“I was experimenting,” she told him, glancing around again for the
hidden pot. “I came up with this.”
She gave him the crab straw; he ate it the way she had envisioned: sucking the
crab out like a mouthful of milk shake, then eating the savory little straw.
He nodded. “Good,” he said. “Very good. As always,” which was what he
always said, without a flicker of expression, as though he had just tossed
back a vitamin pill. “Make more,” he suggested. “And make it fast.”
She gazed at his back as he went out to the dining room. He had tasted
nothing, she realized suddenly. He had never tasted anything. He had no idea
what she could feed his customers if only she could find what she had made it
in.
“Come back, pot,” she whispered, glancing under the table. “Where are you,
pot?”
And there it was on the table again. She studied it a moment, wondering at
this extraordinary vessel, able to change its size, wear protective coloring,
see what she saw, imagine what she imagined, making it, then hiding itself at
will from the cook whose machines transformed everything into illusion.
She made more, she made it fast, and she made it all in that peculiar pot.
Stillwater came in again to cook with her, later. She expected the pot to
vanish again. But it stayed visible, all the while he worked with his machines
and barely noticed what Carrie did. He looked straight at it a time or two,
Carrie thought, but he did not comment. So why, she wondered, did it bother to
hide?
She answered her own question finally, making tiny, braided loaves of bread
out of white root vegetables and baked egg whites.
I can see you, she told it. Todd Stillwater, whatever he is, can’t. All he
sees when he looks at you is another of his machines. Point taken.
Sage came in, for a taste, as she usually did. Carrie handed her a bite from
the rows lined on parchment paper. Sage wondered aloud about the time;
Stillwater, whose attention was focused down the gullet of a machine, did not
seem to hear. Waiting, Sage popped the bite into her mouth.
She chewed once, then stood transfixed, as though she were listening to music
she had not heard in years or remembering a life she had misplaced.
She closed her eyes, chewed again. “Chocolate,” she whispered. “Cherries.
Licorice. Raw beef, raw onion. And one last— Oh. Yes.”
Stillwater raised his head. The utensil in his hand dropped into the working
machine and it made a noise like metal wrapping itself into knots.
Then his hands were on Carrie’s shoulders, his face flowing in and out of
other faces, other expressions, mostly furious and even more frantic.
“Where is it?” he shouted. “Where is it? It’s mine! I rescued it—it
belongs to me!” Shocked, she couldn’t find her voice. His hands tightened;
he focused an enormous, leaf-green eye on her that held a predator’s
senseless, malignant glare. “Where?” He shook her, then let go of one
shoulder and raised his hand, shrieking, “Where? Is? It?”
“Where is what?” Carrie gabbled back, terrified. “I don’t even know what
it is! I just—I gave—I had it in my pocket—One of my bites from the
Kingfisher Grill.”
“No. You come here first—”
“I went in early to help Ella make cherry tarts for supper. Things were lying
around. I just— So I just made something. Ella liked it, so I brought a piece
here. I don’t know why you’re shouting at me. I don’t have anything of
yours. Everything in here is yours.”
The eye, luminous and huge, seemed to stare into the bottom of her mind. But
all it would have seen, she realized shakily, was a battered, stained old pot,
worn beyond use, and most likely found under a sink in the Kingfisher Grill,
catching a leak in the pipes.
He let her go abruptly. Sage had vanished somewhere inside herself, standing
motionless, unblinking, trying to make herself into air, nothing more
noticeable or important.
Stillwater picked the utensil out of the machine, and shook it, listening to
its inner rattlings. He put it under the table. When he spoke again, he
sounded as calm and reasonable as ever.
“You should make more of those bites for us, since Sage likes it so much.
Yes, Sage. Go ahead and let them in.”
Carrie kept the small bites coming for a couple of hours, sometimes using
Stillwater’s machines, sometimes the ugly, magnificent pot.
Finally, the last diner left; Sage closed the door, and Carrie came out to
help clear the tables, while Stillwater tidied his machines. Finished, he left
the rest of the cleanup to Carrie and went out, as usual, to walk and think
about tomorrow’s lunch, since the restaurant was closed for supper that
night. Carrie put plates in the dishwashers, hand-washed the bar glasses, and
scrubbed and polished the pot until she saw the gentle glow of its fires.
She put it in its favorite corner and stood for a moment, listening.
Stillwater hadn’t returned yet. The washing machines were running, full of
napkins and tablecloths, which meant that Sage was back in the old bank
office, adding up receipts.