Misunderstood Quiche
I entered the apartment and climbed the stairs on quiet feet. I knew Walt’s alarm would go off at any moment, so I listened for its nagging drone as I went. As I topped the landing into the living room, I smelled cooking and cigarette smoke. I passed into the kitchen to find Walt seated at the kitchen table. He was dressed for work in a pair of black slacks and a white collared shirt. He puffed at one of my cigarettes without inhaling the smoke. There was a large fresh quiche on the table in front of him.
Walt stubbed his cigarette out as I entered the kitchen. “I don’t know how you smoke these things.” He complained. “They taste wretched, and they don’t relax you at all.”
“I like tobacco.” I said simply. “Why are you smoking? You don’t smoke.” I put the newspaper on the table in case Walt wanted to read it. He glanced at it but didn’t pick it up.
Walt ignored my question and asked one of his own. “What happened with Georgie?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It wasn’t him at the door.”
Walt blurted another question before I could say anything more. “Then where in the hell have you been?”
Walt’s reference to hell was as uncharacteristic as his smoking. He didn’t smoke or swear. I knew from his tone that something was wrong, so I pulled a chair out and sat down to find out what it was. I folded my hands on the table and tried to keep my expression a concerned neutral. “You first. Tell me what’s going on with you this morning.”
Walt pressed the heels of his hands into either side of his head in a display of nervous tension. “I can’t take much more of this.” He said desperately. “I couldn’t get back to sleep after you left. I started worrying about today’s menu and if it was good enough and what the inspector would think of it…finally I got up to keep myself from going nuts. I got ready for the day and made this quiche for breakfast. I tried to wait for you, but when you didn’t come back, I lit one of your cigarettes to calm down. It didn’t help.”
I eyed the quiche on the table with dismay. Walt was already upset. I didn’t want to upset him further by refusing to eat his food. Unfortunately for me, I was still full from the breakfast I’d eaten downstairs. I didn’t mention the quiche, but I did try to console my husband. “I promise you have nothing to worry about. Your food is the best in the world.”
I was going to add more support to what I’d already said when Walt cut me off again. “THAT’S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!” He blared. “IT’S ME THEY’RE JUDGING, NOT YOU!”
I didn’t mind Walt shouting at me because I recognized he was overwhelmed. I wished there was something I could do to soothe him, but there really wasn’t. He’d been getting more and more agitated ever since he got the letter from the Firestone people over a month ago. Nothing I said made any difference. I knew he wouldn’t calm down until he got the next letter which would tell him the results of the inspection. I had confidence the results would be positive, but I couldn’t convince Walt to have the same confidence. His dreams were on the line and the stakes were very high.
Instead of chewing over a bunch of words I knew wouldn’t help, I waited for Walt to realize that he’d overreacted, something he did in short order. “I’m sorry.” He said at the end of a large exhale, like he was blowing out a breath he’d been holding. “I didn’t mean to yell. Tell me what happened downstairs. Who was at the door?”
In a few minutes, I gave Walt the highlights of David’s story and that of his son. By the time I finished, Walt had his head in his hands again. “I don’t know what to say.” He muttered to the table. “I want to tell you that you can’t help him, that I need you, but I don’t see how I can. David’s son could wind up in the electric chair if you don’t help. Still, it’s going to be hard for me to keep my head together if you’re not there. These last few weeks, I’ve really counted on you to keep me from going crazy. It’s going to be hard to do it on my own.”
I reached across the table and offered my hand to Walt. He took my right hand in his left and held it. He held it so tightly, I felt like he was trying to crush my bones. I told my husband what I thought he needed to hear. “I believe in you. You’re doing what you’ve done all your life. You were trained to do it, and you’ve never stopped getting better. Everything you do for Walt’s Special is about making ‘the dining experience’ as you call it, the best it can be. You’ve got a great menu, a great staff, and a beautiful dining room. You’ve done all you can do.
“When I was a detective, Captain Marshall used to say, ‘the most any man can give is his best.’ He demanded we give our best, but he knew he couldn’t ask for more. You’ve done your best. You have to trust the results will reflect that.”
