T
he job was eleven to seven, Tuesday to Saturday. You bused your own tables and got minimum wage, plus tips. Not that tips were very frequent or very good, the waitress warned Birdie. Students were the worst: they complained that the soup was too salty or the malted didn’t have enough chocolate syrup, then paid with exact change.
The waitress, Fay Burkitt, had worked at the luncheonette for six years. She seemed amused when Birdie came in and asked about the job. The Help Wanted sign had been hanging in the window for months; she’d forgotten it was there. “Sure,” said Fay Burkitt. “Why not?” She took Birdie to the rear of the store to see the manager, Mr. Loomis.
He was a portly, round-faced man. A few lank strands of black hair lay across his glistening scalp. His lips moved as he scanned her application. “You forgot to put your phone number,” he observed.
Birdie smiled. She’d left it off on purpose; she couldn’t risk having her new employer find the phone disconnected.
“I feel so silly,” she said. “I just recently moved and I can’t remember the number. Not off the top of my head.”
Loomis smiled back. There was a large gap between his front teeth. “We got to have your phone number.”
“Let me see. I think this is right.” She recited the number slowly, reversing the last two digits.
Loomis wrote the number down. “See,” he said. “Nothing to it. All you needed was a little encouragement.”
Birdie smiled again.
“Tell Fay to get you your uniform.” He filed the application in a cabinet beside his desk. “We’ll see you on Tuesday, Vivian.”
Birdie flinched. She hadn’t expected him to use her first name.
“See you then,” she said.
Fay took Birdie into the back room and handed her a brown uniform on a hanger. A name, “Rose,” was embroidered over the chest pocket. Rose was the last waitress, Fay explained; she and Birdie were about the same size. “She had a nice figure, like you,” said Fay. “Not so big in the bust, but you’re lucky.”
Birdie flushed. Through the plastic bag she could see stains on the collar and the bodice.
“Try white vinegar,” Fay advised. “That’s what I do. Some of them won’t come out no matter what, but you won’t know until you try.”
Birdie took the uniform and crossed the street to the bank. In her pocketbook was the forty dollars Mr. Loomis had advanced against her salary.
T
HE ALARM
rang every morning at nine. Each time Birdie awoke in a panic. She got up and toasted three slices of bread, one for each of them; it was the only thing she could choke down so
early in the morning. She dressed the children and took them across the street to the Semples’. Then she took the bus to work.
The first morning she arrived five minutes early, carrying her uniform on a hanger. That morning in her bedroom she’d looked at herself in the uniform and burst into tears. A waitress: the whole world would know she was a waitress. She found herself unable to walk out the door until she’d changed back into her own clothes.
The store was already open; at the register a young mother bought disposable diapers. Birdie slipped into the ladies’ room and unbuttoned her blouse. The uniform was tight across her chest; it stopped two inches above her knees. She checked her reflection in the mirror, the name embroidered over the chest pocket. Rose, she thought. I’m not me. I’m Rose. She buttoned her own skirt and blouse over the hanger, then walked to the front of the store, to the luncheonette.
Fay Burkitt was already there, smoking a cigarette at the counter.
“Right on time,” she observed. She eyed the hanger in Birdie’s hand. “Oh, honey. Why don’t you just wear it to work?”
Birdie flushed. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”
Fay shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
She showed Birdie the coffeemaker, the box of paper place mats, how to clip the sheets from her order pad to the metal carousel and spin them around to the Negro cook. She pointed out the location of the ice bin, the bus pans, the rags and ammonia for wiping down tables. Birdie wasn’t to run the register, not just yet; someday, when they weren’t busy, Fay would show her how.
An old man came in and sat at a table in the rear. “Go ahead,” said Fay. “There’s your first customer.”
Birdie approached the table, order pad in hand, pencil shaking in her sweaty fingers.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“Hello to you too,” said the man.
“I’m sorry,” said Birdie. “Good morning.”
“Morning? It’s almost afternoon.” He glanced at the menu. “Hamburg and a Coca-Cola.”
She wrote it down carefully on her pad and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. It was just as she’d thought; there was nothing to it. She turned away.
“Miss,” the man called after her. “Don’t I get a glass of water?’
“Of course,” said Birdie. “I’ll be right back.”
She hurried to the counter. In the minute her back was turned, three customers had come in. A woman in red sat near the window drinking coffee; at the counter, two men in plaid shirts chatted with Fay. Birdie reached into the ice bin and dropped a fistful of ice into an amber glass, then filled it with water from the pitcher. Nothing to it. She took the glass to the man’s table and set it in front of him.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not drinking that.”
Birdie blinked.
“Not after you had your hands all over it,” he said. “You put your hand right in that bucket of ice. That ain’t right.”
“No I didn’t,” said Birdie.
“I saw you. Don’t lie about it.”
“I didn’t,” she repeated. She was near tears.
