d
81
As the main entrance to the house, Freddie’s kitchen was often the hub of the action. Tonight it swirled in chaos. A caterer with black and white cat whiskers noisily dumped a bag of ice into a punch bowl. More helpers, also in face paint, bustled around with trays of apples and nuts and dried fruits and cheeses. In their midst, Freddie, already tipsy, face florid, directed the staff and argued with the head caterer, Abby Gold, who was also his best friend, a diminutive actress in local theater with a sideline in canapés. She was yelling at Freddie.
“Herb chèvre and celery!” she insisted, in the overinflected voice of a thespian. Somewhere behind it, a slight speech impediment, maybe a lisp, had been covered over by careful training. He boomed, “The theme, my dear, is American. Game meats and dried fruits and apples and nuts. Frontier food, corn—”
“There is no corn here, Freddie—”
“More’s the pity. Creamed corn! Delicious!”
“It’s fattening—”
“Oh, Abby, ” he spat. “You don’t worry about that at a party! ”
Abby was obsessed with her weight: an actress’s vanity, plus the sensitivity of a woman five feet tall.
“But these low-fat chèvres . . .”
Freddie filled his lungs and bellowed at the staff: “SERVE MY
ENGLISH HUNTSMAN!”
They cringed, then produced a wood platter holding a gigantic wheel of layered cheddar, yellow, and blue cheeses, with a great woodhandled knife thrust into it like Excalibur.
“Beautiful!” he cried. “And push the Hermitage!”
Then he spotted us.
“Joan! George! Perfect timing—the real food is coming out.”
Over the silk pajamas he wore, Freddie had wrapped a long, loose, oriental blanket that must have weighed thirty pounds, and on his head was a turban with a large costume jewel in the center. He was a typhoon of color.
“What do you think?” he said, raising his arms over his head. 82
J u s t i n E v a n s
“ Defies description, is what Lizzie Beard said,” chuckled Abby maliciously.
“Oh, Abby. Have some imagination.”
“What are you?” I asked.
“What . . . ,” he sputtered. “I AM A PASHA!”
“What you are is in my way,” grumbled Abby, pushing toward the fridge.
“You’re magnificent, Freddie,” said my mother.
“Thank you, Joan; at last an intelligent woman in my house,” he said, looking sidelong at Abby. “Let’s get a drink in you. And I promised someone a sip of wine. Who are you, Hamlet?” he asked me irritably, regarding my costume.
On the way over it had dawned on me that I was wearing a lady’s hat, so I had stowed it, sheepishly, in the car.
“Dutch trader,” I said.
“‘What a rogue and peasant slave am I!’ ” quoted Freddie automatically, and led us into the party. Freddie Turnbull’s manse must have been polished by an army of maids—every surface glimmered. Brass sconces shone under flickering white candles; above us a chandelier sparkled; and the curtains, fourteen feet from ceiling to floor, were drawn back regally from windows that reflected apparitions of every figure within. The dining room table and long marble-topped sideboard groaned with food: two whole roast turkeys and three poached salmon were laid out, partially picked at; bowls of stuffed mushroom caps; spaghetti squash; creamed spinach; roasted chestnuts with their skins cross-hatched and peeled back; carrot salad with raisins; mashed sweet potatoes; and candied apples for dessert. Porcelain plates were stacked next to baskets of napkins and silverware, alongside ice buckets and scotch decanters and scores of wine bottles in rows like artillery shells, waiting to be uncorked by the frantic waiters.
“Broke two red wine goblets already,” he muttered to my mom. a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d
83
“Should have used plastic, but what’s the point of drinking good wine out of plastic cups? Should I use Dixie cups and serve wine out of a box? Hot dogs? Oreo cookies? Look at this provender,”
81
As the main entrance to the house, Freddie’s kitchen was often the hub of the action. Tonight it swirled in chaos. A caterer with black and white cat whiskers noisily dumped a bag of ice into a punch bowl. More helpers, also in face paint, bustled around with trays of apples and nuts and dried fruits and cheeses. In their midst, Freddie, already tipsy, face florid, directed the staff and argued with the head caterer, Abby Gold, who was also his best friend, a diminutive actress in local theater with a sideline in canapés. She was yelling at Freddie.
“Herb chèvre and celery!” she insisted, in the overinflected voice of a thespian. Somewhere behind it, a slight speech impediment, maybe a lisp, had been covered over by careful training. He boomed, “The theme, my dear, is American. Game meats and dried fruits and apples and nuts. Frontier food, corn—”
“There is no corn here, Freddie—”
“More’s the pity. Creamed corn! Delicious!”
“It’s fattening—”
“Oh, Abby, ” he spat. “You don’t worry about that at a party! ”
Abby was obsessed with her weight: an actress’s vanity, plus the sensitivity of a woman five feet tall.
“But these low-fat chèvres . . .”
Freddie filled his lungs and bellowed at the staff: “SERVE MY
ENGLISH HUNTSMAN!”
They cringed, then produced a wood platter holding a gigantic wheel of layered cheddar, yellow, and blue cheeses, with a great woodhandled knife thrust into it like Excalibur.
“Beautiful!” he cried. “And push the Hermitage!”
Then he spotted us.
“Joan! George! Perfect timing—the real food is coming out.”
Over the silk pajamas he wore, Freddie had wrapped a long, loose, oriental blanket that must have weighed thirty pounds, and on his head was a turban with a large costume jewel in the center. He was a typhoon of color.
“What do you think?” he said, raising his arms over his head. 82
J u s t i n E v a n s
“ Defies description, is what Lizzie Beard said,” chuckled Abby maliciously.
“Oh, Abby. Have some imagination.”
“What are you?” I asked.
“What . . . ,” he sputtered. “I AM A PASHA!”
“What you are is in my way,” grumbled Abby, pushing toward the fridge.
“You’re magnificent, Freddie,” said my mother.
“Thank you, Joan; at last an intelligent woman in my house,” he said, looking sidelong at Abby. “Let’s get a drink in you. And I promised someone a sip of wine. Who are you, Hamlet?” he asked me irritably, regarding my costume.
On the way over it had dawned on me that I was wearing a lady’s hat, so I had stowed it, sheepishly, in the car.
“Dutch trader,” I said.
“‘What a rogue and peasant slave am I!’ ” quoted Freddie automatically, and led us into the party. Freddie Turnbull’s manse must have been polished by an army of maids—every surface glimmered. Brass sconces shone under flickering white candles; above us a chandelier sparkled; and the curtains, fourteen feet from ceiling to floor, were drawn back regally from windows that reflected apparitions of every figure within. The dining room table and long marble-topped sideboard groaned with food: two whole roast turkeys and three poached salmon were laid out, partially picked at; bowls of stuffed mushroom caps; spaghetti squash; creamed spinach; roasted chestnuts with their skins cross-hatched and peeled back; carrot salad with raisins; mashed sweet potatoes; and candied apples for dessert. Porcelain plates were stacked next to baskets of napkins and silverware, alongside ice buckets and scotch decanters and scores of wine bottles in rows like artillery shells, waiting to be uncorked by the frantic waiters.
“Broke two red wine goblets already,” he muttered to my mom. a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d
83
“Should have used plastic, but what’s the point of drinking good wine out of plastic cups? Should I use Dixie cups and serve wine out of a box? Hot dogs? Oreo cookies? Look at this provender,”
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