CHAPTER EIGHT
The Nosh Pit does a lot of lunch business, but ever since it was featured on Best. Food. Ever., we’ve never really returned to our normal state of semi-busy for weekend dinner service. When I show up after dropping Mackenzie off, my day of calm and control breaks like a dropped plate.
I’m putting my purse into a locker when Jen approaches me. She’s wild-eyed, and her usually composed hair is coming out of her ponytail in a loose fuzz.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says.
“Why?” I look around. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s busy, and we’re short. But Ed, it’s like he doesn’t understand math. Two servers short plus a rush equals — ”
“Two short?”
Jen nods. “Yeah. Carla was on for tonight, and Ed made her come in even though she had a doctor’s note. Literally a note because Carla knows Ed won’t believe anything she says and would think she was just whining. She’s got stitches on her hand, Maya. Can you imagine that?”
I flinch a little. I’m not good with blood under the best of circumstances, but for some reason Jen’s revulsion is spot on; stitches on the hand sounds like a new kind of hideous.
“So she came in like Ed said because, well, you know how he is, and she made the mistake of actually asking to talk to him when she called rather than hiding and not answering her phone like I would. And Ed’s like, ‘You’re fine, pretty lady. Now get out there, and shake it.’” Jen doesn’t just do Ed’s voice; she actually manages to make her pixie face as ugly and grumpy as his. “And so what happens? First tray. FIRST thing she carries out, her cut comes open, and she starts bleeding. But she doesn’t notice it; she just knew it hurt, which it always does, so whatever. But the customers saw it because Carla was bleeding down her wrist, down her arm, like this, and then dripping off the end of her elbow.”
My hand goes over my mouth. Then I say, “Did she break her stitches?”
“No, thankfully. But it was like Carrie, anyway. That got Ed’s attention, when someone complained. He must have realized he was breaking the rules of, like, ten government organizations with acronyms at that point because he yelled at Carla and told her to think before doing something so stupid. Meaning: coming into work at all. Which he insisted she do. But if there’s an upside, Roxanne had to mop up the blood.”
I laugh at that, and Jen manages to join me.
“So Carla went home where she should have been to begin with. Big shock.”
“Who’s the second?”
“Abigail.”
“Where’s she? Oh, wait. It’s Saturday.”
Jen nods. “She’s at the Overlook again. Or … wait. Maybe they’re starting their tour? I don’t know.”
I scoff. If Ed had a brain, which he clearly doesn’t based on how frequently he violates sexual harassment laws, he’d have known that Abigail’s time here was at its end weeks ago. Ever since she hooked up with Gavin — and good for her; we can’t all be jilted forever — his band’s plans have added to her prospects, which had already improved the moment Danny Ross started giving her weekend shifts at the club. She hasn’t been available on Friday and Saturday nights in forever, and soon she’ll quit entirely. The idea that Ed would have booked her tonight proves that he’s oblivious or sloppy. Likely both.
“Can nobody else come in?”
“Nobody that Ed can get ahold of.”
“I wonder if I should call someone.” All the servers dodge Ed’s calls. The advent of caller ID and cell phones was death for someone whose calls are never wanted, like my boss. But I dismiss my offer as soon as I make it because I won’t be that person. I won’t be the girl who asks a friend to give up her Saturday night so she can spend it here, getting yelled at.
I’m already dismissing the idea, but Jen clearly didn’t take it seriously to begin with. She doesn’t even acknowledge what I said and instead perks an ear toward the front, where we can hear Ed remonstrating.
“I have to get back out there,” Jen says. “But I have a favor to ask.”
“How many tables do you want me to take?”
“Any two, if you could?” Jen is cute when timid. I might as well. I’m decent at my job no matter what Roxanne feels, and Roxanne’s ego will have made her take more than her share of tables anyway. I’d be left with an elevated but not insurmountable load, so I can handle two more if it’ll make Jen’s life less miserable. And besides, I thrive on activity. Anything to keep my mind off what it shouldn’t be considering.
Like escaping into bad habits.
Like the text I got back about Brownies, which reported that Mac can absolutely join, for sure, and they’d be delighted to have her — but I know deep down there’s no way I can make the schedules work.
Like Chadd, who I both hope and don’t hope will call again.
