The Devil's Cook

3

At the precise time that Fanny was placing her potato in the oven, her brother Farley was crossing the hall. It was one minute to six, and Farley, following Fanny’s departure from his apartment, had not only washed his hands and face, he had also put on a reputable shirt, and a pair, of pants with a crease in them. His hair was brushed; his shoes, which had replaced the soiled sneakers, were shined. He had not gone so far as a coat and tie; but he had at least transformed himself into a presentable dinner guest, however casual. As such, with an air of anticipation, he knocked on Terry’s door.

The door was opened by a tall young man with that particular kind of thinness which forecasts, instead of increasing corpulence, a gaunt and cadaverous middle age. His hair, still thick, was light brown and limp, brushed laterally across a long skull from a low part on the left side. He looked out upon the world, including Farley, through thick lenses set in enormous black frames. Although he was still on the nether side of thirty, he already gave a harried effect, as though he had hunted too long in economic cyles in search of a way out.

“Oh,” he said, “it’s you, Farley. What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Jay,” Farley said. “I’ve been invited to dinner. Didn’t Terry tell you?”

“Terry isn’t home yet. Do you happen to know where she went?”

“She mentioned an appointment, but she didn’t say with whom or where. I’m sure she expected to be back by six, though. No doubt she’s been delayed.”

“No doubt. Terry’s always being delayed for one reason or another. Well, you may as well come in and wait.”

“Thanks.” Farley stepped into the room and waited while Jay, after peering down the hall, closed the door behind him. “I hope I’m not imposing.”

“Not at all. Sit down, Farley, and I’ll fix you a drink. Gin or Scotch?”

“Scotch.”

“Soda?”

“Plain water.”

“That’s good. I’m not sure I’ve any soda left, now that I think about it.”

Jay went into the kitchen and took a bottle and glasses out of a cabinet. Farley, at ease in a chair, could hear him excavating ice in the refrigerator. The simmering ragout filled the room with the most delectable odor, of bacon and steak and carrots and onions and potatoes. A happy combination, thought Farley. He regretted that he wasn’t very hungry. What he wanted most was the Scotch and water that Jay was now conveying. He accepted the glass Jay offered, raised it in salute, and took a large swallow.

Jay, holding a glass of his own, sprawled in another chair. His long thin legs gave an effect of disorganization.

“I’d better warn you,” Jay said, “that we may have a long wait. Promptness is not one of Terry’s virtues.”

“She specifically said six. She’ll probably be along in a few minutes.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. No affront intended, old man, but she’s probably forgotten all about inviting you.”

“In that case, perhaps I’d better not stay.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t hear of your leaving. If she doesn’t show up soon, we’ll eat the damn ragout ourselves. That’s what we’re having, you know.”

“I know, I can smell it. Besides, Terry came over earlier to borrow some carrots for it.”

“Terry never has everything she needs for anything. What time was she over?”

“It must have been shortly after one. Ben hadn’t left yet. He’s gone for the weekend now. I think that’s why Terry took pity on me and invited me to share your ragout. She and Ben and I had a beer together.”

“You said she mentioned an appointment. Did she mention what time it was for?”

“I think she said three, but I’m not sure.”

“Well, she’ll be here when she gets here. That’s about all you can say. It’s an ulcerous job keeping up on Terry’s whereabouts. I learned long ago not to try. Would you care to hear some music while we’re waiting?”

“That would be fine.”

“Any preference?”

“Anything you like.”

Jay gathered up his scattered legs and went over to the player in a kind of slow-motion lope. Adjusting his glasses on his nose, he peered down into the machine.

“There’s a Beethoven quartet already on. How about that?”

“Beethoven? Ah.”

Farley would have been just as agreeable to an offering by the Beatles; he had no taste for music of any kind. But the pretense of listening would relieve him of the necessity for making conversation, which would be a relief to Jay as well. So they sat silently in the shimmer of sound and the odor of ragout, and their glasses were empty when the recording was finished. Jay got up again and refilled glasses and turned the recording over.

“We’ll hear one more,” he said, “then we’ll eat. And to hell with it”

His voice was edged with a kind of resigned bitterness. However empty Jay’s belly was of food, Farley thought, it was full to capacity of Terry. Small wonder, really. Even after maximum concessions to Terry’s obvious allure, a man had to resent eventually the ease with which she kept slipping the ties that bind.

Not being able to think of anything appropriate to say, Farley said nothing. They sat and listened, or pretended to listen, and there was still, one string quartet and a Scotch highball later, no Terry.

“That’s it,” said Jay. “I won’t bother to apologize, Farley. Let’s eat the damn ragout before it dries out.”

Farley looked at his watch. “Terry’s an hour late, Jay. Aren’t you concerned?”

“Why should I be? This is an old story.”

“Just the same, I’d feel better if we at least made some effort to find out where she went. Honestly, Jay, she was so definite about the invitation and the time that I just can’t believe she forgot or ignored it.”

“It’s decent of you to be concerned, but I assure you it’s uncalled for. Anyhow, what can we do? She doesn’t seem to have told anyone about her plans, whatever they were.”

“Are Ardis and Otis Bowers home from the university yet? Perhaps they’d know.”

“No chance. Ardis loathes Terry, quite justifiably, and poor Otis isn’t allowed within speaking distance if Ardis can prevent it.”

“It wouldn’t do any harm, Jay, to ask them.”

“All right. Let me turn down the heat under the ragout first.”