He stood up. He was a filthy old man; his cardigan sweater reeked of cigars. “That does it,” he said. His yellowed dentures gave off a fungal smell. “Bad enough what you did, but then to go and lie about it.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Count your blessings I don’t call the board of health,” he said, shuffling toward the door. “Young lady, count your blessings.”
Birdie glanced at the counter. The men had stopped talking. The lady looked down at her coffee cup, then pushed it away. Fay looked at Birdie and nodded toward the back room.
“I’m sorry,” Birdie said as the door closed behind them. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You got to use the ice scoop,” Fay said. “Didn’t I show you the scoop?”
Birdie nodded. Her chest felt tight. Breathe, she thought. She exhaled slowly, fighting the squeeze.
“Look at you,” said Fay. “You’re turning purple.” She touched Birdie’s arm. “It’s not that bad. Just don’t do it again.”
“Okay,” said Birdie. Fay’s hand felt small and bony on her arm, the delicate claw of a bird.
For two hours they worked nonstop. Birdie wrote orders on her pad and spun them around to the cook. She served tuna melts and egg sandwiches, rice pudding and slices of pie. Over and over she refilled coffee cups; the customers were crazy for coffee. Finally the tables emptied. She cleared the dirty dishes into the bus pan and wiped down the tables with ammonia.
“Lord,” said Fay, sitting down at the counter. “I got to have a smoke. Come and have a seat.”
“Is it always this busy?” said Birdie. Her back ached; there was a heaviness in her legs she hadn’t felt since she was pregnant.
“It’s the lunch rush.” Fay slid open a pink plastic case and pulled out a cigarette. “You want one?”
“No, thank you.”
Fay tapped the cigarette on the countertop and reached in her
pocket for a matchbook. “Good for you. My husband was always after me to quit.”
“You’re married?” said Birdie.
“Divorced.” Fay struck a match. “The day I got my papers was the happiest day of my life.”
Birdie felt her pulse in her temples. “How long have you been divorced?”
“Four years. Almost five.”
They stared out the window, watching the cars brake at the stoplight. Birdie had never met a divorced woman before, never seen up close someone who’d lived through it. What happened? she wanted to ask. Where did he go? Why did he leave?
A big blond man came through the door and sat at the other end of the counter.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Fay called, laughing. She stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. “Why don’t you fill up those sugar bowls,” she told Birdie. “It’s next to the coffee filters, under the counter.”
Birdie stood and smoothed the uniform over her behind. As she circulated through the tables, she noticed the blond man watching her, his pale blue eyes following her around the room. She was aware of her legs in the nylon stockings, the brown uniform tight across her chest. Her hands shook a little as she placed the sugar bowls on the counter and reached underneath for the sack of sugar, conscious all the time of the ring on her left hand, which her husband had placed there eight years before.
The counter was Fay’s station; she joked with the man as she brought him a plate of french fries. “Looks like you had a rough night,” she said, setting down the plate.
“You could say that.” The man stuffed a french fry in his mouth and wiped his hand on his thigh.
Birdie went into the kitchen for the bus pan and cleared the coffee cups from her tables. She strained to hear their voices over the clattering dishes. The man spoke in a low rumble; Fay laughed sharply, like a crow’s call.
Birdie carried the bus pan to the kitchen. The man was no longer watching her; he stared blankly out the window. She studied his faded denim shirt, his square, handsome face. His eyes tracked a yellow convertible turning the corner. She saw that his gaze was unconscious, instinctive. He reminded her of a hunting dog.
“Who was that?” she asked Fay later when they sat down for their coffee break.
“Buck Perry,” said Fay. “He comes in for lunch sometimes.” She inhaled deeply; smoke shot out her nostrils. In between drags she nibbled at french fries wrapped in a paper napkin, left over from the customers. Birdie wondered if they’d come from Buck Perry’s plate.
“He’s a charmer,” said Fay. “All the girls love Buck.”
Is he married?
Birdie wanted to ask. The words sat inside her mouth. She gulped and swallowed.
C
harlie stepped carefully from rock to rock, holding the pie tin with both hands. He was getting better. Last time he’d spilled most of the milk. This time he spilled less than half.
He approached the old house and set down the milk. “Here, boys,” he called to the puppies. Then he heard the noise. Near the house a truck was idling. A fat man leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. Charlie watched him cup his hand to his mouth and hold the cigarette there. In the distance he heard men’s voices, the sound of splintering wood.
Charlie ran around to the front of the house. A different man carried an armload of boards to another, larger truck.
“Hey,” said the man. “This ain’t no place for you.”
Charlie squinted past him, at the porch.
“This is a demolition,” said the man. “You could get hurt.”
Charlie found his voice. “There’s puppies under the porch. They live there.”
The man shrugged. “They going to have to find another place to live.”
B
irdie had no wine for three days, but she remembered it was there. On the fourth day she came home from the luncheonette and opened a bottle. “Just a glass,” she said as she poured, as if anyone was there to hear.
