Blue Plate Special (16 page)

“Oh, Madeline”—she sounds genuinely sad—“I—I’m sorry you
had to go through that. Life is so unfair sometimes.” She surprises me with a sudden hug.

Aside from Tad holding me in his arms after sex, it’s the first hug anyone’s ever given me.

When Muralee lets go, I blink back tears and hand her my clothes.

ned—the same man

who booked our room—

schedules an interview

with jeremy and me.

the diner closes at eleven
,

he says
. charlotte and

me’ll talk to you then.

we show up at 10:30

pick a booth in the corner,

share a banana split,

passing time.

at eleven ten

the last customer files out.

ned hits the outside lights,

flips the
open
sign to
closed
,

drops a coin in the jukebox,

sits down across from us.

his black beard is laced with silver

and his fingernails are chewed to the quick.

as an old elvis presley song plays

a lady slides in beside him,

her red hair gray at the roots.

she lights a cigarette, inhales.

so you two kids want a job?

she asks,

her words

encased in smoke.

jeremy and i nod.

yes
,
ma’am
, i add,

folding my hands

on my belly bulge.

hoarsely, she laughs.

you don’t have to call me

ma’am
—
i’m charlotte.

when are you due?

my heart speeds up.

larry got me pregnant in early june,

but i didn’t have sex with jeremy

till the start of july.

i do the math. shrug.

february or march
,
i guess.

another husky laugh.

hell
,
i didn’t start

losing track till my third kid.

how long the two of you been married?

um
,
well…
i start.

pfff!
she smiles.

relax
,
honey.

ned and me got four kids together

and we ain’t never tied the knot.

she rolls her eyes.

he calls me his significant other.

ned’s fingers drum the table.

the openings are for a waitress

and a dishwasher.

you two got experience?

washing dishes
,

we blurt out together.

how about waitressing?

charlotte asks.

i’m a fast learner
, i tell her.

she motions toward my belly.

you better be!

there’s a long moment of silence.

elvis croons
only you.

even though it’s not my

kind of music,

it’s getting under my skin.

the lady draws on her cigarette again.

when could the two of you start?

i mean, if we hire you.

knocking knees with jeremy,

i answer,
right away.

ned nods,

finds a hangnail to nibble.

the jobs are under the table.

either of you have

a problem with that?

not knowing what

he means

i tip sideways,

glancing beneath our booth.

charlotte elbows ned’s side.

girl’s got a sense of humor
,

ned
,
i like that.

whaddaya say we

put these kids to work?

* * *

my first day on the job

i cut my finger slicing lemons and

toss a kid’s retainer case in the trash.

for my encore,

i drop a plate.

breath held, i wait

to see if anyone jumps,

screams,

has a coronary.

no one does.

broom in hand,

charlotte appears,

sliding the shiny white shards

into a dingy, gray dustpan,

saying,
relax
,
honey
,
it’s only a plate.

* * *

waitressing is harder than it looks,

especially remembering

who ordered what.

the last thing i want is for

a table full of people to

play musical plates after

i’ve dropped off their food.

that’s a sure way to nix a tip,

and jeremy and i need the money.

after several days, i get an idea.

i make notes on each slip before

clipping them on the line for ned.

hey
,
desiree
, he calls from the grill,

what the heck’s a sem cap turk club?

rushing past, i answer,

the guy in the seminoles hat

ordered a turkey club sandwich.

when he shakes his head,

charlotte says,

the girl’s got a system
,

ned
,
deal with it!

* * *

charlotte gives me plenty of advice—

what foods to eat for my baby,

what kind of vitamins to buy,

which types of shoes to wear,

so i won’t get varicose veins.

she even drives me into town

to sign up for medicaid

so i can see a baby doctor.

some folks might call

her overbearing,

but i don’t mind.

i like having someone care.

* * *

every night now

i get up several times to pee—

probably on account of the baby,

since i used to sleep straight through.

i try to move slowly, carefully,

so the mattress won’t squeak

and bother jeremy.

except sometimes

i wish he would stir.

like if i forget where i am

and expect to hear mam snoring.

or when i wake from a school dream—

wandering the halls alone,

searching for carol ann,

about to miss a test

i didn’t study for.

fragmented moments,

evidence of the life

i left behind.

sometimes,

i’m disappointed

i was only dreaming.

* * *

ned cuts us a deal on

a bigger, better room,

complete with a kitchenette,

and charlotte gives me

her old maternity clothes.

at the diner,

i pick up her slang—

bossy in a bowl
for beef stew,

shivering liz
for jell-o,

sweep the kitchen
for hash.

after two weeks,

she puts me in charge

of deciding the daily

blue plate special.

so i do what i’ve seen

her do many times—

stand before the open fridge,

hip cocked, inhaling refrigerated air,

waiting for the leftovers to speak to me.

hey, charlotte,
i call,

we’ve got three big tubs

of mashed murphy and

hockey pucks climbing the walls.

how’s shepherd’s pie sound to you?

charlotte breezes past,

hauling a bag of trash

to the dumpster.

you’re a natural!

