Free Body & Soul by Frank Conroy Page A

hoping it would eventually break free. He was thin and weak, and in his heart of hearts he did not believe anything could be done about it. But he would go along with push-ups, he would go along with eating, and pretend whatever they wanted him to pretend. He was ashamed, but he recognized their good intentions, and that made it a bit easier. They
would not use his shame against him, the way his mother sometimes did.

    "What do you like to eat?" Helga asked.
    The question stopped him. He'd never really thought about it. Most things came from cans. Is that what she meant? "I guess ... I don't know. Everything, I guess."
    "Everything. That is good."
    "I like hot dogs," he said. "I like Prexy's."
    She turned to Franz. "What is this Prexy's?"
    "Hamburgers," Franz said.
    "I like milk."
    "
Ja.
Milk is good." She rubbed her hands and smiled at Franz. "I make something special for Friday."
    And so it began. At the end of the next practice session Claude tugged the bell pull and Franz came in to watch him do his push-ups. After washing his hands, the boy followed him into the dining room. A full service had been set up at the head of the table. Claude paused, intimidated by the elaborate setup, the gleaming plates and silver.
    "Sit," Franz said.
    "What is all this, how do I, which—"
    "Relax, please. He wants you to learn this. There are different courses. It's very simple. Take the napkin from the ring and spread it over your lap. That's right. Now I will serve the soup."
    Franz ladled out a pale green liquid. Claude sat perfectly still, watching the deft moves of the old man at his shoulder. The soup smelled good.
    "Cream of asparagus. Use the outside spoon. And here is bread and butter. This is the butter knife. It stays on this little plate. Go ahead now." Franz surprised him by going off into the kitchen through the swinging door. After a moment Claude heard the soft murmur of their voices. The clink of plates, a chair scraping.
    He picked up the indicated spoon and took a sip of the soup. Claude had never tasted asparagus, never eaten a soup made from scratch, and was entirely unprepared for the warm, slow-motion explosions of pleasure that now filled his head. (Asparagus soup was to become a lifelong favorite, although he would never find the equal to Helga's inspired ambrosial mixture of stock, tips, herbs, and cream. Nor would he know he was the beneficiary of her training in the lost royal kitchens of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.) He ate as if in a dream.
    Franz appeared, to remove the shallow bowl and replace it with a plate bearing Wiener schnitzel adorned with a thin slice of lemon, potato dumplings in butter, and a glistening mélange of string beans and sliced red peppers. "At a formal dinner," he explained, "each of these might be brought around the table, and of course you would not begin to eat until the host or hostess began."

    "Okay."
    Franz returned and Claude picked up his knife and fork. The dream continued—he barely heard the soft laughter from the kitchen, the chiming of the grandfather clock in the foyer, or the creak of the upholstered chair on which he sat. He was immersed in swirls of texture, color, and taste. He ate slowly, sometimes closing his eyes.
    Franz regarded the empty plate. Even the lemon slice was gone. "Dessert," he said, removing the plate and setting down a bowl of bananas and cream dusted with brown sugar. "Two desserts." A saucer of apple strudel, still warm from the oven. "She is a good cook, Helga. Don't you think?"
    He was speechless. He could only nod.

    His mother, who had more or less stopped drinking during the time of the night driving, began again, mixing beer and whiskey with abandon. She talked to herself, roaming from her room to the front room muttering imprecations, asking questions, sometimes waving her arms. Claude stayed out of the way, sensing a dangerous mixture of confusion and anger.
    He was secretly grateful when he came home to find her passed out in the