Meanwhile, Mr. C seems to be getting whiter and whiter with each passing day. Adam is careful with the budget, and the kitchen doesn’t cost that much more to run than it did when it was all hamburgers and chili and frozen french fries. But the biggest line item is Adam. Mr. C doesn’t want to go back to cooking, and if he does, it won’t be like Adam’s cooking. Whatever reputation the High-Ho has earned over the past few months will be lost. Maybe the townies won’t complain and, come summer, the tourists won’t know it ever took a downturn. But Polly can almost see the wheels turning behind Mr. C’s ghostly white face: Can he get Adam back if he turns him loose? What happens to Polly if Adam leaves?
Yes, what happens to Polly? She stayed here for Adam, gave up Reno and her quickie divorce. Will he stay here for her?
Max and Ernest like the bar in its near-deserted state. They were unhappy when the restaurant section was filled with noisy diners, out of towners who said things like Does the television have to be on? And Is the corn Silver Queen? They mocked the specialty drinks the nonlocals ordered, things that Polly had never heard of, like a cocktail made with vodka, Cointreau, cranberry juice, and lime. Polly never minded learning how to make a new drink, but Max and Ernest resented these requests. It was their bar, Polly was their bartender. Now they have the bar and Polly back, all to themselves. Hip hip hooray.
And they still don’t tip her well. They seem to think their company is compensation enough. It’s not, especially given their obsession with politics, a topic that bores Polly silly. The last few days, all they want to talk about is Delaware’s attempt to encroach on the New Hampshire primary in February. The plan has backfired, and politicians are now falling in line with New Hampshire’s demand that candidates skip the Delaware primary or rue the day. Dole, the Republican front-runner, has pulled out of Delaware. Max and Ernest are outraged on behalf of Delaware, which they note is officially the first state, the first to ratify the U.S. Constitution. Why shouldn’t they have the first primary?
“Why is everyone kowtowing to the Granite State?” Ernest says. “What’s so great about New Hampshire?”
“I like its state motto,” Polly says. “Live Free or Die.”
They pay her no heed. She’s not supposed to insert herself into their serious discussions, only indulge their jokes. She knows that. But she feels ornery tonight.
“If you ask me, small states are like small men. Big chips on their shoulders. Something to prove. Also—wasn’t New Hampshire’s claim to fame that every president first won his party’s primary there?”
“Not Bill Clinton,” Max says.
Oh, right. Hillary Clinton on 60 Minutes, eating humble pie because she dared to say she wouldn’t bake cookies and stand by her man. Polly had watched that with Gregg, whose only comment was: “I wouldn’t fuck her.”
“Slick Willie,” Ernest mutters darkly. “I wonder if we’ll be stuck with him for another four years.”
“Clinton,” Max says. “A sweet talker. How I hate a sweet talker.”
“They’re all alike,” Polly says. They assume she means politicians, so they nod.
*
Mr. C comes in just after the kitchen closes, most unusual. Sure enough, he summons Adam and Polly to the office.
“I’m bleeding money here,” he says. “I never kept a cook past Labor Day before, I always did the cooking myself through the cold months. We just don’t do enough business. Adam, it’s not personal—”
“I know it’s not,” Adam says.
He looks almost relieved, Polly thinks. He wants to go.
“What about me?” she asks. The question could be for either man. Mr. C is the one who answers.
“I still need you, but I’ll understand if you want to leave. I know how thin the tips have been.”
“Yes,” she said. “The tips are getting thin.”
She and Adam don’t say a word on the drive home. Adam and Eve, on a raft, but where is the raft taking them? What happens when only Adam gets kicked out of Eden, but Eve gets to stay despite being the one that everyone has pegged a sinner?
In the weeks since Cath died, Polly has straightened out her name issues, opened accounts. On paper, she is still technically Pauline Hansen. It’s easier that way for now. When the divorce comes through, she’ll go to Social Security, reclaim her maiden name. And it’s simple enough to tell people that Polly is a nickname for Pauline. Simple, because it has the virtue of being true. She has a checking account with her new address on Lilac Way. She has put down roots, shallow as they are.
And now they’re being ripped up.
“What are you going to do?” she asks Adam. You, not us. She wonders if he notices. But Adam notices everything. Not much gets by him. Not much gets by her, either.
“I’m not going to find anything else here,” he says.
“Not as a cook. But aren’t there other things you can do? What were you doing when we met?”
“Oh, I had just finished sailing a boat up from Florida to Rehoboth and was driving back to Maryland.”
“I can’t remember—how did you end up in Belleville?”
“Car trouble. My truck threw a rod. Look, what about Annapolis?” he asks.
“What about it?”
“There’s always work for—someone like me. I can find some kind of job to carry us through the winter. You can, too. The legislature will be in session, the local restaurants will be slammed. We’ll be together. Isn’t that what matters?”