Mr. Sitwell shrugged. “House is on the grounds.”
“It’s an entirely different sphere.”
“Well, he seems to understand how things work around here well enough,” Jennie said. “I appreciated it.”
“That’s not the point.” Mrs. Lawson shook her head as she fitted a small kerchief over Mamie’s braids. The bobby pin clenched between her lips bobbed up and down like a cigarette as she said, “There’s still something called discipline and order, a chain of command. But see, you wouldn’t know that because everything is all mixed up around here. We got the meatman driving the car, we got the yardman supervising household staff. . . .” She looked Jennie up and down and sniffed. “Quite frankly I still don’t know what the heck you’re doing here.”
“Why, she’s the cakewalk delineator, of course.” Mr. Sitwell winked.
“You think this is funny? You think it don’t matter what your title is, what somebody calls you? Well, you’re wrong about that, Sitwell. It does matter. It matters a great deal. Trust me, I’ve been working in this house for thirty years and if there is one thing I’ve learned it’s that there is a reason there is an order, a way things are supposed to be done. Because without it everything is bound to fall apart eventually. It’s only a matter of time.”
Mamie said nothing. She submitted to Mrs. Lawson tugging at her braids with a scowl on her face. As soon as the kerchief was tied she hopped off her stool, signaled for Jennie to follow, and stormed across the room. The door to the supply closet slammed shut behind them.
Mr. Sitwell turned to Mrs. Lawson. “Why you got to keep going on like that? You know it’s not helping anything.”
“I’m not trying to help that woman. I’m trying to tell the truth. Everything has been a mess around here since Mr. Boudreaux left and you know it. Quite frankly, if anybody should be upset about all this foolishness going on, it’s you. You’re the one she’s got working two jobs. What time you get out of here last night anyhow?”
“Nine.”
“Well, now, see? That’s just wrong.”
“It’s temporary,” Mr. Sitwell said. “You know there’s no money around here right now and we’re understaffed.”
“What the heck did she bring that girl in for? Why didn’t she just hire a man when she had the chance?”
“A man costs more than a girl, Mrs. Lawson. You know that. Mr. Thomas will be replaced soon enough.”
He squinted.
“Nobody is trying to replace you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say anything about me.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. “Good. Because nobody could. Need you too much around here, even I know we wouldn’t last a week without you. But I also know you are smart enough to realize what is going on. There’s no money until Mr. Barclay works out his business deals. Quite frankly, if things keep going the way they have been, it’s only a matter of time before that man realizes he’s got no business having a staff this large. And then what? You really want to be out there right now, trying to find another job? Or haven’t you noticed what’s going on in the streets, all the protests and strikes? People out there starving, fighting just to survive. So even if you don’t want to help Mamie, I would have thought you’d have sense enough to help yourself.”
Mrs. Lawson was quiet.
“You hear what I said?”
“I hear you.” She frowned. “I’ll say one thing, Sitwell. Mr. Boudreaux sure did name you right. Because the title does suit you.”
Mr. Sitwell said nothing. Because it was true: the only thing Mr. Sitwell could remember Mr. Boudreaux ever giving him was his name. Shortly after he arrived at the house, because he’d refused to divulge his real one, Mr. Barclay had asked Mr. Boudreaux to assign him a moniker that might best remind him of those characteristics he should build upon as he sought to make himself useful to the household and hopefully someday a productive member of the society that surrounded it.
Sit well.
It could have been worse. He might have just as easily wound up Mr. Don’tbothermenow.
Or Mr. Keepyouropinionstoyourself.
Or Mr. Don’tcryinmykitchenorIwillgiveyouareasontocry.
“I know you and Boudreaux never got along,” Mrs. Lawson said. “Just like I know the man had problems. But even you have to admit he would have never let things get this bad. Plus, you got to give it to him. The man could cook.”
Mr. Sitwell shrugged. “She’s better.”
“You think?”
“It’s just a fact.”
Then the door to the supply closet swung open. Mamie came back out wearing a uniform identical to Mrs. Lawson’s: a light blue, long dress and a thin muslin apron with straps that fluttered over her shoulders in short, puffed sleeves. She was still pulling at the straps as she charged through the kitchen, the kerchief on her head flopping up and down in counter rhythm to her heavy strides. Jennie trailed behind her, trying to tie her sash. When Mamie reached the swinging door she stopped, turned around, and slapped Jennie’s hand away. Then, without a word, she pushed through to the front of the house.
Mrs. Lawson looked Sitwell up and down.
“At least wash your hands.”
He washed his hands in the sink and then followed Mrs. Lawson out to the hall. They found Mamie standing near the front door with her back to them and her head down, softly muttering to herself as she prepared for the arrival of Mr. Barclay’s guest.
“Mamie?”
Mamie raised her right hand as a signal for them to keep quiet. She took a series of deep breaths then raised and lowered her shoulders as she rolled her head from side to side.
Through the window beside the door, Mr. Sitwell could see the car pulling to a stop in front of the house.
“You ain’t got time for all that now, woman,” Mrs. Lawson said. Mr. Sitwell glared at her.
“What I mean to say is, I hope you didn’t take offense at what I said before. All that kitchen talk,” Mrs. Lawson said. “That’s all it was. I know you doing the best you can.”
“You think you could do better?” Mamie said, still facing the door. “Because trust me, you wouldn’t last a day.”
“Now, Mamie Price, I am trying to apologize to you.”
“I don’t need your apology. Everything is gonna get sorted out soon enough and, in the meantime, try not to get too confused. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
She took a final deep breath, then turned around.
“Open the damn door, Mr. Sitwell.”
He pulled it back just in time to see Mr. Barclay bounding up the stairs. Beside him was a man in a dark blue suit whom Mr. Sitwell had never seen before.
“This is my cook, Mamie. The one I was telling you about,” Mr. Barclay said as they stepped inside the house.
Mamie bowed and did a small curtsey.
“And she is clear on the restrictions for tonight’s dinner?” the man asked. He handed Mr. Sitwell his hat.
“Yes, of course. You haven’t forgotten have you, girl?”
“No, sir.” Mamie smiled. “No meat. No meat by-products.”
“That means no lard,” the man said.