The palms creak overhead.
There’s a burst of noise from a nearby yard—a group of men ribbing one another in Spanish.
“Julianna?”
A radio cranks up, filling the street with classic soul music.
“Julianna?”
Something rustles in the tangle of vines and bushes between the faded red house and the one next door. Dorian’s breath catches.
“Jujubee?”
A cat dashes out over the uneven sidewalk and into the street.
Dorian puts a hand to her chest as if to catch her pounding heart. “Jesus.”
Maybe she is getting old. Maybe too much time alone has made her jumpy. Maybe there’s something in this house that still gets to her. Or maybe she’s started that descent for real, her mind heading for free fall.
She tugs the cart, jump-starting it over a crack in the pavement. By the time she arrives at the house next door the music has been lowered to a tolerable level.
The house is on a corner lot with a wraparound porch. It’s well maintained with a fresh coat of dark green paint on the siding. The eaves and trim are sage with red accents on the window frames. The clinker brick on the porch columns is in good condition. If there were once bars on the windows, they are now gone.
Dorian opens the gate, bumps her cart up the steps, and knocks. She can hear the party going on in the back—waves of Spanish and English mingling with the music. There’s no answer. The door is solid wood with a small window that shows a dark hall. Dorian checks the large picture window; it’s heavily curtained. She knocks again.
The curtain shifts and a woman looks out. She’s white, about Dorian’s age with a thin face and elegant features. But there’s something disdainful in her eyes. She scowls. The curtain drops.
Dorian knocks again.
“Around back. Go around back.”
If this was the drill, why hadn’t Willie told her?
Dorian knocks once more. The door swings open.
“I’m here with the food,” she says.
“I can see that.”
Two white women in Jefferson Park—two old-timers. But Dorian’s certain they’ve never met. The woman is wearing a nurse’s uniform, perfectly starched.
“I’m Dorian,” she says.
“The food goes around back.”
“It would be easier if I could bring it through the house.”
“Lots of things would be easier,” the woman says.
Dorian has no interest in bumping the cart down the steps and then dragging it over the driveway to the backyard. “The food’s going to get cold.”
The woman holds the door open. “Since you insist. But normally it goes around back.”
“You never told me your name,” Dorian says.
“I didn’t know that was required. Anneke.”
Dorian eases the cart over the doorstep. The interior of the house is pristine. It has the original built-in cabinetry and even what look like several original light fixtures.
The furniture is all period, Mission and Arts & Crafts reproductions or perhaps the real thing.
Anneke eyes the cart as Dorian heads down the hall toward the kitchen.
“I was studying to be a nurse once,” Dorian says.
“It’s not a job for everyone.”
“I had planned to go back to school, but my husband died and I took over the restaurant.”
“What you learn about nursing is that many people don’t want to be properly cared for.”
“I guess it’s lucky I stuck with cooking.”
“Lucky for who?” Anneke says.
Dorian stops wheeling the cart, causing Anneke to bump into it. She turns so they are face-to-face over the stacked Styrofoam boxes. Anneke’s face is pulled into a pucker. Her eyes narrow as if she’s sucking on something sour.
“Is there a problem?” Dorian says.
“I keep my house clean,” Anneke replies. “I tend not to open it to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m delivering food. You called me.”
“I didn’t call you. My husband called you. Next time around back, please.”
Dorian continues into the kitchen. Like the dining room and the living room that she’d glimpsed on her way down the hall, it’s pristine. There are few personal touches.
She opens the door to the garden, eager to get out of the house.
“Let me tell you something,” Anneke says, as Dorian edges the cart through the doorway. “There’s no such thing as luck. There’s only responsibility.”
“Noted,” Dorian says.
“You think you are doing something important, cooking for the neighborhood, right? That you are helping the community.”
“No,” Dorian says. “I just think I’m getting by.”
Then she yanks the cart out of the kitchen, down the porch steps to the garden. She stands at the foot of the porch for a minute before anyone notices.
It’s a mixed crowd—white, black, Latino. All men. Some are Dorian’s age, others in their thirties, and a few just out of their teens. There’s a washtub with beer off to one side next to an empty table, which must be for the food. A boom box is making it difficult for anyone to be heard without shouting. Some of the guys are passing a bottle, others are throwing dice.
“Yo! Food’s here.” It’s one of the younger guys who flags her down. “Bring it on through.”
The game stops as Dorian drags the cart to the table. She’s halfway there when a man takes the cart from her. He’s white with a dark beard and hair peppered with gray. He stares at her. One of his eyes is smaller than the other. She knows this man from somewhere. Or perhaps from nowhere in particular besides around. The two of them—white faces from the days when Jefferson Park was predominantly black, just respectful acquaintances—the four-sentence-exchange-at-the-store type, the remark-on-the-weather type, the allied-against-too-much-change type. “Roger, right?” Dorian says, relinquishing the cart. She’s seen his name on the order for years, but never put it to a face until now.
“Indeed,” Roger says, rattling the cart across the yard. “He sent a woman to do his job today?” There’s an odd formality to the way he talks.
“I make the food,” Dorian says. “Willie brings it. Today we switched things up.”
“He made the food?”
Dorian has to laugh. Willie could take the reins in a pinch—but he’d be drowning in an order this size. “I cooked it and I brought it.” She begins to unload the containers onto a folding table at the far side of the yard. “You know it tastes better right from the kitchen,” she says. She can’t help herself. She’s proud of her food. It wasn’t what she expected she’d bring to the world but she does a damn good job.
Roger places a hand on her shoulder. “All these years, have you heard a complaint? But maybe it’s time you get a car.”
“Maybe,” Dorian says, trying to shake off his hand. She glances around the yard, then up to the second story of the house, where one of the curtains has been pulled back.
Her eyes meet Anneke’s.
“You should come around more often,” Roger says. “Old-timers and all.”
Dorian’s still looking over his shoulder at the window. Roger follows her gaze. Anneke steps back.