My words seemed to encourage Walt, but he still had concerns. “Do you think Owen is ready to handle your work? You’ve only been training him for two weeks.”
I thought of my young trainee and his incongruous white hair. Owen wasn’t a day over thirty years old, but his hair was as white as fresh snow. He was already an excellent chef and had only needed my guidance to learn the menu and the signature dishes of Walt’s Special. I thought he was more than ready to work on his own. “He’ll be fine. Trust him. He’s a very conscientious young man.”
Walt wasn’t convinced by my assurances. “Are you sure?” He asked.
My answer was interrupted by the door buzzer. I guessed David was back from his errands. I took my hand away from Walt and stood from the table. “I’m sure.” I said as I pushed my chair in. I switched subjects. “That’s probably David downstairs. Before I let him in, I want to make sure I know what to tell him.”
“You have to help him,” Walt said. Then he added, “and I’ll have to figure out how to be alright with it.”
I thanked my husband and went to let David in.
As soon as I opened the door, David pressed me for an answer. “What did he say? Can you help me?”
I held my hand up to quiet David. “Come up and meet my husband.” I said and led the way up the steps.
I brought David into the kitchen and introduced him to Walt. “David Ploughman, meet Walt Whitman Stack. Walt, this is David.” Walt stood to offer his hand to David. While they shook, I told David of Walt’s decision. “Walt has graciously agreed to forgo my services in the kitchen so I can help you and your son. I’m going to go get changed while you two get acquainted. Back in a minute.”
I hurried to the bedroom and shed my robe and pajamas. I changed my underthings and threw the closet door open to see what I should wear for the day. I decided to dress in conservative colors because I wanted to look like a professional. I wore a brown suit and a russet-red shirt that Walt always said looked well on me.
I didn’t bother with a hat in spite of the damp weather. I had trouble keeping track of hats and Walt wasn’t much of a hat wearer, so I stopped wearing them as well. I brushed my hair and added some pomade to it to keep my left parting in place. With my hair done, I considered myself ready for the day.
Before I left the bedroom, I took a moment to put away my cast-off pajamas and robe. My robe was very heavy from the gun in its pocket. When I left the kitchen downstairs, I’d pocketed the revolver as not to leave it on the break table. I removed the gun from the robe and returned it to my nightstand. While I had the drawer open, I looked for and found my investigator’s license to add to my wallet.
Even though I hadn’t been an active detective in nine years, not since 1944 when I worked for Bea Arlott, I’d always kept my license current. For the few bucks it cost me each year to renew, it seemed a reasonable thing to maintain. The license had come in handy more than once.
I hoped my license would come in handy for David and his son. I planned to present it to Scofield the lawyer and ask him to give me a letter to show that I was investigating the case on his behalf. As a private detective, I wasn’t allowed to work on active police cases. There was a loophole in the law which permitted me to work on an active case as long as I was sponsored by a lawyer involved with the case. Under those circumstances, my work was considered part of the ‘discovery’ phase of the pretrial work. I planned to exploit the loophole as long as Scofield would go along.
I double checked my appearance in the bureau mirror and left the bedroom for the kitchen. When I got there, I saw that Walt had divided the quiche into thirds. He plated each slice and set one out for himself, one for David, and one for me.
David held his fork in his hand like he was the farmer from the American Gothic painting, and the fork was his pitchfork. He chattered at Walt over what he had incorrectly labeled ‘breakfast casserole.’ “My wife, Abby, makes the best casserole. She uses hash brown potatoes for the crust. My oldest boys, Larry and Eddie, used to fight over who got to eat the middle slice. They didn’t like the crunchy part around the edges.”
Walt had a polite grimace on his face which betrayed his inner suffering over having his delicate quiche compared to a homemaker’s casserole. I went to Walt’s rescue. I took my seat at the table and directed my first words to my old friend. “David, I know you mean no offense, but calling Walt’s quiche a casserole is like calling President Eisenhower a soldier. Eisenhower is a solider, but he’s much more.”
David apologized for his culinary gaff and plunged his fork into his slice of quiche. He carved off a huge bite and shoveled it into his face. He chewed and hummed in appreciation. “Delicious!” He said to Walt. “The texture is so smooth, creamy almost.”
