Negroes—the proudest people in the race. That was over fifty years ago, and still his most vivid dreams were the red rusty Baltimore of 1921. The fish, the trees, the music, the horses’ harnesses. It was a tiny dream he had each night that he would never recollect from morning to morning. So he never knew what it was exactly that refreshed him.
They were all asleep now. Nothing disturbed them. Not the moon certainly and certainly no footsteps in the dark.
3
FOG CAME to that place in wisps sometimes, like the hair of maiden aunts. Hair so thin and pale it went unnoticed until masses of it gathered around the house and threw back one’s own reflection from the windows. The sixty-four bulbs in the dining room chandelier were no more than a rhinestone clip in the hair of the maiden aunts. The gray of it, the soil and swirl of it, was right in the room, moistening the table linen and clouding the wine. Salt crystals clung to each other. Oysters uncurled their fringes and sank to the bottom of the tureen. Patience was difficult to come by in that fuzzy caul and breathing harder still. It was then that the word “island” had meaning.
Jadine and Margaret touched their cheeks and temples to dry the places the maiden aunts were kissing. Sydney (unbidden but right on time) circled the table with steps as felt as blackboard erasers. He kept his eyes on the platter, or the table setting, or his feet, or the hands of those he was serving, and never made eye contact with any of them, including his niece. With a practiced sidelong glance he caught Valerian pressing his thumb to the edge of the soup plate, pushing it an inch or so away. Instantly Sydney retraced his felt steps to clear the plates for the next course. Just before he reached Margaret, who had not yet touched anything, she dipped her spoon into the bisque and began to eat. Sydney hesitated and then stepped back.
“You’re dawdling, Margaret,” said Valerian.
“Sorry,” she murmured. The maiden aunts stroked her cheek and she wiped away the dampness their fingers left.
“There is a rhythm to a meal. I’ve always told you that.”
“I said sorry. I’m not a fast eater.”
“Speed has nothing to do with it. Pace does,” Valerian answered.
“So my pace is different from yours.”
“It’s the souffle, Margaret,” Jadine interrupted. “Valerian knows there’s a souffle tonight.”
Margaret put her spoon down. It clicked against the china. Sydney floated to her elbow.
She was usually safe with soup, anything soft or liquid that required a spoon, but she was never sure when the confusion would return: when she would scrape her fork tines along the china trying to pick up the painted blossoms at its center, or forget to unwrap the Amaretti cookie at the side of her plate and pop the whole thing into her mouth. Valerian would squint at her, but say nothing, convinced that she was stewed. Lobster, corn on the cob—all problematic. It came. It went. And when it left sometimes for a year, she couldn’t believe how stupid it was. Still she was careful at table, watching other people handle their food—just to make sure that never again would she pick up the knife instead of the celery stalk or pour water from her glass over the prime ribs instead of the meat’s own juices. Now it was coming back. Right after she managed to eat the correct part of the mango, in spite of the fact that Ondine tried to trick her by leaving the skin on and propping it up in ice, she had dug in her fork recklessly, and a slice came away. Right after that Sydney presented her with a plate of something shaped like a cardboard box. Now she had hesitated to see if the little white pebbles floating in her bowl were to be eaten or not. It came to her in a flash—oysterettes!—and she had dipped her spoon happily into the soup but had hardly begun when Valerian complained. Now Jade was announcing a new obstacle: souffle. Margaret prayed she would recognize it.
“Mushroom?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jadine. “I think so.”
“I hate mushrooms.”
“I’m not sure; maybe it’s plain.”
“I like it when it’s hot, plain and fluffy,” said Margaret.
“Well, let’s hope that’s what we get. Omelet’s more likely in this weather.” Valerian was fidgety and signaled for more wine. “The only thing I dislike about this island is the fog.”
“It may not be good for eggs, but it’s doing a good job of souffleing my hair,” said Jadine. “I should have had it cut like yours, Margaret.” She pressed her hair down with both palms, but as soon as she removed them her hair sprang back into a rain cloud.
“Oh, no. Mine’s so stringy now,” said Margaret.
“But it still looks okay. That’s why that haircut’s so popular, you know? Uncombed, even wet, it’s got a shape that suits the face. This shaggy-dog style I wear has to be worked on, and I mean
Margaret laughed. “It’s very becoming, Jade. It makes you look like what was her name in
“Chee, Margaret, chee,” said Valerian. “Eurydi-chee.”
“Remember her hair when she was hanging from the wires in that streetcar garage?” Margaret continued to address Jadine.
“You mean the hair in her armpits?” Jadine asked. She was uncomfortable with the way Margaret stirred her into blackening up or universaling out, always alluding to or ferreting out what she believed were racial characteristics. She ended by resisting both, but it kept her alert about things she did not wish to be alert about.
Margaret’s blue-if-it’s-a-boy blue eyes crinkled with laughter. “No, I mean the hair on her head. It was lovely. Who noticed her armpits?”
