unhappily.
"You ever cooked beans?"
"No."
He was studying her suspiciously. They were all suspicious of her. She acted wrong, she looked wrong, she dressed wrong; and she was becoming acutely aware of this. Nevertheless, she pursued her course doggedly.
"If you were to cook beans, what would you cook?"
"I don't give cooking lessons."
"What are navy beans?" she asked desperately.
He reached down and held up a handful. "These."
"All right. Give me twelve dollars' worth."
He stared at her.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Lady, for twelve dollars you can buy a hundred-pound sack."
"I can?"
"That's right."
"Then give me ten pounds." Something recognizable caught her eyes. "How much is that salami?" she asked, pointing to where a row of them hung behind the counter.
"Twenty cents a pound. Each link is five pounds."
Loaded down with all the food she could carry, she made her way back to the soup kitchen on Bryant Street, went into the alley and through the open kitchen door, where she set down the food, and fled. After that, two days passed before she could gather sufficient courage to return. Meanwhile, she informed herself. She went down to the kitchen of the house on Pacific Heights and addressed herself to Mrs. Britsky, the Polish cook who presided over the place, asking her where most of the food money was spent— with the excuse that she was preparing a paper for her return to school.
"Meat, meat," Mrs. Britsky replied emphatically. "There's a Depression, but that don't mean they give it away. Always, your mama wants French style. Entrecote, fifty cents a pound; saddle of Iamb, fifty-five cents; leg of lamb, forty-nine cents. You can die from such prices."
"But isn't there cheaper meat?"
"Cheaper meat for the Whittiers, go on!"
"Not for them. Just for my information. What would a poor family do? What would they buy?"
"You can buy beef heart for ten cents a pound, good meat if you cook it right, chuck for twenty-five cents, pork for thirty cents, breast of lamb for twelve cents."
"Where do you buy it?"
"Darling, in a butcher shop, where else?"
Afterward, Barbara wondered whether any of it would have happened had she not been alone in the big house, with her mother and John Whittier and Tom away in the East. Partly, it was a game that had possessed and intrigued her, and that she found so much more exciting than the parties she was invited to and the dates with boring, empty-headed young men; and in another part it was her own vendetta against John Whittier, who owned half the cargo ships that made San Francisco their home port; and in still another part it was her quick, romantic sense of compassion and pity.
For her return to the soup kitchen, she bought a cheap, imitation leather purse and wore an old sweater, a plaid skirt, and brown loafers. She brought twenty pounds of soup meat. She knew that she was playing a game and that it was a little girl game, that she had hidden herself behind a sort of Halloweeen mask, but that knowledge did not make the game less exciting. Dominick Salone was there that time, sitting on a fruit box and peeling potatoes, and after his initial surprise at seeing her, he grinned. The kitchen was a makeshift affair at the back of the store, and the cooking was done on an old coal stove. There was one other woman in the place, a stout Mexican woman whose name was Irma, and four men besides Salone, all of them longshoremen. They made a big fuss over the meat, and Salone introduced Barbara to the others. That was when she told them her name was Winter. She had also invented her own cover story, that she was a bookkeeper in the big L & L Department Store, and that she worked the four-to-twelve-midnight shift, closing the books for the day's sales. The L & L store on Market Street had been founded by her father, Dan Lavette, and his partner, Marcus Levy, and she had at least a vague knowledge of its operation. The job, as she invented it, accounted for her free time during the day, and she explained the
"You ever cooked beans?"
"No."
He was studying her suspiciously. They were all suspicious of her. She acted wrong, she looked wrong, she dressed wrong; and she was becoming acutely aware of this. Nevertheless, she pursued her course doggedly.
"If you were to cook beans, what would you cook?"
"I don't give cooking lessons."
"What are navy beans?" she asked desperately.
He reached down and held up a handful. "These."
"All right. Give me twelve dollars' worth."
He stared at her.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Lady, for twelve dollars you can buy a hundred-pound sack."
"I can?"
"That's right."
"Then give me ten pounds." Something recognizable caught her eyes. "How much is that salami?" she asked, pointing to where a row of them hung behind the counter.
"Twenty cents a pound. Each link is five pounds."
Loaded down with all the food she could carry, she made her way back to the soup kitchen on Bryant Street, went into the alley and through the open kitchen door, where she set down the food, and fled. After that, two days passed before she could gather sufficient courage to return. Meanwhile, she informed herself. She went down to the kitchen of the house on Pacific Heights and addressed herself to Mrs. Britsky, the Polish cook who presided over the place, asking her where most of the food money was spent— with the excuse that she was preparing a paper for her return to school.
"Meat, meat," Mrs. Britsky replied emphatically. "There's a Depression, but that don't mean they give it away. Always, your mama wants French style. Entrecote, fifty cents a pound; saddle of Iamb, fifty-five cents; leg of lamb, forty-nine cents. You can die from such prices."
"But isn't there cheaper meat?"
"Cheaper meat for the Whittiers, go on!"
"Not for them. Just for my information. What would a poor family do? What would they buy?"
"You can buy beef heart for ten cents a pound, good meat if you cook it right, chuck for twenty-five cents, pork for thirty cents, breast of lamb for twelve cents."
"Where do you buy it?"
"Darling, in a butcher shop, where else?"
Afterward, Barbara wondered whether any of it would have happened had she not been alone in the big house, with her mother and John Whittier and Tom away in the East. Partly, it was a game that had possessed and intrigued her, and that she found so much more exciting than the parties she was invited to and the dates with boring, empty-headed young men; and in another part it was her own vendetta against John Whittier, who owned half the cargo ships that made San Francisco their home port; and in still another part it was her quick, romantic sense of compassion and pity.
For her return to the soup kitchen, she bought a cheap, imitation leather purse and wore an old sweater, a plaid skirt, and brown loafers. She brought twenty pounds of soup meat. She knew that she was playing a game and that it was a little girl game, that she had hidden herself behind a sort of Halloweeen mask, but that knowledge did not make the game less exciting. Dominick Salone was there that time, sitting on a fruit box and peeling potatoes, and after his initial surprise at seeing her, he grinned. The kitchen was a makeshift affair at the back of the store, and the cooking was done on an old coal stove. There was one other woman in the place, a stout Mexican woman whose name was Irma, and four men besides Salone, all of them longshoremen. They made a big fuss over the meat, and Salone introduced Barbara to the others. That was when she told them her name was Winter. She had also invented her own cover story, that she was a bookkeeper in the big L & L Department Store, and that she worked the four-to-twelve-midnight shift, closing the books for the day's sales. The L & L store on Market Street had been founded by her father, Dan Lavette, and his partner, Marcus Levy, and she had at least a vague knowledge of its operation. The job, as she invented it, accounted for her free time during the day, and she explained the
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