Walt thanked David for the compliment and smiled as he cut a modest bite from his own slice. David, unable to leave well enough alone, asked a question which wiped out the goodwill he’d earned with his compliment. “Is there any ketchup?”
Walt’s grimace of pain returned as he went to the refrigerator to retrieve the bottle for David. He watched in silent horror as David slathered the quiche in ketchup and shoveled it into his face like he was feeding coal into a locomotive boiler.
David demolished his allotment of quiche and looked around for more. I hadn’t touched my slice, so I offered it to David’s ravenous appetite. He accepted gladly. I held back a couple of bites, enough to taste it and compliment Walt. I hated to admit that I’d already eaten, but I had to because I didn’t have room for more food. David certainly had room. He consumed my slice with the same gusto he’d displayed on the first.
Walt was disappointed I couldn’t eat his quiche, but he appreciated my thoughtfulness. “You’re sweet.” He said to compliment me. “It’s a shame you had to cook for yourself and shower in that little stall, but it was nice of you to let me sleep, even though I was awake.”
“I tried.” I said with a shrug. I shifted my attention again because I wanted to know what arrangements David had made in the time since he left me earlier. “Were you able to reach the lawyer?”
“Yes. We have an appointment for eleven-thirty at the public defender’s office.” David said. “The girl who answered the phone also told me that they hold the…the suspects…I think that’s what she called them.”
David trailed off into his memory until I confirmed he was correct. “If you’re talking about your son, he’s a suspect until he’s put on trial.”
David nodded his appreciation for the information I shared. “She said they are held at a place called Moyamensing Prison and the visiting hours are from ten to four. She said all we have to do is go there and sign in.”
I checked my wristwatch and the clock on the wall. Both timepieces told me the time was ten minutes short of eleven. “We should get moving.” I said and stood up.
I started to clear the table, but Walt stopped me. He said he would take care of the mess. He asked me for a private minute before I left. I asked David to meet me on the sidewalk. David shook hands with Walt, thanked him for breakfast, and left us alone.
“Why are you wearing that suit?” Walt asked when we were alone. He’d stood from his chair to clear the table but made no motions to do so.
“You like this suit on me.” I said to inform Walt of something he already knew. “I want to look like I know what I’m doing. I thought the suit would help.”
Walt accepted my logic. “Makes sense.” He agreed. “Why is David dressed like an undertaker from a Randolph Scott western?”
I burst into a fit of laughter at Walt’s description of David’s ancient suit. “I have no idea.” I admitted. “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.”
“The suit aside, David is a very attractive man.” Walt observed. “He’s not quite what I imagined, but I see why you were smitten with him. As a youth, he must have been enchanting.”
“He was.” I agreed.
Walt’s expression hardened, seemingly over my agreement about David’s beauty. I wondered if I’d accidently offended my husband. I couldn’t imagine that Walt would be jealous of David, especially as we were talking about David as I’d known him years ago. I decided not to risk hard feelings. I moved near my husband and gathered him into my arms. I held him against me but kept my face in his. “David WAS enchanting, and he is still attractive, but that doesn’t matter because you are my husband, and I am yours.”
Walt didn’t address my comment, but the hardness went out of his face. “Good luck today.” He said.
“You too.” I replied. “Have faith in your abilities and in your staff and everything will be fine.”
Walt kissed me, and I left to join David.
“We’ll take Walt’s station wagon.” I said as I found David on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the city which bustled around him. I got him to follow me and led the way around to the garage in the alley behind the restaurant. “The public defender’s office is in City Hall. It’s close enough to walk to, but Moyamensing Prison is way the hell down south on Passyunk Avenue. We’re not going to walk all the way there and back.”
“Can’t we take the trolley?” David asked as I unlocked the garage doors to reveal Walt’s 1949 Mercury 8 wagon.
“The Broad Street trolley is gone.” I explained. “Everyone has a car now. They ripped up the tracks and sold the trolley cars for chicken coops. All gone. Some of the lines up north are still running but all the Center City lines are gone.”
“I guess that’s progress.” David muttered.
“Fuck progress.” I replied.
