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 herpocket 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
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 herpocket 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
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