Last Night at the Lobster (12 page)

Rodney, she means, and now Deena, and the baby. Her life and his, the complications he conveniently forgets. He’s always known it was wrong, yet he wants to argue with her—things change, they can do anything they want—but knows she’ll only get mad at him, as if he doesn’t understand. Maybe he’s just being stubborn. They agreed this would be the easiest way; at times he’s felt guilty about how convenient it is, walking away clean. Now he’s not even sure what that means.

“You make me think too much,” he says, then shrugs. “I actually like that about you.”

“I don’t know why,” Jacquie says.

“I don’t know either.” And he’s not just saying this. It’s true: He’s still not sure exactly what happened. She was beautiful and smart and funny, and that was when he didn’t even know her.

She turns, a cue for him to turn too. He wants to make a final declaration out here in the dark before they rejoin the others—“I love you” or something equally futile— but she’s already headed for the door, escaping him again, as always.

Inside, everyone has gathered around a low table in the bar, as if the night is over. Rich and Leron lounge in soft chairs with their feet up, still wearing their aprons. Manny and Jacquie split, out of habit taking seats on opposite sides of the group. Roz has her shoes off and is telling about the time Fat Kathy’s ex-boyfriend got arrested for fighting with her in the parking lot. Manny’s heard her tell the story before and reclines in the candlelight, only half listening, anticipating the punchline: Fat Kathy cursing out Manny for calling the cops because she wasn’t done kicking the guy’s ass (untrue on almost all counts: Manny didn’t call them, Joanne did, after the guy split Fat Kathy’s nose open; Fat Kathy only said that last part as a joke on herself, holding a rag to her face). That was a long time ago, before Jacquie started, another lifetime. But this is too, just as separate, as if none of it’s connected. Sitting in the dark, he flashes on him and Jacquie in his car by the dumpster, even though they were careful never to make out in the parking lot. They liked going to the park, sitting at the picnic tables by the creek behind the stadium, leaning over the rail of the footbridge and watching the twigs they dropped float downstream.

“Manny,”
Roz is saying.

“What?”

“What was his name? Boyd, Burt, Bart—something country.”

“Bret.”

“So Bret’s been sitting in his truck sipping Jack and thinking,” she goes on. Manny closes his eyes a second, trying to recall the guy’s face. He can see his truck, a big square Chevy, a red flannel shirt, maybe a beard. He remembers Fat Kathy in uniform, complete with her nametag, as if she might pull a shift, but the boyfriend’s gone, and he thinks that’s how he’ll be to Rodney, a fat, faceless name with a big key ring, Jacquie’s old boss. And that’s good, that’s how it should be.

After the punchline gets a mild laugh, Roz turns to Leron and says, “How’d you get that mouse, anyway?”

Leron stares at her, slit-eyed and silent, as if she has no right. For a second Manny’s afraid he’ll go off on her, or just not answer. Leron tilts his head and touches a finger to his cheek. “Some cat gave it to me.”

“Ow,” Ty says, wincing.

Suzanne gets the treatment next. Everyone knows her, so they all pile on. Even Manny has to laugh at the time she told someone on the host-stand phone to fuck off with a party standing right there.

“That girl was evil,” Ty says.

“You didn’t have to deal with her,” Jacquie says. “Remember the time she triple-sat Nicolette—”

“While Le Ly’s section was completely empty,” Roz says.

“That’s another one I don’t know why you hired,” Ty says.

Which starts them on Joe, who only ate tater tots and broke the big mixer by jamming it with the paddle, and Danny, who used to park his primered Integra next to Ty’s Supra, and Marisol, who got pregnant and threw up in the hygiene sink, and Kaylie, who sang for an Irish band they all went and saw one drunken Friday after hours. Roz remembers the years when they had their own softball team and adopt-a-highway mile on 9, and while Manny was working then, it seems like they’re talking about a whole other place. The feeling was different, and it wasn’t just Jacquie. He was in charge the entire time, yet he can’t figure out how they got from there to here. Their numbers weren’t that bad.

Ramon P., who could spin on his head, and Frankie, with his wrist and ankle weights, and Des, and Santos, and Michelle, and J.T. The day the ice maker broke and flooded the stockroom. The guy, not that old, who had a heart attack in the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Manny says, “I almost forgot about him.”

