“She was a girl when I first saw her. Seventeen.”
“So was I.”
“Aw, the devil. Everybody’s going crazy in this house. Everybody. Mr. Street hollering about Postum and putting cognac in his cup—she’s hollering about mangoes and turkeys and I don’t know what all and now you denying her her own son.”
“I’m not denying her nothin. She can have him. He turned out to be a different breed of cat anyway after he went to all those schools. He was a sweet boy. Now I suppose he’ll be wanting mangoes too. Well, he can have em if he’ll stop coming in my kitchen to liberate me every minute.”
“He means well, Ondine.”
“What’s this about the Postum?”
“He says no more diet stuff. Regular coffee, real salt, all such as that.”
“He’ll rue it.”
“It’s his life.”
“Okay by me. It’s bothersome trying to cook with all those concoctions. Fake this. Fake that. Tears up a meal if you ask me. That plus everything temporary like this. Seems like everything I need to cook with is back in Philadelphia. I was just going by what the doctor told him three years ago. He leave that liquor alone he could eat like regular people. Is he still constipated?”
“Nope. Other people get constipated. He gets occasional irregularity. But he wants some Maalox just in case. Tell Yardman to bring a bottle out next time.”
“He the one should be eating mangoes. Open him right up. Other than for that, I can’t think of a soul in this world eat mangoes for breakfast.”
“I do.”
They hadn’t heard her come in. She stood before the swinging doors, hands on hips, toes pointing in, and smiling. Sydney and Ondine looked around, their faces bright with pleasure.
“Here she is!” said Sydney, and reached out a hand to hug her waist. She came forward and kissed his forehead. Then Ondine’s.
“Sleep well, sugar?”
“Well and late.” She sat down and locked her arms over her head in a deep yawn. “The air. The night air is incredible. It’s like food.”
“You weren’t serious, were you?” asked Ondine. “About wanting a mango?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Jadine dug her fingernails into her hair and scratched.
“I’ve got some nice liver. Sauteed just right. With eggs.”
“What kind of liver?”
“Chicken.”
“The chicken’s eggs and its liver? Is there anything inside a chicken we don’t eat?”
“Jadine, we’re still at the table,” said Sydney. “Don’t talk like that.” He patted her knee.
“Pineapple,” she said. “I’ll have some pineapple.”
“Well,” said Ondine, “thank God somebody in this house got some sense. That hussy sure don’t.”
“Let up, woman. She’s got something to deal with.”
“So has he.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve known him practically all his life and I’ll tell you this: he gets his way. Even when he was a little boy, he got his way.”
Jadine looked up. “Valerian was a little boy? You sure?”
“Hush up.” Sydney wiped his mouth with the pale blue napkin. “You be around all day today?”
“Most of it. But I may have to take the boat back to town.”
“What for? More Christmas shopping?”
“Yep.”
“You sure you won’t have some livers?”
“No, thanks, Nanadine, but could I have a cup of chocolate?”
“In this heat?” asked Sydney. He raised his eyebrows, but Ondine smiled. She loved it when her niece called her that—a child’s effort to manage “Aunt Ondine.” “Sure you can,” she said, and went immediately to the nickel-plated door that opened on a hallway. At the end, four steps descended to the second kitchen where supplies were kept and which was equipped like a restaurant kitchen.
Back in the first kitchen Sydney grumbled in the sunlight. “Air conditioning in the shed, but none in the house. I swear. All that money.”
Jadine licked sweet wet juice from her fingertips. “I love it. Makes the nights so much better. As soon as the sun goes down it’s cool anyway.”
“I work in the daytime, girl.”
“So do I.”