* * *

one humid wednesday,

our day off,

jeremy and i

take a bus to cedar key

then walk to the nearest beach.

the bluest water i’ve ever seen

reflects a cloudless sky.

seagulls caw overhead.

excited, i turn to jeremy.

i love the smell here. don’t you?

he wrinkles his nose.

smells like dead fish to me.

i swat his arm,

kick off my flip-flops,

hurry across the hot sand.

as warm, wet fingers

tickle my feet

a bumpy white shell

with pink insides

bumps up against my big toe.

when i reach to pick it up,

my baby kicks up a storm.

sometimes it freaks me out

knowing there’s

this living,

breathing thing inside me,

growing bigger every day.

overwhelmed, i start to cry.

jeremy pulls me close,

our stomachs touch,

then he feels the baby kick too.

surprised, he jumps back.
whoa!

that dude’s got some strong-ass legs.

laughing now,

i wipe tears away.

it’s not a dude,

it’s a dudette.

that so?

i nod.
definitely.

jeremy rests both hands on my belly.

did i ever tell you my dad played

soccer at buffalo state?

i roll my eyes.

only a zillion times.

well
—jeremy smiles—

maybe our little dudette

is gonna take after her grandpa.

hours later,

when the sun’s gone down,

my pretty shell sits on the dresser

and jeremy snores beside me.

i lay awake,

taunted by the memory of his smile.

how will i ever tell him the truth?

in the middle of the night

my everyday fears become monsters

that threaten to swallow me whole.

* * *

a week before christmas

jeremy and i take a bus

to the kmart in ocala.

we buy a tiny fake tree,

pine-scented candles,

and a can of artificial snow.

on christmas eve,

the diner closes early

and jeremy and i

order takeout

to eat in our room.

holiday music plays on our radio,

candlelight flickers on the walls,

fake snow lines the sill.

i slide jeremy’s present

out from under our bed.

he peels back the paper,

beams.
wow, a vcr!

now i can tape
the simpsons.

my gift’s in a tiny box.

inside is a ring with

a thin, shiny band

and a tag that says

genuine gold plated.

jeremy slips it on my finger.

since we’re gonna have a baby together,

i’d say it’s time we got engaged.

i push the truth aside,

bury my face in jeremy’s neck,

and hug him as hard as i can.

* * *

by the time

the new year rolls around

i have the regulars pegged.

stew, the one-eyed meter reader

who always orders steak and eggs.

joe hobbs, who manages the feed store,

a grits-and-pancakes man.

sally haas, the town librarian,

who drifts in just before the lunch crowd,

ordering the blue plate special

without even asking what it is.

there are a dozen more like them—

folks whose habits give them away,

predictable as the daily noon whistle.

but one afternoon,

in the lull before the dinner rush,

when business slows to a crawl

and charlotte’s busy in the kitchen

setting up the next day’s salads and

watching
oprah
on her tiny tv,

an unfamiliar lady breezes in.

she has auburn chin-length hair

and a beige suit with matching pumps.

she’s probably mam’s age,

only thinner, prettier.

her heels click toward

a two-top in the corner.

she opens her briefcase on the table,

unloads a black leather binder,

clicks a fancy silver pen,

writes across a smooth, new page.

i mosey over. i got that from charlotte—

she’s always moseying here

and moseying there.

not looking up, the lady says,

i’d like a cup of earl grey tea with lemon,

a chef salad with extra swiss, no salami,

and italian dressing on the side, please.

i can tell from the flat, twangless

slap of her syllables

she’s a northerner, like me.

after bringing her order,

i study the northern lady

from the register.

she removes a single pit

from her lemon wedge,

holds it over her steaming mug, squeezing.

then she dunks her tea bag in the cup,

flattens it against her spoon,

places it gently on the saucer.

when i refill her cup with hot water

and leave her a brand-new bag,

she looks up, finally.

she has pretty eyes—

green as the shamrocks

taped to the windows—

and a small, delicate face.

tucking her hair behind one ear

she glances at my belly and smiles,

saying something about a bud being snug,

and a sprat—whatever
that
is—

doing something inside a pickle jug.

i haven’t got the slightest idea

what she’s talking about.

i just stand there,

dumb as dust.

the northern lady smiles.

i’m sorry, that’s a line

from a poem called
you’re.

i was imagining that’s how

your baby must be feeling,

tucked in that cozy space.

i nod, relax.

where’d that poem come from?

she reaches in her briefcase,

removes a small, thin book.

i glance at the cover and

recognize the poet’s name—

she’s the one who offed herself.

here, keep this. it’s an extra.

i bought it at the airport this morning.

i forgot my copy at home.

i’m not an organized traveler.

ariel, i say, touching the cover.

ariel
by sylvia plath.

my baby kicks and kicks

like she’s running

the new york marathon.

* * *

that night i drink black decaf tea,

something charlotte got me to try,