today?”
“What? Why?”
Rachel told her about Henry. Josie raised one pencil-drawn eyebrow. “You got a crush or sumthin’?”
“No,” Rachel said, flushing slightly. “I just know that if I go home now I’ll be wondering about it for the rest of the week.”
Josie thought it over for a second—which was about as long as Josie ever thought about anything—and said: “Okay. Sure. Whatever. Matt Damon’s gonna be on Oprah today, anyway.” And she left.
An hour later, Rachel came out of the kitchen to wipe down the counter for about the forty-seventh time that day. Henry was reading his newspaper.
As she moved along the counter, Rachel turned her back to him. When he spoke she dropped her cloth and almost cried out in surprise.
“I’ve been in here for just over five hours and I haven’t seen a single person come in.”
Rachel let out a long, steadying breath as she crouched down and picked up the cloth. “Things fall off pretty quick after the morning crowd leaves,” she said. “You’re really making me earn my minimum wage today.”
“If you don’t have many customers, then why such a big menu?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Rachel turned around and leaned against one of the counter stools. “The owner, Reg, is also the cook. He says offering a wide variety of food puts a certain amount of creativity into an otherwise mundane job.”
“Seriously?”
“That’s what he says,” Rachel said, aware that Reg might be listening.
“Well,” Henry said, raising his voice slightly, “he’s an absolute artist in the kitchen.” He folded his newspaper and picked up the menu again.
“More?” Rachel couldn’t quite mask her surprise.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Henry smiled again; this one was thinner, not as forced as the others.
“It’s just . . .” Rachel contemplated for a moment, then threw caution aside. “You’re eating like a condemned man.”
“Condemned,” Henry repeated, and looked away. “That’s funny.” But the look on his face said it wasn’t funny at all. “I’m not condemned. This is all voluntary. Very, very voluntary.” The look went away and the thousand-watt smile came back on again, like a switch in his head had been flipped. “Could I get the meatloaf? Mashed potatoes, roast carrots, and a tall glass of milk?”
III
As Reg went to work on Henry’s meatloaf, Rachel drifted back to the partition. Henry had taken a single piece of newspaper and was folding it carefully and methodically. Curiosity finally got the better of her and she went back to the booth, under the auspices of refilling Henry’s coffee cup. As she topped him up, he raised his head.
“Do you know what this is?”
On the palm of his hand was a folded-paper animal. A cow, she noticed, complete with tiny paper udders. Its head was lowered as if it were cropping.
“A cow?” Rachel guessed.
“That’s right.” Henry set it on the table. “Origami. The Japanese art of paper-folding.”
“Paper-folding, huh? I thought they just made electronics.”
“This is a much older craft.”
“Secret of the Orient?” Rachel asked.
“Something like that,” Henry conceded. “It can be traced back to the sixteenth century. Can you believe that knowledge of something like that could be kept for so long, passed down from one person to the next?”
“The only thing passed on in my family is insomnia and an old moth-eaten quilt that my great-grandmother made while she was snowed in one winter.”
Henry chuckled.
Rachel eyed him suspiciously. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: have you been drinking or something?”
Henry chuckled again, louder this time, then stopped suddenly. “I thought about drinking today,” he said in a solemn, thoughtful tone. “I thought it might be for the best to, I don’t know,
sedate
myself, before the main event.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I decided not to. It seemed kind of . . . cowardly.”
He
is
sick
, Rachel
“What? Why?”
Rachel told her about Henry. Josie raised one pencil-drawn eyebrow. “You got a crush or sumthin’?”
“No,” Rachel said, flushing slightly. “I just know that if I go home now I’ll be wondering about it for the rest of the week.”
Josie thought it over for a second—which was about as long as Josie ever thought about anything—and said: “Okay. Sure. Whatever. Matt Damon’s gonna be on Oprah today, anyway.” And she left.
An hour later, Rachel came out of the kitchen to wipe down the counter for about the forty-seventh time that day. Henry was reading his newspaper.
As she moved along the counter, Rachel turned her back to him. When he spoke she dropped her cloth and almost cried out in surprise.
“I’ve been in here for just over five hours and I haven’t seen a single person come in.”
Rachel let out a long, steadying breath as she crouched down and picked up the cloth. “Things fall off pretty quick after the morning crowd leaves,” she said. “You’re really making me earn my minimum wage today.”
“If you don’t have many customers, then why such a big menu?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Rachel turned around and leaned against one of the counter stools. “The owner, Reg, is also the cook. He says offering a wide variety of food puts a certain amount of creativity into an otherwise mundane job.”
“Seriously?”
“That’s what he says,” Rachel said, aware that Reg might be listening.
“Well,” Henry said, raising his voice slightly, “he’s an absolute artist in the kitchen.” He folded his newspaper and picked up the menu again.
“More?” Rachel couldn’t quite mask her surprise.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Henry smiled again; this one was thinner, not as forced as the others.
“It’s just . . .” Rachel contemplated for a moment, then threw caution aside. “You’re eating like a condemned man.”
“Condemned,” Henry repeated, and looked away. “That’s funny.” But the look on his face said it wasn’t funny at all. “I’m not condemned. This is all voluntary. Very, very voluntary.” The look went away and the thousand-watt smile came back on again, like a switch in his head had been flipped. “Could I get the meatloaf? Mashed potatoes, roast carrots, and a tall glass of milk?”
III
As Reg went to work on Henry’s meatloaf, Rachel drifted back to the partition. Henry had taken a single piece of newspaper and was folding it carefully and methodically. Curiosity finally got the better of her and she went back to the booth, under the auspices of refilling Henry’s coffee cup. As she topped him up, he raised his head.
“Do you know what this is?”
On the palm of his hand was a folded-paper animal. A cow, she noticed, complete with tiny paper udders. Its head was lowered as if it were cropping.
“A cow?” Rachel guessed.
“That’s right.” Henry set it on the table. “Origami. The Japanese art of paper-folding.”
“Paper-folding, huh? I thought they just made electronics.”
“This is a much older craft.”
“Secret of the Orient?” Rachel asked.
“Something like that,” Henry conceded. “It can be traced back to the sixteenth century. Can you believe that knowledge of something like that could be kept for so long, passed down from one person to the next?”
“The only thing passed on in my family is insomnia and an old moth-eaten quilt that my great-grandmother made while she was snowed in one winter.”
Henry chuckled.
Rachel eyed him suspiciously. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: have you been drinking or something?”
Henry chuckled again, louder this time, then stopped suddenly. “I thought about drinking today,” he said in a solemn, thoughtful tone. “I thought it might be for the best to, I don’t know,
sedate
myself, before the main event.” He shook his head ruefully. “But I decided not to. It seemed kind of . . . cowardly.”
He
is
sick
, Rachel
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