A cell phone goes off—not his but a bumping Missy ringtone, “Get Ur Freak On”: Jacquie’s. She leaves the bar to answer it, and he thinks it must be Rodney. He still owes Deena a call—they need to talk about tomorrow. He should just shut it down and let everyone go home. Instead, he sits there in the dark, listening to his own history, waiting for Jacquie to come back, but when she does she sits down without a word, and the days when he could ask her who it was are over.

Unconsciously he counters, taking out his own phone to see if he has any messages. When he flips it open, the lights snap on above the table, making them shield their eyes like vampires.

They wait, squinting, as if this might just be temporary. The TVs natter, the live tank burbles, the colored string blinks. The only thing missing is the house music. Manny gets up and goes to the front doors. The walk is frosted red, red flakes falling softly. The mall’s back, and the stoplight, and when he cuts through the empty kitchen and stands on the loading dock he can see the glow of their sign by the highway.

“Looks like we’re back in business,” he announces, trying to hide his excitement.

The group’s already breaking up, dragging back to their stations as if more guests are on the way, and now Manny misses them all sitting together in the dark. He turns the house music on again, takes the host stand and waits. It’s strange being the only one up front, or maybe he’s just tired, finishing the long double shift. Jacquie hasn’t asked him if she can leave early, so that’s good. He checks his phone: No new messages. He’s lectured every greeter about keeping theirs off; now he ignores his own policy, watching the road from the front doors before dialing.

“Hey, babe,” Deena says, with the TV on behind her. She’s probably in bed already. She’s been going to sleep earlier and earlier, and then tosses all night, waking him. It’s another reason he’s been staying at his place.

“You called me?”

“I just wanted to see what’s up with tomorrow.”

“I gotta be here from eleven till two.”

Voices crisscross in the background. She laughs, then silence, as if she’s stopped listening to him.

“What are you watching?”

“That movie with Bill Murray where he’s supposed to be Scrooge.”

“Scrooged,”
Manny says.

“It’s pretty funny,” she says, as if she didn’t expect it to be. “So what time are you getting here?”

“I don’t know. Four, four thirty?” He’s wandered over to the marlin, inspecting its glass eye, shaving the dust off the top with the side of his thumb.

“It doesn’t take two hours to get here.”

“I want to change.”

“You can change here. Bring a bag with you. It’s just dinner. It’s not like you’re staying overnight.”

This is an old argument, and Manny knows to leave it alone. “Three thirty,” he says, keeping a half hour for himself.

“What are you wearing? You need to look nice for Mami.”

“I don’t know. What I usually wear.”

“No. Wear your blue shirt.”

“It’s not ironed.”

“Bring it. I’ll iron it for you.”

Deena wants to talk about their plans for New Year’s—already set, he’d thought. “I can’t drink, so I’ll drive,” she’s saying. He moves to the live tank, peering down at the last survivors, their claws banded yellow, the blinking lights turning them carnival colors. He thought he’d done a decent job of managing them, but now he sees he was optimistic. Even if it hadn’t snowed, he wouldn’t have sold them all in a single night.

“. . . and then we’ll go back to my place,” Deena says. “Does that sound good?”

“Sure,” he says, and shifts to the front doors again, gazing out at the lot, his breath fogging the glass. She’s laughing at Bill Murray again, and he has nothing to say. He wants to believe it’s because of the day, or because he’s tired.

“Okay,” he says, “so, four.”

“Three thirty.”

“Right, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As they dawdle, a police car glides silently along the highway with its lights flashing. Following as if being escorted is a tall bus, the fancy kind people take to the casinos. He and Deena finally say good-bye as the cop car slows and stops at the light for the mall. The bus pulls in right behind it, signaling left. Manny keeps his eye on them, the phone still open in his hand. The mall’s open late for the holidays, but no one goes to the mall in a bus like that, not the Willow Brook Mall. He disconnects, then makes sure to turn the phone off, watching the cop turn in and then up the access road, heading straight for them. He wants to yell to the break room, but waits, needing to be certain, as the cop signals and turns into the lot, then the bus. Manny runs.

And almost bowls over Jacquie as he bursts through the door. “We got a bus.”

And into the kitchen. “We got a bus.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Ty says, not moving from his stool.

