FUSSY, CHAPTER 32: UNE PERCÉE (A Breakthrough)

Newkirk was just getting comfortable on the cot, leaning back into a pile of pillows that the POWs had swiped from the camp's VIP quarters, when LeBeau wandered in.

"Give us a moment, will you, Kinch?" Newkirkasked. Kinch nodded and popped out of the room to give the two buddies a minute to talk.

"How is it?" LeBeau asked, tipping his head toward the dish that Newkirk was cradling in his hands. The oil lights on the walls were low and flickering and giving off a waxy scent.

"Haven't had any yet." Newkirk poked a spoon into the soft, moist bread and breathed in its cinnamon scent. He lifted the spoon to his mouth, let the sweet concoction melt on his tongue. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift to his boyhood. He took another bite and sighed.

"Blimey, mate, it's perfect. How did you know how to make it?"

"We relayed messages to your sister. She sent us the recipe," LeBeau said with a smile, taking a seat on the cot.

"M-mavis? Did you talk to her?" Newkirk asked.

"No, it wasn't like that. We contacted her by sending a series of messages to her workplace about a cooking contest to keep it secret," LeBeau explained. "We asked for 'the best bread pudding recipe to remind our fighting men of home.' It was her patriotic duty to respond," he said with a slight laugh. "Plus, she won £10 for the winning recipe."

"Blimey, London went for that, did they? That's a bleeding fffortune." Newkirk took another bite. His eyes focused on the food, and he was enjoying it.

"The pouding au pain is exactly as Mavis would make it from your mother's recipe," LeBeau continued. "And London supplied us with the secret ingredient. Do you know what it is?"

"Stale bread?" Newkirk guessed.

"Yes, of course, stale bread, pain perdu. It's the only kind of bread we have here, right?" LeBeau chuckled, eliciting a small laugh from Newkirk. "No, it's something else. Do you care to guess?"

Newkirk shrugged. "No idea, mate."

"Orange zest," LeBeau said. "Just a tiny amount."

"What, the peel of an orange?" Newkirk asked. He looked like he'd been betrayed. Not knowing what was in his food disturbed him.

LeBeau read his expression and rushed to put his mind at ease. "No, only the zest. The orange part, not the white part, because that's too bitter." He leaned in close and whispered. "Your maman knew what her boy liked. She only used the zest to add brightness and a little citrus flavor. Because that's how you liked it."

"I can taste a bit of orange. It is good." His eyebrows knit together in thought. Then he asked, "Did Mavis know the recipe was for me?"

"No, she couldn't know. We can't give away all our secrets, Pierre," LeBeau said, leaning practically nose to nose and sounding like a conspirator.

"That's alright. She would only wwworry," Newkirk replied.

LeBeau reached over and tousled Newkirk's hair. "She worries about you?" he asked with a slight grin. Of course, she worried, he told himself. Where else did he get it?

"She worries about everyone," Newkirk said definitively. He polished off what was left of the bread pudding and watched as LeBeau set aside the empty plate. They sat together in silence for a moment until Newkirk spoke up again. "Louis, what is this all about? Wh-what's the point of me talking with Wilson and Kinch?"

"You know why. Wilson needs to figure out why you are having so much difficulty eating. Kinch is helping him." He paused. "Pierre, I'm not sure I understand their methods either, but you must cooperate with them. They can help you, and you want to get back to work, don't you?"

"Of c-course I do," Newkirk grumbled. "Wilson said if I gained enough wwwweight…"

"Yes, and you are doing very well," LeBeau said. "But we don't want you to slip. You don't want that either."

Newkirk huffed out a breath. "No. Fffine," he said, then tried to laugh off his irritation. "At least I got some bread p-pudding for my troubles."

Just then, Kinch appeared in the doorway. LeBeau knew that was his signal to leave. He leaned in closer to Newkirk and spoke so only he could hear.

"Trust them, Pierre, alright? Please do it for me because I'm sick of having to go on missions without you. You wouldn't abandon me to Carter, would you?"

Newkirk laughed and nodded. But LeBeau could read the worry in the eyes that darted up to lock with his. He clapped a hand on Newkirk's shoulder and squeezed. "You are strong," he said. "You are brave."

Newkirk gulped. LeBeau's confidence in him never ceased to amaze him. If LeBeau said he was strong and brave, it must be true because LeBeau seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

He watched as LeBeau patted Kinch's arm on the way out of the sleeping alcove. Then Newkirk grinned gamely at Kinch as he pulled up a chair to sit by the cot.

"What is it you want to know, mate?" Newkirk asked.

"Let's get you nice and relaxed first, and then we can talk," Kinch replied.

XXX

Kinch started speaking in a low, steady baritone as he had done before when he helped Newkirk eat the grilled cheese sandwich in the infirmary. There was something deeply soothing about that voice, and Newkirk could feel himself sinking into the pillows behind him. The conversation started mundanely—Kinch recounted the latest dispatch from London and Colonel Hogan's reaction to it, then asked about the bread pudding, then finally asked Newkirk what was on his mind.

"You wwwere going to tell me about your gr-grandfather when he was a slave," Newkirk said. Kinch's revelation a short while ago had grabbed his interest and aroused his compassion. Newkirk knew just enough about America to be appalled that an entire race had been treated as property less than a hundred years ago. It made him think of the laborers he'd seen on the side of the road. He'd been surprised—no, shocked—to realize that Kinch had a personal link to someone who had been a slave.

