A Northern Light (24 page)

"You left this, ma'am," I said, holding the coin out to her.

She smiled and shook her head. "Yes, I did. For you." And then she turned and walked out of the dining room and I did not know what to do. Cook warned us nine ways to Sunday to turn in anything that we find—money, jewelry, buttons, anything. But how could I turn it in if its owner didn't want it back?

"Put it in your pocket, you fool," a voice behind me said. It was Weaver. He was busing a huge tray of dirty dishes. "It's called a tip. They leave it for good service. You get to keep it."

"For real?"

"Yup. But if you don't get your table cleared and your rear end back in the kitchen, it'll be the only one you ever get." He started walking away, then turned and said, "Boisterous."

"Unruly," I replied, hurrying back to clear my table.

On the way into the kitchen, I had to pause outside the doors for a second, trying to remember which was in and which was out. I'd already been yelled at for going out the in one. As I pushed open the right door, struggling to balance the heavy tray on my shoulder, Cook bawled at me for being slower than a snail on crutches. "Table ten needs water, butter, and rolls! Look alive, Mattie!" she yelled.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I rushed past the other girls, past the smoke and steam pouring from the massive black stove, and slammed my tray down by the sink. "Don't slam it!" Bill the dishwasher yelled. "Aw, look at that, will you? You're supposed to scrape the dishes, then stack them. Just look at that mess!"

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

I ran to the warming oven, skidded on a slice of tomato, and just managed to right myself before I smashed into Henry, the new underchef, who had arrived at the Glenmore the day before, same as me, and was carrying a basket of lobsters. Henry, Mrs. Morrison had informed us, had apprenticed in the finest kitchens of Europe, and the Glenmore was fortunate to have him.

"
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. Entrecôtes 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-ron-dack. You know, the Adirondacks? Where you live!"

I live in the North Woods,
I said silently.
The Adirondacks
was a name the travel brochures used to lure summer people. It was pretty and clever, like the tricked-out fishing flies Charlie Eckler sold to the tourists. The ones no guide would be caught dead using.

"So, tell me," the woman said, "where can I find some Indians?"

I cleared my throat nervously. I didn't want to say something else stupid and have them laugh at me again. "Well, ma'am, there's the Traversys. And the Dennises. They're Abenakis, I'm told. They weave sweet-grass baskets and sell them in Eagle Bay. At the railroad station..."

The woman wrinkled her nose. "Those are faux Indians. I want the real thing. The noble savage in the wilderness. Primitive man in all his glory."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know...," I started to say, miserably awkward.

Weaver was suddenly at the table refilling the water glasses. I had no idea how he got there, and I wished he hadn't. He had that look in his eyes. The one I knew too well.

"You want to see Mose LaVoie, ma'am," he said. "He's a full-blooded Saint Regis. Lives up past Big Moose Station. In a tepee in the woods."

My mouth dropped open.

"There you go, Maudsy!" the gentleman said.

"How exciting!" the woman said. "How will we know him?"

"He's hard to miss, ma'am. He wears buckskins. Though that's only when it's cold. This time of year, he just wears a loincloth. And a bear-claw necklace. And fearhers in his hair. Just go up to the Summit Hotel and ask for Injun Mose."

I nearly choked. Mose LaVoie was an Indian, but he certainly did not live in a tepee. He lived in a log house and he wore a shirt, trousers, and suspenders like every other man. He was nice enough if he knew you, but he had a temper and it came out when he drank. He'd take a swing at a locomotive if he thought it was looking at him the wrong way. He'd put out the windows in the Summit on more than one occasion, and he was certain to knock the head off any fool tourist who called him Injun Mose instead of Mr. LaVoie.

"A genuine redskin! Imagine that! He'll be the perfect guide to the real Ho De Ron Dah!"

Weaver grinned from ear to ear. "Yes, ma'am, he sure will," he said.

I caught up with him at the coffee station. "You're going to have four murders on your conscience, Weaver Smith. I hope you're all right with that."

"They shouldn't laugh at you," he said. "And they shouldn't call me colored."

"Oh, Weaver, they didn't." He hates being called that word,
colored.
He says he is a person, not an Easter egg.

"They did. Last night when they arrived and again at breakfast. Ever seen Mose LaVoie when he's mad?"

"Only from a distance."

"Me, too. And I reckon this ought to make us just about even."

Table seven was bad, but table six was the worst of all. The very worst. It was a single man. A Mr. Maxwell. He was small and slight. Balding. And sweating, too, even though it wasn't terribly warm. One must always steer clear of men who sweat when it isn't warm. He held the menu on the table and bent his head toward it, squinting and mopping his brow with his handkerchief as he studied it.

"I'm afraid I've left my glasses in my room," he finally said. "Would you mind reading the entrees for me?" I thought his eyes must be very bad indeed, because he looked at my bosom as he spoke, not my face.

"I'd be happy to," I said, just as green as a frog. I leaned over him and started reciting. "Baked ham, broiled spring chicken, boiled tongue..."

Just as I got to the veal in aspic, he pulled his napkin off his lap. Under it was something that looked rather like a frankfurter. Only no frankfurter I'd ever seen stood at attention.

"I'll have the veal in aspic," he said, covering himself again.

My face was flaming as I went back into the kitchen. It was so red that Cook noticed it immediately. "What have you done?" she barked. "Did you drop something?"

"No ma'am, I ... I just stumbled, that's all," I lied. I couldn't bear to say what really happened. Not to anyone.

Fran, picking up an order, heard us. She came up to me. "Table six?" she whispered.

I nodded, looking at the floor.

"The dirty dog! He did it to me yesterday. You should drop something, all right. A jug of ice water. Right in his lap! Don't go back there, Matt. I'll get Weaver to take the table."

"Fran! Where are you?" Cook bellowed. "Pick up, pick—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence, because just then, the kitchen fell under attack.

There was an explosion. Louder than the Old Forge town cannon on the Fourth of July. Worse than anything I'd ever heard. Ada screamed. I did, too. "
Oh, mein Gott!
" Henry yelled. Shrapnel went whizzing through the air and hit one of the gas lamps. Glass came raining down. Ada and I ducked behind the cold station, clutching each other. There was another explosion, and another. There was more screaming and more glass. I chanced a look up; the ceiling was dented in half a dozen places. More lamps had been smashed. A window was broken.

I felt a wetness on my face. It was hot. "Ada!" I said frantically. "Ada, I think I'm bleeding." Ada raised her head and looked at me. She touched my cheek. I looked at her fingers, expecting to see crimson, but instead I saw white. Ada sniffed it. "Smells like milk," she said. We stood up cautiously, still holding on to each other.

Fran and Weaver were peering out from behind the icebox. Bill was crouched under the sink. Two more waitresses and another busboy had hidden in the cellar way. I saw the door open a crack and their eyes blinking from the gloom. The kitchen was a complete disaster. The mess was breathtaking. The same sticky goo that was on my face was dripping from the ceiling. There was glass on every surface—on the plates, in the cutlery trays, on the serving platters, all over the floor. A cake batter, three pies, a bowl of biscuit dough, a pan of gelatin, a pot of soup, four trays of cookies, and a crab mousse were ruined.

I heard a moan coming from under the big plank worktable in front of the stove. It was Cook. She was lying facedown on the floor. Ada and I ran to help her up. She looked all around, shaking her head at the devastation.

"Where's Henry?" she gasped. "Where the devil is he?"

Henry came out from the pantry. He was ashen and trembling.

"You put those cans right on the stove, didn't you?" she yelled at him.

"You ... you try to kill me!" Henry shouted at her. "You tell me heat milk, then
Blam! Blam! Blam!
"