And like Mackenzie, when I left her. She asked about her father again — twice in one day, probably because of all the mother-daughter bonding we did, and a misperception that I’m open to talk about anything. She asked about Brownies, but I diverted to school, to her friends, to her clubs, to how she has plenty of companionship there, in preparation for my needing to drop the bomb later. She got this strange look on her face. One I’ve never seen, at least where school is concerned.
The busier I am, the less I have to think about any of it.
I head out. Roxanne gives me a snippy remark about how it took me long enough to arrive, but tonight I feel like slapping her perfect face or knocking her perky little tits out of alignment. She has pull with Ed, but he won’t be able to book Carla for weeks and is about to lose Abigail to her boyfriend’s band. His hands are plenty tied. If he threatens me, I’ll threaten back. If I walk, Ed is fucked … and not in the way he seems so pathetically determined to be when he says and does the inappropriate things that pass for normal around here.
I feel uncharacteristically bold.
Fuck Roxanne.
Fuck Ed.
Ed could have a whole pile of problems tomorrow. He’s already facing a workplace injury with Carla, but now, if Carla is litigious (she’s not), she could probably sue him for tonight’s stupidity. He’s grabbed my ass more times than I can count. Just let him try something.
I take my tables from Roxanne, then re-mark two of Jen’s, on the chart, for myself. I sneak over and tell Jen which two I’m co-opting then get to work. And for a while, I’m unstoppable.
Until I start talking to Clinton Deane — the tall, rugged drink of water who owns Stuffy’s Bar and is sitting in my section. Clinton is exactly my type, and I’m sure I’d flirt with him more if I didn’t know how intensely devoted he is to his wife. Insultingly, his loyalty turns me on more, and for a long time I couldn’t talk to Clinton when he came in. But most times, he eats with said wife, and I see how happy they seem, and that helps. Because I think of how they could be me and someone I love, in another life, in another place, in another time when things were different.
“Maaaya,” he says, dragging my name out into something close to a drawl as I approach. I don’t know where Clinton is originally from, but his slight accent makes everything he says a whole lot sexier. The things Clinton says and does would be stupid coming from most people, but they fit him like a Texan’s hat.
“Hi, Clinton.” I nod at the pretty woman across from him. “Hi, Taylor.”
“So,” he says, doing something with his chiseled, stubbled face that reminds me of chewing on straw, “who do I lodge my complaint with?”
Clinton comes in here often enough that I can play with him — asexually, of course, though he never fails to rev my motor.
“For the bloodbath earlier?”
“Naw,” he says. “For the fact I’m gonna have to have a shit dumpster for a few days on account of you.”
That might be the oddest thing anyone has ever accused me of. My forever-present lust evaporates, and now Clinton is a man who’s said something I don’t get. His expression bothers me. Looking over at Taylor, I see that this is a shared joke. On me.
I look from Clinton to Taylor. Taylor to Clinton.
“’Cause of the dickhead coming home to tend his uncle’s final affairs and clear out that ass house of his on Celebratory Court. Guess he needs the big bin more than Stuffy’s does.”
“What are you talking about?” I came to take their drink order, but I’ve already forgotten the pad and pen in my hands.
“She doesn’t know,” Taylor says.
“’Course she knows.” But then Clinton looks right at me, and something softens in his charming blue eyes. He’s a lovable loudmouth, and part of going to Stuffy’s is understanding that Clinton is going to shout ostentatious hellos to everyone as they enter, that he’s going to drink with those who can hold their liquor and sometimes fight with those who can’t. But right now, I can see that he feels he’s put his foot in that big mouth of his. He’s spoken out of turn, assuming I was in on whatever this is, but now sees that he’d blown it.
“What don’t I know?”
“Aw, I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I guess he’s meaning to surprise you. I figured you’d know, or I wouldn’t’a said anything.”
Something about that makes my heart beat double. I look at Taylor, all thoughts of serving forgotten.
“Who’s going to surprise me?”
“Just a rumor, Sweetie,” Taylor says, giving me a little head tilt that apologizes for the town, how it gossips, how it is with information that’s none of its business. “But after Ernie Harglow died last week, we figured you’d … ”
She trails off. Ernie Harglow. Why do I know that name?
Then it hits me because few people know many Ernies, outside of Bert’s roommate.
“What did you hear?” I ask. “Is … ”
“Well, old Ernie didn’t really have nobody to come back and clear out for him,” Clinton says, now almost timid, “’cept for your old guy, Grady.”