"Sure, I can tell you about him. We called him Pappy," Kinch began.

Newkirk wasn't sure whether it was polite to ask questions about an old man's personal history, but he forged ahead anyway. "Did, did, did he remember? B-b-being a sl-slave, I mean?"

"He was old enough to remember," Kinch said. "You know what he remembered most? Cornbread."

"Cornbread? What's that?"

"Cornbread? Oh my goodness. That's right; you've never had it. Pappy said it was happiness on a plate. It's a platform for every meal. A little crunchy, a little cakey, a little sweet, and a little salty. You can eat it plain or pile your meal on top of it. I think it's the first food I remember eating."

Newkirk laughed lightly. "J-just like my bread pudding."

"Just like that. Let me tell you a story," Kinch began.

Slowly, steadily, in his deep baritone, he wove a mesmerizing tale of the life of a boy growing up in the waning days of slavery on a plantation in the Deep South. Remembering the stories his grandfather had told him, Kinch described the cabin where the boy lived with his mother and sister. His father was on a neighboring plantation and could only visit on Sunday.

"Every week, the slaves got a peck of cornmeal and some scraps of meat, the parts no one else wanted," Kinch said quietly. "Sometimes a few vegetables too, like sweet potatoes and turnips and greens. And it had to last the whole week."

"Just like our rations," Newkirk said sleepily. Wilson was beside Kinch now and gripped him on the shoulder in a private signal.

"Just like us," Kinch agreed. "Just like us. Just- like- us. Rest your eyes, Peter. Just like us."

"Just like us," Newkirk repeated. Then he yawned and sank deeper into the pillows.

"They ground the meal very, very fine. Very fine until it was almost like powder. They could always get an egg from the chicken coop, and sometimes they could get butter, and they mixed the ingredients—some baking powder. Buttermilk, freshly churned. And molasses. Honey or molasses. And they would eat it up, warm from the pan."

"Warm from the pan," Newkirk repeated sleepily.

"Warm from the pan," Kinch said. "Warm." He watched to see if Newkirk was fully awake. He could see the Englishman was breathing evenly and was fully relaxed, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Kinch was surprised. When Wilson had explained the hypnosis technique to him, he felt sure Newkirk wouldn't rest or relax or fall for any of it. But the small space, the quiet surroundings, the satisfying tastes and smells, the warm blankets, and the steady patter and repetition had calmed him. He looked so peaceful.

Kinch looked over his shoulder at Wilson, who nodded encouragingly. This was working.

XXX

Slowly, steadily, Newkirk relaxed more deeply. And as he listened to the story of Kinch's grandfather enduring hardships as a little boy, thoughts started surfacing in his mind. He wasn't asleep, but he wasn't fully alert either. He knew what he was saying; he simply didn't feel like he had to measure his words or hide anything. He spoke slowly but freely, and—to Kinch and Wilson's surprise—he spoke without stuttering.

"What would happen if you didn't eat what was on your plate?" Wilson asked.

The whole story spilled out. How his father would berate him, then yank him fiercely from the table and push him roughly into a chair, leaving alone by himself. How he warned the other children not to speak to Peter or help him. How his granny would take up his father's arguments even after the old man had disappeared to the pub. How put upon she seemed by everything he did, and how terrified he was of her. How embarrassed he was to wet himself when he was exhausted and scared, even though he knew he wasn't the only 5- or 6-year-old who ever had an accident. How all the abuse had made him anxious about putting anything in his mouth unless he was alone with Mavis, who never, ever scolded him. How the few foods he remembered his mother making for him remained very special to him, and how they calmed and placated him.

And how the prying eyes and sharp tongues of the other men in the barracks reminded him of sitting at the family table, being the scapegoat for everyone's problems. How unfamiliar foods took him back to when he was a terrified child, afraid for himself and afraid that his father would hurt him and then turn on his big sister for helping him.

How desperately he wanted to prevent anyone else from being hurt. How he wished his mother hadn't gone away forever and how limiting himself to a few, simple foods made it feel like she was still there to comfort and console him.

Newkirk knew all of this. He just hadn't been able to admit it to himself or say it out loud.

"I do get hungry, you know," he said in a soft voice. "But I have a hard time trusting that the food won't make me sick or get me in trouble or make people yell at me. It's easier to avoid foods that I haven't tried before. And it's better if other people eat first." He was talking, not waiting for anyone to ask him more questions.

Kinch turned to Wilson and asked quietly, "Now what? What do we do about it?"

Wilson gave a hint of a smile and nodded. "I don't think we need to do anything. I think Peter's in charge of what he eats, aren't you, Peter?"

"Maybe," Newkirk replied sleepily. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"And you know you have to eat to be healthy." Wilson wanted to make sure Newkirk understood this.

"Yes. Mavis told me, and so did Louis and you and Colonel Hogan."

"And you want to do as we tell you," Wilson continued, planting another important seed. People were looking out for him, and it was OK to trust them.

"Yes, that's what I want to do," Newkirk responded.

"That's good, Peter. When I clap my hands, you're going to be awake and refreshed and hungry for supper."

Wilson clapped and Newkirk's expression slowly shifted from deeply relaxed to eager and alert. He yawned, stretched, and sat up.

"Did you have a nice rest?" Wilson asked as he turned a knob on the closest oil lamp, brightening up the space.

"I ought to rest down here more often," Newkirk said agreeably. "I'm a bit peckish, though. What's LeBeau cooking tonight?"