usual late-afternoon clouds gathered on the horizon, and I could feel the static electricity lift my hair as I unpinned my hat. Before I left the room I lowered my windows in case it rained, leaving them open a crack and turning on my fan to draw in some cool air.
Phoebe and Dellaphine were in the kitchen at the table planning menus. Grocery-store ads clipped from the newspaper covered the tabletop.
‘Let’s have beef twice this week,’ Phoebe said to Dellaphine. ‘Henry’s been complaining. Ham once, chicken twice. Unless you see some nice fish.’
There was no such thing as ‘nice’ fish, in my opinion. They were all slimy and smelly. I’d cleaned and fried enough of them to know.
‘What should I do about dessert?’ Dellaphine said. ‘Everyone’s tired of sliced fruit.’
Phoebe flipped through the pages of her Boston Cooking School cookbook. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Any ideas, Louise?’
‘Can you find coconut?’ I said, slipping into another chair at the table. ‘It makes fruit taste sweeter.’
‘There’s always honey,’ Dellaphine said. ‘It’s too close to the end of the month to find marshmallows.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Phoebe said, ‘see what you can find, coconut, honey, maybe there will be some condensed milk, and cobble together some desserts from that. We’ll buy a real cake from a bakery on Thursday and have it Thursday night.’ She slammed her cookbook shut.
‘I wish this war was over and life would go back the way it was before,’ Phoebe said. ‘I understand that the men have to fight and girls have to get jobs until the war is over. But I hate all the rest of it. Girls wearing practically no clothes, crazy music, bad language, families living in trailers and tents, single girls living on their own, children growing up in day nurseries, no servants. It’s not civilized.’
Phoebe reminded me of my mother – Southern and traditional in her outlook on life.
I’d expected Washington to be strange, even foreign, but except for all the war activity the city didn’t feel much different from my hometown of Wilmington, North Carolina. The city’s native residents I’d met drank iced tea with lots of sugar and fresh mint, ate fried chicken and ham for Sunday dinner, rocked and fanned themselves on their porches in the summer, inhaling the fragrance of wisteria and gardenia, and gossiped about politics and society with a soft drawl. I could see why, less than a hundred years after the city was founded, Abraham Lincoln stared out of his office in the White House across the Potomac into Virginia, and wondered how many Washingtonians would welcome General Lee with open arms should he invade the city.
These days, with the influx of politicians, soldiers, refugees, diplomats and ‘businessmen’ any Southerner would straight away spot as carpetbaggers, the city’s Southern hospitality was stretched to the limit.
I wandered into the lounge to listen to the radio. Ada stood at the window, peeking outside from behind the dim-out curtain.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
Ada jumped, placing her hand over her heart.
‘You startled me,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘Soldiers across the street. Parked in a Jeep. They’ve been there for half an hour. What do you suppose they’re doing?’
I glanced out the window. ‘Smoking a cigarette, I expect, before catching the bus to Fort Myer.’
‘They don’t need the bus. They’ve got a Jeep.’
‘Maybe they’re drinking beer. They can’t once they get back to base. Why?’
Ada drew the curtains closed. ‘I hate seeing so many soldiers in the streets. It seems like—’ She stopped short and glanced at me nervously. ‘It’s like living in an occupied country.’
‘It’s just because of the war.’
‘I know, but how can we be sure, well, that things will go back to normal someday? I mean what if Roosevelt doesn’t ever want to give up the Presidency? All
Phoebe and Dellaphine were in the kitchen at the table planning menus. Grocery-store ads clipped from the newspaper covered the tabletop.
‘Let’s have beef twice this week,’ Phoebe said to Dellaphine. ‘Henry’s been complaining. Ham once, chicken twice. Unless you see some nice fish.’
There was no such thing as ‘nice’ fish, in my opinion. They were all slimy and smelly. I’d cleaned and fried enough of them to know.
‘What should I do about dessert?’ Dellaphine said. ‘Everyone’s tired of sliced fruit.’
Phoebe flipped through the pages of her Boston Cooking School cookbook. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Any ideas, Louise?’
‘Can you find coconut?’ I said, slipping into another chair at the table. ‘It makes fruit taste sweeter.’
‘There’s always honey,’ Dellaphine said. ‘It’s too close to the end of the month to find marshmallows.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Phoebe said, ‘see what you can find, coconut, honey, maybe there will be some condensed milk, and cobble together some desserts from that. We’ll buy a real cake from a bakery on Thursday and have it Thursday night.’ She slammed her cookbook shut.
‘I wish this war was over and life would go back the way it was before,’ Phoebe said. ‘I understand that the men have to fight and girls have to get jobs until the war is over. But I hate all the rest of it. Girls wearing practically no clothes, crazy music, bad language, families living in trailers and tents, single girls living on their own, children growing up in day nurseries, no servants. It’s not civilized.’
Phoebe reminded me of my mother – Southern and traditional in her outlook on life.
I’d expected Washington to be strange, even foreign, but except for all the war activity the city didn’t feel much different from my hometown of Wilmington, North Carolina. The city’s native residents I’d met drank iced tea with lots of sugar and fresh mint, ate fried chicken and ham for Sunday dinner, rocked and fanned themselves on their porches in the summer, inhaling the fragrance of wisteria and gardenia, and gossiped about politics and society with a soft drawl. I could see why, less than a hundred years after the city was founded, Abraham Lincoln stared out of his office in the White House across the Potomac into Virginia, and wondered how many Washingtonians would welcome General Lee with open arms should he invade the city.
These days, with the influx of politicians, soldiers, refugees, diplomats and ‘businessmen’ any Southerner would straight away spot as carpetbaggers, the city’s Southern hospitality was stretched to the limit.
I wandered into the lounge to listen to the radio. Ada stood at the window, peeking outside from behind the dim-out curtain.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
Ada jumped, placing her hand over her heart.
‘You startled me,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘Soldiers across the street. Parked in a Jeep. They’ve been there for half an hour. What do you suppose they’re doing?’
I glanced out the window. ‘Smoking a cigarette, I expect, before catching the bus to Fort Myer.’
‘They don’t need the bus. They’ve got a Jeep.’
‘Maybe they’re drinking beer. They can’t once they get back to base. Why?’
Ada drew the curtains closed. ‘I hate seeing so many soldiers in the streets. It seems like—’ She stopped short and glanced at me nervously. ‘It’s like living in an occupied country.’
‘It’s just because of the war.’
‘I know, but how can we be sure, well, that things will go back to normal someday? I mean what if Roosevelt doesn’t ever want to give up the Presidency? All
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