He went into the kitchen with the empty glasses, and returned in a moment without them.

“That should hold it all right,” he said. “Talking with Ardis and Otis will get us nowhere, Farley, but I suppose you’re right about making some sort of effort. Let’s go.”

In the hall, at the foot of the staircase to the second floor, Farley, with one foot lifted to the first tread, stopped suddenly. He had been struck by an idea, apparently, and he stood pinching his lower lip while he considered it.

“I was just thinking,” he said. “Orville Reasnor may have seen Terry leave. If so, he could probably tell us about when it was. It seems to me Terry mentioned an appointment at three, but if she was a lot later than that getting away it might explain why she’s so long getting back.”

“I doubt it.” Jay was clearly impatient. “Anyway, I’m skeptical of Orville Reasnor’s ability to contribute anything enlightening to anything.”

Farley, with Jay abreast, took a turn and descended a short flight to the basement. He knocked on the door of Orville Reasnor’s bachelor quarters. In a few seconds the door swung open to reveal Orville. His lack of shirt or shoes, his attire of long Johns and heavy socks, indicated that Orville had been roused from a well-earned nap, and the indication was supported by his belligerent expression. Clearly, he was anticipating a gripe.

“Evening, Doctor,” he said to Jay, ignoring Farley. “What’s the trouble?”

Orville invariably conferred the doctorate when speaking to a member of the University faculty. Sometimes, as in Jay’s case, it was appropriate. One always had an uneasy feeling, however, that Orville used it not so much as an expression of respect as, on the other hand, of some esoteric personal insult.

“No trouble, Orville,” Jay said. “Mr. Moran and I were expecting my wife home for dinner about six, and she hasn’t got back yet. We thought, if you happened to see her leave, that you might remember what time if was.”

“I never saw her. If she’d have left between a little before two and a little after five, I’d have seen her.”

“Oh? Why so?”

“Because I was working all that time in the vestibule. She’d have had to go right past me.”

“Well, she’s gone. Maybe you just forgot.”

“Not Orville Reasnor. I don’t forget so easy. That’s not to say she couldn’t have gone out the back door into the alley. The hall’s a lot higher than the vestibule, and I couldn’t have seen nothing in the hall when I was down on my knees, which most of the time I was.”

“I guess that’s the way she went. Thanks, Orville.”

“I wouldn’t worry none if I was you, Doctor.” Orville’s little eyes had acquired a sly expression; his lips, surrounded by the day’s growth of gray stubble, twitched on the verge of a grin. “She’ll be back in her own good time, I expect.”

Jay’s lean face was wooden as he turned away; Farley, having caught the innuendo, understood Jay’s reluctance to pursue the matter. Further inquiries about Terry were an open invitation to ribaldry, and no man enjoys the cuckold’s role.

On the way upstairs Farley asked, “Does Terry often use the back door?”

“She does when our car’s parked out on the apron. Today it wasn’t. I had it on campus.”

“Well, she must have gone out that way. Maybe it was a shortcut. In the same direction she was going, I mean.”

“Of course. There’s nothing odd about using the back door. All of us do on occasion.”

Having reached the first floor, they ascended the longer flight of stairs to the second. Beyond the Bowers’s door, someone moved in response to Jay’s knock. It was Otis Bowers himself who opened. Behind Otis, wearing an apron and holding a dish towel, and watching curiously from the kitchen, was his wife Ardis.

Otis was approximately the same age and height at Jay. He had a weight problem, as Jay did, but in reverse. Where Jay was lean, with the prospect of growing leaner, Otis was fat, with the prospect of growing fatter. He was an assistant professor of physics. Ardis was a graduate student and instructor in the Department of English. Her claim to prettiness, which had some basis, was disputed by a hint around eyes and mouth of chronic acrimony; even her speech had a sour flavor.

“Hello, Jay,” Otis said. “Farley. Come in. We’ve just finished our dinner.”

“Sorry to intrude, Otis,” Jay said, stepping into the room with Farley at his shoulder. “We won’t be a minute.”

“No intrusion at all. Sit down and stay a while. We have nothing planned for the evening.”

“Thanks, Otis, but we just came up to ask if you’ve seen Terry. She invited Farley to dinner, and she seems to have gone off and forgotten all about it.”

Ardis had retreated into the kitchen. She now reappeared, as if on cue, without her towel and apron.

“Otis hasn’t seen her,” she said. “Have you, Otis?”

“No, no, I haven’t seen her. Sorry, Jay.”

Otis’s chubby pink face, normally benign, was a picture of misery. As they all knew, Ardis’s abrupt interception of Jay’s question was an oblique allusion to a painful episode involving Otis and Terry. The affair, if it could be so exaggerated, had been incited by Terry, not Otis, and he nursed no ill feelings. Ardis, however, would neither forgive nor let Otis forget.

“I meant the question to include you, Ardis.” Jay’s face was again wooden. “She might have been on campus. If so, you might have seen her.”

“Well, we didn’t. Neither Otis nor I.”

“That’s right, Jay,” said Otis. “We haven’t seen her today at all. She’s probably been delayed by something or other.”

“Yes,” said Ardis. “Something or other.”

Jay turned to the door. Otis hurried forward and held it open in a gesture of courtesy. His embarrassment was still pinkly evident.

“I’m sorry, Jay. I wish I could help you.”

“Forget it, Otis,” Jay said.

He and Farley went out into the hall, and the door closed behind them. Ardis’s voice immediately began beyond the door.

“What a bitch!” Farley said.