When the coast was clear, he stood up and went to the kitchen to have his morning coffee. Seated at the table, eating the biscuits Mamie left out for staff, was Mr. Whitmore, the Barclays’ driver. As he walked to the stove, Mr. Sitwell glanced at Mr. Whitmore’s rheumy eyes.
“Rough night?”
“Not so much rough as long,” Mr. Whitmore said. He bared his teeth as he smiled, and Mr. Sitwell was reminded how little he seemed to belong there. Mr. Whitmore had worked as a meat cutter for twelve years before he came to work for the Barclays. The career change had meant a sharp cut in pay, but he seemed overly fond of the jacket, starched collar, and doffer’s cap of a chauffeur.
“Woman kick you out again?”
“She thinks she did. Truth is I ran,” Mr. Whitmore said. “Got half a mind to stay gone this time too.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. “What was it this time?”
“Same as always. Nothing. She got mad because I went out for drinks with my uncle.”
“Uncle?”
Mr. Whitmore and Mr. Boudreaux were related through marriage. Mr. Whitmore’s installation on staff had been one of the final changes Mr. Boudreaux had made to the house before he was told to leave it.
“That’s right, Sitwell,” Mr. Whitmore said. “Just because he’s not working here doesn’t mean the man has ceased to exist. I still see him from time to time, have a drink, catch up on old times. What’s wrong with that?” He shook his head. “But it’s all just carousing to her. Well, I’m sick of it, and Uncle says I got cause. Who wants to come home to a woman like that? No, sir. Not me.”
He smiled. “Truth told I’ve been thinking about moving on to greener pastures for a while now.”
“That right?”
Mr. Whitmore grunted. “Got my eye on that new girl, that Jennie. What do you think, Sitwell? She’s looking mighty ripe to me.”
“Don’t talk like that in here,” Mr. Sitwell said quickly. He nodded toward the boys. “It’s not the place.”
“No? Well, what is the place? We’re in the kitchen aren’t we? How should I talk in the kitchen?”
“Quite frankly, Louis, I’d prefer it if you didn’t talk at all. If you must, try to talk like you understand what it is you are doing here. Like you understand this is a place of business.”
“Place of business?” Mr. Whitmore laughed. “Your whole life is a place of business. Does that mean you always talk like that? Like you’re being paid to work?” He squinted. “It’s the tone I’m curious about. Like say you’re laying up in bed with a woman, assuming such a thing would ever happen.” He winked. “What do you sound like then, Mr. Sitwell?”
“Ask your mother,” Mr. Sitwell said.
Mr. Whitmore reared his head. For an instant he appeared mad enough to strike Mr. Sitwell. But then he looked around and seemed to remember where he was.
He laughed.
“See? There it is. That’s what I was looking for. I knew you were still in there somewhere. I’m just trying to draw it out.”
Mr. Sitwell sipped his coffee. Mr. Whitmore was a troublesome fool. Mr. Sitwell knew that the only reason Mamie hadn’t sent him away instead of Petunia was because, even if it wasn’t his actual job, the man still handled a knife like nobody’s business. It saved a lot of money to have a man on staff who, regardless of his official title, knew how to properly butcher a hog. Mamie had told Mr. Sitwell that, for all the meat that passed through that city, it was a sight more difficult to find someone with Mr. Whitmore’s skills who was willing to work for what they could afford to pay than she would have imagined before she’d actually had cause to try.
He saluted the man with his cup. “Just be careful you don’t draw something else out, Whitmore. Something you wouldn’t like.”
“Yessum, boss,” Mr. Whitmore said in an exaggerated southern drawl. “Whatever you say.” He smiled. “How’s that? For your kitchen talk?”
Then the swinging door opened and Mamie came into the kitchen. “Why are you still sitting there, Whitmore? I asked you to bring in those boxes.”
“I’m gonna get to it as soon as I have my coffee.”
“Nobody paying you to drink coffee.”
“No, ma’am. But then again nobody paying me to bring in boxes either,” Mr. Whitmore said. “I’m just kidding.”
Mamie nodded. “Sitwell? Would you mind taking a sniff of Mr. Whitmore’s cup, make sure there’s no whiskey in it? Understand drinking is hereditary. Might turn out unemployment is too.”
“I was just joking around,” Mr. Whitmore said.
“Well, don’t. Just finish your coffee, get up off your ass, and do what I told you to do.”
She pushed back through the swinging door.
“Bitch,” Mr. Whitmore said.
“Watch yourself.”
“It’s true isn’t it? I mean you saw what she did to Petunia. To say nothing of my poor uncle. Man trained her and how does she repay him? By taking his job first chance she got.”
“Your uncle was caught drinking in the larder. Mamie had nothing to do with that.”
“You believe that? That somehow Mr. Barclay just happened to go into the larder during my uncle’s midday nap? What the hell was Mr. Barclay doing in the larder? No. My uncle was set up. By that woman. Because she wanted his job.”
Mr. Sitwell shrugged. “Maybe she did want his job. Doesn’t change the fact that she wouldn’t have gotten it if he hadn’t been drinking.”
“So what if he was? What difference did it make, so long as he got the job done? That woman can’t run no kitchen. Why do you think every time I turn around she’s asking me to do something back here? Wasn’t like this on Uncle’s watch because the man handled business. Plus you got to give it to him. He can cook.”
“She’s better,” Mr. Sitwell said.
“You think?”
“It’s just a fact.”
Mr. Whitmore, who clearly did not agree, walked out the kitchen door.
Mr. Sitwell finished his coffee. Then he took his cup and placed it in the sink. Truth was there were a lot of things going on in that house that would have to be dealt with sooner or later; it wasn’t just Whitmore. Ever since she took over, Mamie had been doing many unconventional things to try to keep down costs, like having Mr. Sitwell stand in as footman on those occasions she considered too important for the boys to handle. Mr. Sitwell did not mind the added responsibility; he understood it was temporary and was more concerned about her increasing reliance on ingredients taken from the fields near the fairgrounds as essential components of her evening meals. Some of these Mr. Sitwell had stumbled upon growing wild and some were there because Mamie had asked him to plant them. Mr. Barclay would have fired them on the spot if he knew how many field roots and vegetables had found a place on his dinner table. But there was not enough room in the vegetable garden to grow everything Mamie needed for some of the Barclays’ favorite recipes and, quite frankly, some of these ingredients would have cost a fortune if Mamie tried to buy them at the market. It was an inconvenience, but so far the biggest problem was making sure that the tramps who slept there at night did not eat them themselves.