mein Gott! Vatch out!" he yelled.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"You sure are," Weaver said, whizzing past me.
"Weaver, Ada, Fran, pick up! Pick up!" Cook hollered.
I grabbed a clean tray, a dish of butter from the cold station, and a jug of water.
"Uncontrollable," Weaver shot at me, on his way back to the dining room.
"Clamorous," I shot back. We had a word duel going for my word of the day—obstreperous. I saw that it was going to be tough to play my word games here. I'd barely had time to wash my face and braid my hair that morning, never mind look in my dictionary.
I had challenged Weaver to a duel out of spite after I learned that he was making a whole dollar more a week than I was. I'd asked him how he did it, and he'd said, "Never take what's offered, Matt. Always ask for more." And then he took off his cap and held it in his hands. "Please, sir, I want some more," he said, mimicking Oliver Twist.
"Just look where that got Oliver," I'd grumbled, put out at how Weaver always seemed to be able to bend the world, just a little, to his will. Just because he dared to.
I rushed to the warming oven, got a basket down off the top of it, and lined it with a clean napkin. I burned my fingers getting the hot rolls. My eyes reared, but I didn't dare let on.
"Henry! Heat these up, will you?" Cook shouted. And then three metal cans went sailing over my head, one after another.
"Vas is?" Henry yelled.
"Sweet milk. For a caramel sauce," she shouted back.
"Obnoxious," Weaver said, suddenly beside me and scooping rolls into a basket. He stuffed a corn dodger into his mouth, then yowled, as Cook, passing us on a return trip to the oven from the icebox, cuffed his head.
"Bumptious," I said, giggling.
Weaver had a reply, but he couldn't get it out because his mouth was full. "To the death, Mr. Smith," I said. I blew on my finger like it was a pistol stock, hoisted my tray, and headed for the dining room.
It was my first full day at the Glenmore, and though it was only about six miles from my house, it was a whole different country to me, a whole new world—the world of tourists. Tourists are a race of people who have money enough to go on vacation for a week or two, sometimes a month or even the whole summer. I couldn't imagine it—not working for a whole summer. Some of them were quite nice, some were not. Mrs. Morrison was bossy and Cook was a bear, but I didn't mind any of it. It all seemed like a grand adventure to me. I wasn't quite as nervous as I'd thought I'd be. Fran, who was head waitress, had explained things to me.
I placed the rolls and butter down on table ten. A family was dining there. A father, mother, and three young children. They talked and laughed. The father rubbed noses with his little girl. I stared at them until the mother noticed me and I had to look away.
Table nine was a party of four burly sporting gentlemen up from New York City. They'd gone fishing with a guide in the morning and planned to go back out at dusk. I thought they would empty the entire kitchen. I brought them cream of green pea soup. Three baskets of rolls. A plate of sweet gherkins, radishes, olives, and chowchow. The trout they'd caught, fried and served with Sarah Bernhardt potatoes. Chicken livers sautéed with bacon. Entrec?tes of beef. Dishes of spinach, stewed tomatoes, beets, and creamed cauliflower. And for dessert, coconut layer cake sandwiched together with custard and covered with pillows of boiled icing.
Table eight was a single woman. She was sitting quietly, sipping lemonade and reading. I couldn't take my eyes off her. "I'd kill for a dress like that," Fran said as she passed by me. But it wasn't her dress I wanted, it was her freedom. She could sit by a window and read, with nobody to say, "Are the chickens fed? What's for supper? Have the pigs been slopped? The garden hoed? The cows milked? The stove blacked?" I thought she was the luckiest woman on the face of the earth. She had a small appetite and ordered no starters, only the trout. But she wanted it poached, not fried.
Cook grumbled, but she poached the fish. When I brought it out, the woman wrinkled her nose. "It smells off," she said. "Would you please tell your cook that I like my fish fresh?"
I returned to the kitchen and went up to Cook with the plate in my hands, thinking that my life would surely end right then and there, but she just grumbled, took the lettuce and tomato garnish off, flipped the fish over, put on a new garnish of spinach leaves and carrot coins, then told me to wait five minutes and take it back out again. I did. The woman pronounced it perfect.
Table seven was two young married couples. They had maps with them and were planning a buckboard tour of the area. The men wore light wool suits and had smooth, clean hands and all their fingers. The women wore cycling skirts and striped waists with silk bow ties at the collar.
"Say, Maude, maybe our little waitress here will know!" one of the gentlemen said as I prepared to take their orders.
"Do you know where I can find Indians?" the woman named Maude asked me. "I'm here in the Ho De Ron Dah and I want to see Indians."
"Beg your pardon, ma'am," I said uncertainly, "but this is the Glenmore."
The entire table burst into laughter. I felt stupid and I didn't even know why.
"Ho De Ron Dah is an Indian word, dear. It's Iroquois. It means 'bark eaters.' It's what the Iroquois called their enemies, the Montagnais. The Montagnais hunted here in the mountains, but if they couldn't catch anything, they ate roots and twigs. The Iroquois found that terribly gauche. White people, however, pronounce the word Ad-i-rondack. You know, the Adirondacks? Where you live!"