“I’m not kidding. Let’s go.” He claps like a coach. “Everybody on the line, right now.”

He circles around front, ready to see the cop and the bus leaving, but here comes a trooper through the snow like a scout. Manny opens the door of the vestibule to meet him.

“You guys open?” the trooper asks.

Out of habit—or is it pride?—Manny says “Till eleven,” and points to the plaque with their hours.

“Mind if these folks use your restrooms?”

“Not at all.”

“Thanks.” He steps outside and waves to the bus driver to send them in. “Tour group ate at this place in Waterbury and got some bad mussels. Lot of them are older folks, so we’re trying to take every precaution. Got any bottled water?”

“Perrier, that’s it.”

“Bubbles in that?”

“Yep.”

“How about just regular water?”

“I can give them ice water in glasses.”

“That would be great. How big are your restrooms— how many stalls?”

“Four and two. Four in the women’s.”

“That’ll do. Driver was trying to get by with just the one lavatory on the bus. Not a happy situation.”

“Ours are clean,” Manny says, but now he wishes he’d hit them again after lunch.

The first passengers come in bent over, holding themselves against the cold. Manny’s surprised to find they’re all Chinese. He directs them down the hall, then goes in back and explains the situation to the crew, asking Jacquie and Roz to run two trays of ice water and set them on jacks in the foyer.

“So no one’s eating anything,” Ty asks, “is that right? They’re just off-loading.”

“They already ate and it didn’t work.”

“Well, that is fucking disappointing. Is he going to look at my windshield?”

“He’s not really here to do that.”

“Don’t cost nothing to ask.”

Manny doesn’t, of course. He stands by in case they need more paper towels, offering water to the passengers, who don’t seem to speak any English. They pass around small plastic tubes like crack vials, dumping out what look like peppercorns, some sort of herbal remedy. The old women are tiny, and remind him of his abuelita, frail and at the mercy of another language. He bows, gesturing to the goblets with an open hand, but hardly anyone takes one. It’s only when another passenger takes his place, instructing the others, that they gradually empty the trays, standing around in groups like some bizarre cocktail party. Manny’s about to ask Roz and Jacquie to restock when the driver—a bony man with crooked dentures—asks everyone to please reboard the bus, or at least that’s how Manny translates it, because they all set their glasses back on the trays and follow him out. A few thank Manny in their way, and he smiles and nods back.

He has Jacquie check the women’s room to make sure they’re all out, while he checks the men’s. It’s no dirtier than usual, the sink wet, some slushy footprints, a single gauzy square of toilet paper on the floor of a stall.

The trooper’s waiting for him at the front doors, and gives the driver the thumbs-up. Manny doesn’t ask him why he doesn’t escort them back to 9. He’s more interested in why he chose the Lobster in the first place.

The trooper points toward the sky. “Sign said BUSES WELCOME.”

“They are,” Manny says, and once he’s gone, estimates how many passengers they served and adds sixty to the guest count—over a hundred and twenty now, not the worst day they’ve had.

When he checks in on the kitchen, Leron and Rich are racking the water goblets. The back door’s open to bleed off the heat, and Ty’s outside, clearing his windshield while his car idles, the defroster on high. He’s already cleaned Manny’s.

Since he’s out here anyway, Manny can’t resist a peek at the dumpster, swinging the gates open to scare the rats. The light above casts a metallic glare, but the fence has slats that throw deep shadows. The footprints in the snow along the far side are bigger than his, and when he turns the corner, there on the ground, the lid covered with a couple of inches, is an uncrushed Smirnoff box. Inside he finds a haul: three almost-full bottles of Cuervo, Tanqueray and Hennessy. He should have never gone to the mall.

He takes the bottles and leaves the box.

“Someone leave you a present?” Ty asks.

“Someone.”

“Dumb one.” Because he’s never gotten along with Dom.

“Probably.”

He makes sure Rich is occupied on the ass end of the dishwasher before slipping in and stashing the bottles in the stockroom. Now that they’ve been outside, he can’t safely put them back, even if he believes there’s nothing wrong with them (they’re already spillage, the cost automatically charged against his inventory), but it seems a shame that they’ll go to waste. Maybe a thank-you for Leron and Rich, assuming they weren’t the ones who boosted them.