A Northern Light(87)

"Henry?" I heard him say. He was staring at the bite of food on his fork.

"Vat?"

"You make your biscuits with pepper in 'em?"

Henry had cooked the help stew and biscuits for supper. We'd all finished eating an hour ago, but John had missed supper as he had to go meet an evening train. Henry had kept the leftovers warm for him.

"Vat pepper?"

"You know, black pepper. From peppercorns."

"I don't know vat you talk. I don't put any pepper in any biscuit."

John put his fork down. He covered his supper with his napkin. "Then do me a favor, will you, Henry? Keep the damned mice out of the damned flour bin!"

Weaver laughed his head off. So did I.

"Don't know what you're laughing at. You et 'em, too," John growled.

We stopped laughing. I felt a little green. I didn't have long to dwell on it, though.

"Mattie, pick up for table seven. Pick up!" Cook barked.

I carried four bowls of soup to my table, sloshing them as I walked. I craned my neck trying to see the boathouse from the dining room windows. The boars were all in for the evening. The dock was empty.

"They must've gotten back," I said under my breath. "They must have. So where are they?"

There was cream of celery soup all around the rims of the bowls and down the sides, too, as I served them. The croutons had sunk. The guests at table seven did not look pleased.

"You got lead blocks for feet tonight?" Cook asked me, when I returned to the kitchen.

"No, ma'am."

"Look alive, then!'"

The kitchen doors flew open. "I need a pot of tea for room twelve, Mrs. Hennessey," Mrs. Morrison said, whirling by. "And a dish of milk toast. One of the Peterson boys is poorly."

"Am I running a dispensary now as well as a kitchen? Mattie, cut two slices of white bread—"

"Mrs. Peterson asked especially for you to make it, Mrs. Hennessey. She said your milk roast cured her little Teddy of his spastic bowel last summer."

"Give little Teddy some of Henry's mouse-shit biscuits. That'll cure him," John grumbled.

"Anything else I can do? Fluff Teddy's pillow? Sing him a lullaby?" Cook groused, pulling lamb chops from under the broiler. "Mattie, fix a pot of tea, will you? Or does Lady Peterson require that I boil the water, too?" she grumbled at Mrs. Morrison's back. "Eighty-five for supper, fifty of them in all at once, a special birthday meal for twelve, and now I'm a nursemaid as well..."

We were supposed to have eighty-seven for supper. Eighty-seven, not eighty-five. Two guests hadn't showed—rooms forty-two and forty-four. Carl Grahm and Grace Brown. They had table nine. I'd set it for them, but it was already eight o'clock and they still hadn't come in off the lake.

I'd waited on them earlier at dinner. They'd ordered soup and sandwiches, and they'd argued throughout the meal. I'd overheard them as I brought their food.

"...and there was a church right by the hotel in Utica," Grace Brown said. "We could have gone in and done it there."

"We can do it up here, Billy. We'll ask if there's a chapel," Carl Grahm said.

"Today, Chester. Please. You said you would. You promised me. I can't wait any longer. You mustn't expect me to."

"All right, don't get so upset. Let's take a boat ride first, why don't we? It's a beautiful day We'll ask about a chapel right after."

"Chester, no! I don't want to go boating!"

I passed by a few more times to make sure that there was nothing they wanted. The man ate all of his lunch, then the girl's untouched soup, then he asked for dessert. He told me to charge the meal to his room. "Grahm," he said. "Carl Grahm. Room forty-two." I'd heard the name earlier from Mrs. Morrison. She'd told me a couple on vacation, a Mr. Grahm and Miss Brown, had come without any reservations and that she was putting them on the top floor and that I was to turn down their beds that night.

I cleared their plates when they were done. And then, later, I'd seen Grace on the porch and she'd given me her letters and I'd stuffed them under my mattress and forgotten about them, and about her and Carl Grahm, because Cook kept me busy all afternoon peeling potatoes.

I hadn't thought about them at all until the supper service started and I'd seen that their table was empty. Then I couldn't stop thinking about them.

"Mattie! Water's boiling!" Cook shouted now. "Get a tray ready for room twelve."

I grabbed a teapot and spooned leaves into it, careful to stay out of her way. I took the kettle off the flame and poured water into the pot. Just then Mr. Morrison came into the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee.

"Didn't see you at supper tonight, Andy," Cook said. "You all right?"

"I missed it. Too busy waiting for a couple of darn fools to bring my boat back."

Cook snorted. "Which two fools? The Glenmore's full of em."

"Grahm. Room forty-two. Had a woman with him. Took a boat out after dinner and never came back."

I dropped the teapot. It shattered. Scalding water splashed all over.

"Look what you did!" Cook screeched. She whacked my behind with her wooden spoon. "What on earth's gotten into you? Get that mess cleaned up!"