"I'm not sure you ain't too pretty for the job, but that damned Mindy ran off and left me in the lurch, didn't give me notice or anything, she just ran off with that guy in the shiny new truck. Girl never did have the brains God gave a chicken. Sees the truck, thinks the guy's got money. Hell, they've all of 'em got trucks, long as they can make a couple payments."
Her narrow eyes studied me again, as if she could assess, by the intensity of her stare, whether I was a woman with a weakness for fancy trucks. "Guess I've gotta take a chance on you. It's the season, up here, such as we got. Have to make the money while we can, and them outta-staters haven't got the patience God gave a squirrel. Gotta have it right now or they're waving their arms around like one of those little spinning lawn ornaments or up at the register, complainin'. Some of 'em, you know, they'd like to just walk out..." Her smile was one of malicious delight. "...'Cept they got no other place to go."
She squinted at me and said, ominously, "You'll see," which helped me realize that she didn't think she had to persuade me to take the job, she thought the choice was all hers. Well, I was supposed to be a desperate wife on the run, wasn't I? And the truth was, if I wanted to be up here in Merchantville, reputed militia capital of Maine, where I might hope to learn something to help Andre, I didn't have any choice. I nodded dumbly and tried to act as though I didn't find the idea of a roomful of arm-waving, complaining customers daunting.
Smiling bravely, I said, "I'm sure I'll be..." But my inquisitor wasn't listening.
"I don't know how she stands it down there in Massachusetts. Rosie, I mean. 'Course, with her being all crippled up and everything, I don't suppose it matters much where she lives."
I bit my lip, practicing self-control. It was good for me to practice self-control. Just ask my mother. Rosie Florio had fought her way back to her feet from a wheelchair after being hit by a drunk driver. Even lame and limping, Rosie got more from life than most people. Many days I would gladly have traded my youth and dexterity for a corner of Rosie's balance or joy. But her cousin Theresa didn't need to hear this. She struck me as one of those people who take comfort in others' problems.
She sighed loudly and picked up the coffeepot. "You want some?"
I shook my head. I'd given up coffee out of respect for the formation of little fingers and toes. I missed it terriblyâeven the smell was tortureâbut it was a small sacrifice.
"Well, I'd better make the rounds, then." She got up from her chair and turned toward the door that led into the restaurant. "Come along and see..." It was one big room with booths along the walls, a bunch of tables, and a long counter, with an opening in one wall that led into the bar next door. She didn't look much like Rosie, with her skinny body, her hunched shoulders, and her badly dyed dark hair. The only thing that was the same was the eyes. On Rosie they were marvelous, glowing with hope and expectation. On her cousin Theresa, they were sharp and wary and spoke of a lifetime of disappointments.
She paused just inside the door and turned. "You can start in the morning. Be here by six and I'll get you started. By six-thirty, things are really hoppin', so wear some sensible shoes and don't wear anything you mind getting' dirty, okay?"
"No uniform?"
She fingered her gray cardigan and gave me a look, like she wondered if I was too stupid to hire. "This look like a uniform? What Kalyn's wearing look like a uniform?" Kalyn must be the small woman with the bright red hair skewered on top of her head like a firecracker fuse, who seemed to be moving in and out of the kitchen at the speed of light. "You get an apron. Pockets, you know, for straws and your order pad and stuff. Just dress decent, that's all I ask. I won't have a girl goes around with her ass showing every time she bends over. Nor her tits neither."
I didn't like
Her narrow eyes studied me again, as if she could assess, by the intensity of her stare, whether I was a woman with a weakness for fancy trucks. "Guess I've gotta take a chance on you. It's the season, up here, such as we got. Have to make the money while we can, and them outta-staters haven't got the patience God gave a squirrel. Gotta have it right now or they're waving their arms around like one of those little spinning lawn ornaments or up at the register, complainin'. Some of 'em, you know, they'd like to just walk out..." Her smile was one of malicious delight. "...'Cept they got no other place to go."
She squinted at me and said, ominously, "You'll see," which helped me realize that she didn't think she had to persuade me to take the job, she thought the choice was all hers. Well, I was supposed to be a desperate wife on the run, wasn't I? And the truth was, if I wanted to be up here in Merchantville, reputed militia capital of Maine, where I might hope to learn something to help Andre, I didn't have any choice. I nodded dumbly and tried to act as though I didn't find the idea of a roomful of arm-waving, complaining customers daunting.
Smiling bravely, I said, "I'm sure I'll be..." But my inquisitor wasn't listening.
"I don't know how she stands it down there in Massachusetts. Rosie, I mean. 'Course, with her being all crippled up and everything, I don't suppose it matters much where she lives."
I bit my lip, practicing self-control. It was good for me to practice self-control. Just ask my mother. Rosie Florio had fought her way back to her feet from a wheelchair after being hit by a drunk driver. Even lame and limping, Rosie got more from life than most people. Many days I would gladly have traded my youth and dexterity for a corner of Rosie's balance or joy. But her cousin Theresa didn't need to hear this. She struck me as one of those people who take comfort in others' problems.
She sighed loudly and picked up the coffeepot. "You want some?"
I shook my head. I'd given up coffee out of respect for the formation of little fingers and toes. I missed it terriblyâeven the smell was tortureâbut it was a small sacrifice.
"Well, I'd better make the rounds, then." She got up from her chair and turned toward the door that led into the restaurant. "Come along and see..." It was one big room with booths along the walls, a bunch of tables, and a long counter, with an opening in one wall that led into the bar next door. She didn't look much like Rosie, with her skinny body, her hunched shoulders, and her badly dyed dark hair. The only thing that was the same was the eyes. On Rosie they were marvelous, glowing with hope and expectation. On her cousin Theresa, they were sharp and wary and spoke of a lifetime of disappointments.
She paused just inside the door and turned. "You can start in the morning. Be here by six and I'll get you started. By six-thirty, things are really hoppin', so wear some sensible shoes and don't wear anything you mind getting' dirty, okay?"
"No uniform?"
She fingered her gray cardigan and gave me a look, like she wondered if I was too stupid to hire. "This look like a uniform? What Kalyn's wearing look like a uniform?" Kalyn must be the small woman with the bright red hair skewered on top of her head like a firecracker fuse, who seemed to be moving in and out of the kitchen at the speed of light. "You get an apron. Pockets, you know, for straws and your order pad and stuff. Just dress decent, that's all I ask. I won't have a girl goes around with her ass showing every time she bends over. Nor her tits neither."
I didn't like
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