The next day she awoke with a headache, the alarm clock as piercing as a drill. In the kitchen the empty bottle sat on the counter. She found the last two slices of bread and dropped them in the toaster, one each for Charlie and Jody; her queasy stomach wouldn’t mind going without. In the living room the children were already awake, watching a woman do exercises on television.
“Mummy!” Jody squealed.
Birdie winced. “Quiet, button. Mama has a headache.”
She carried Jody to the bedroom and dressed her in a playsuit, squeezed her feet into sandals. Birdie sniffed.
“Lord,” she said. “What’s that smell?”
She ran to the kitchen, Jody toddling behind her. Inside the toaster the bread was perfectly black. “Damnation,” she whispered.
The children had followed her into the kitchen and were sitting at the table, waiting.
“Butter?” said Jody.
“No, button,” said Birdie. “No toast today. We can’t eat it.” She grasped the black toast with a tea towel and brought it to the table. “See? It’s burnt.”
“Burnt,” Jody repeated.
Footsteps on the back porch, a brusque knock at the door.
“Whodat?” said Jody.
“Hush,” said Birdie. She wasn’t afraid, exactly; the county woman wouldn’t use the back door. She peered out through the curtains. A colored man in workman’s greens stood with his back to the window. Relief warmed her; if she were in trouble, they wouldn’t send a colored man. She opened the door.
“Morning, ma’am. I’m from the gas company.” He glanced at a clipboard in his hand. “I read your meter just now—you’ve barely used any gas all summer. I thought maybe something was wrong with the stove.”
“I don’t think so,” said Birdie.
“If you like, I can have a look. It’ll only take a minute.”
Birdie stepped back and let the man into the kitchen. He bent down and opened the drawer beneath the oven. Birdie tossed the charred bread in the trash. With a white man in her kitchen, she’d never have done this. With a colored man she was not ashamed.
Jody climbed down from her chair and clung to Birdie’s leg, staring silently. Birdie didn’t understand at first. She thought nothing of having a colored man in her kitchen. She’d been raised by Ella Mabry, her family’s Negro housekeeper; Ella’s son Curtis had been like a brother to her. But Jody had lived her whole life inside the small house; she had never seen a colored person. She stared at the man in wonderment. Then, finally, she spoke.
“Burnt,” she said.
Birdie flushed. The man glanced at the child and smiled. He pointed at his chest pocket, at the letters stitched in white thread.
“That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “That’s my name. Bert.” He smiled at Birdie. “She’s a little one to be reading already.” But Birdie’s face gave them away, the redhead’s flush radiating out from her hairline. Jody was a slow talker. So far she knew only a dozen words, which she repeated incessantly.
“Burnt,” she said again, distinctly. She reached out to touch the man’s dark forearm.
The man’s smile faded. He straightened and turned on the gas, took a lighter from his pocket and held it to a burner. A blue flame appeared.
“The pilot light is on,” he said. “Everything looks fine.”
“Thank you,” said Birdie, her cheeks burning.
She closed the door behind him.
B
IRDIE LEFT
the children at the Semples’ and took the bus to work, a bottle of aspirin in her purse. At the luncheonette she drank ice water; the smell of coffee nauseated her. She leaned gingerly against the counter, letting the fan blow cool air on her face. Fay watched her closely but said nothing.
At the end of the lunch rush, Buck Perry appeared. He sat in his usual spot at the end of the counter. Birdie ducked into the back room and checked her hair in the mirror. Fay poked her head in the door.
“I’m out of smokes,” she said. “Come keep an eye on things while I run across the street.”
“Coming,” said Birdie. She slipped off her wedding ring and tucked it into her pocket.
Perry sat hunched over his plate. “Can I get a refill?” he asked.
She approached him with the pot. He’d finished his meatball sandwich, a messy construction of bread and tomato sauce. The plate was as clean as if he’d licked it. He sat back on his stool and watched her fill his cup.
“How you doing?” he asked.
“Fine, thank you,” said Birdie. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows; his blond forearms were thick and suntanned. A flush built in her chest and washed over her throat, her face, up to the roots of her hair. Perry’s eyes followed the same path.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “You ain’t Rose. I know that.”
Her heart quickened. “Birdie.”
“You’re new.”
“I started last week.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two women come into the luncheonette and sit at one of the tables, their chairs scraping the linoleum. The sound seemed very far away.
Perry chuckled. “I bet Fay’s happy. Since Rose left they been working her to death.”
“Did you know her?” said Birdie. “Rose.”
He grinned. “Why? What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” said Birdie. “I just wondered where she went, is all.”
Perry shrugged. “Got married, I guess. All the pretty ones do.” His eyes went to her left hand. “You’re not married?”
“No,” she said, her heart pounding. She could not hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to his hands, his thick fingers gripping the coffee cup. His fingernails were perfectly black. She turned away quickly.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I have customers.”
She left him sitting at the counter.