Her bottom lip quivered, and then she pulled me to her chest for a quick squeeze. Her wrinkled hand patted my back. “We don’t have any of our own. You and Kirby are it. Now, get out of here. Get some work done, for Chrissakes,” she said, returning to her pitcher of tea.
I reached back for a napkin and handed it to her. She held it to her face, dabbing her eyes I imagined since her back was still turned to me.
“I said, get,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” I rushed around the bar and picked up my plate. I stuffed the remaining pieces of pancake into my mouth while walking toward the kitchen.
Pete—round, bald, and frowning—stood next to Chuck, helping with anything else prep-related as he did every morning.
Hector was already at the sink, polishing the silverware. “Good morning, Miss Falyn,” he said, taking my plate. He pulled down the sprayer and rinsed off the round white plate made of something between glass and plastic.
“For the hundredth time, Hector—”
“Don’t say, Miss. I know,” he said with a sheepish grin.
Pete smiled. He was marinating chicken, keeping to himself.
The three of them, in addition to Phaedra whose creations had made the Bucksaw famous, made up the kitchen staff.
Chuck was mixing his special sauce with a blank stare, his mind somewhere far away. He wiped his wet cheek with the back of his wrist and continued chopping. He glanced at me then and shook his head. “Damn onions,” he said, wiping the other cheek.
“Uh-huh,” I said, dubious.
Phaedra wasn’t the only softy in the family.
With a wry smile, Pete glanced over at his boss and then continued with his duties.
I helped Hector roll silverware. Then I refilled the Coke syrup in the soda fountain behind the bar, cleaned the windows, and double-checked that the dining area was sparkling clean.
Gunnar dropped Kirby off at eight o’clock sharp, and she stood at the front door with her arms crossed, like she did every morning. I wasn’t sure why she insisted on coming in so early. We didn’t open until nine.
I opened the door and then locked the door behind her.
“I’m here!” she announced as she walked across the dining room, another thing she did every morning.
“I’ll alert the media,” Phaedra deadpanned.
Kirby stuck her tongue out at Phaedra and then winked at me as she pushed through the double doors, letting them swing violently behind her.
“You’re gonna break those damn doors one of these days!” Phaedra called.
“Sorry.” Kirby was rushed but sincere, her dark ponytail swishing as she carried the salt and pepper canisters.
As she began to refill the shakers on each table, they exchanged knowing smiles.
“I’ve known that brat since she was a latchkey kid,” Phaedra said, shaking her head at Kirby.
“I can hear you,” Kirby called back.
“Good!” Phaedra snapped. “I’d make myself a grilled chicken panini with pickles and chipotle mayo every day, right about the time Kirby would pass by on her way home from Columbia Elementary.”
Kirby smirked. “And she’d always magically lose her appetite.”
“Just because I knew you’d be ravenous by the time you poked your little crow head into my door,” Phaedra said, her tone a mixture of sass and silly. “She would talk nonstop with her mouth full, carrying on about her day, while she annihilated my poor panini, and then she wouldn’t even say thanks before wiping her mouth with her sleeve and walking the few blocks to Old Chicago where her mom waited tables.”
Kirby screwed on a saltshaker lid. “That isn’t entirely accurate.”
“Okay,” Phaedra spit. “She used a napkin. Sometimes.”
Kirby shook her head and chuckled as she detached the pepper shaker lid.
Noticing the time, I began unscrewing lids for Kirby, and she picked up her pace.
“Kirby is the only person in the world, including Chuck,” I said, nodding toward the kitchen, “who could get away with sticking her tongue out at you and live to tell about it.”
“No. I have two girls, and I take shit from both of them,” Phaedra said, arching her eyebrow at me.
I swallowed back the lump that had formed in my throat. Phaedra had a way of making me feel like family when I least expected it and always when I needed it the most.
She picked a hand towel off the counter as she approached me. She swung it over her shoulder and then glanced at her watch. She turned me to face the wall of glass, toward the three parked cars full of people.
She raised my hand with the open saltshaker still in my grip and began to recite her favorite sonnet, “Mother of Exiles! From her beacon-hand! Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command!”
After each verse, she would shake my elevated hand, salt falling over our heads like an erratic blizzard.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses!”
After Phaedra finished, she let go of my hand, and I shook out the white specks from my hair.
Phaedra sighed. “No one talks like that anymore.”
“You do,” Kirby said.
“God, do I love my country.”
Kirby made a face. “Anyone would know that after seeing your arrest record from participating in sit-ins. What does that poem have to do with anything?”
Phaedra looked dumbstruck.
“It’s Emma Lazarus,” I said.
Kirby’s expression didn’t change.
I continued, “That sonnet is on a plaque at the Statue of Liberty.”
When recognition finally hit, Kirby’s mouth formed an O.
Phaedra rolled her eyes. “Dear Lord Jesus, help us all.”
“I’ll get the broom,” Kirby said, dashing to the back room.
Phaedra grumbled all the way to the kitchen. Failure to know important pieces of history, or ignorance of common knowledge in general made her temper flare.
Kirby reappeared, broom and dustpan in hand. “Shit. I’ve tried to forget all of that since graduation. It’s summer break. You’d think she’d cut me some slack.”
“It’s going to be a long day,” I said, fetching the broom.
Kirby and I worked to clean the mess, and she rushed to the trash can with the dustpan while I flipped it open. People inside the three parked cars in front began to stir, and by the time Kirby returned from taking the broom to the back, the customers were waiting to be seated.