“Best compliment I’ve had all day.” Zoe pours him more coffee. “That sticker put me out ninety bucks, though. That’s a lot of money for a waitress.”
“That’s a lot of money for anyone. We’re all in the same boat.” He reaches for his wallet.
You’re not in my boat, she thinks. Not by a long shot. Mama’s in my boat. And Grandma. And a sort of best friend who can’t even look me in the face and wouldn’t loan me ninety bucks to save her life. And Daddy. He hops in now and then, too. That’s the kind of stuff my boat’s full of, mister. Not you or anyone like you. But she smiles and accepts his generous tip, because that’s her job. Waitresses deliver food and swallow shit—all for the accumulation of small change.
“You take care now, you hear?”
“Yes sir,” she says, and forces out a cheerful, “You too.”
Tips have been good but tables slow. Murray’s diner is feeling the competition of newer, flashier restaurants sprinkling the outskirts of Ruby. She watches Murray moving between busing tables and studying a menu he has memorized, looking every bit the rat in the snake’s belly. This week’s special: fish tacos. Fish? In Ruby? But he makes do. That’s Murray. She wipes water rings and returns salt and pepper shakers to their holders. She asks Charisse if she can pick up her Wednesday shift. No. Charisse is hoping to pick up more shifts, too. Both the kids need new shoes and her car’s transmission is teetering. Zoe wipes the ketchup bottle rim and replaces the cap. She twists so tight the skin of her knuckles whiten, and she slowly slides it back into place near the A.1. Steak Sauce.
Two new parties walk in, and Murray shows them to the best booths. Hope is revived. A few minutes later, more customers arrive, and the evening rush—which is not so rushed—begins. Carlos stops by but doesn’t order anything. He’s on his way to work. He just wants to say hi. Thursday he’ll stop by for a late dinner and talk more, but for now, he just wants to say hi.
“Hi,” she says, and then he’s gone, and she thinks that’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her—except for Opal and the Count cheering for her from the bleachers.
The sleazebag arrives late. Her shift is almost over. He is quieter than usual. His eyes move back and forth across red-rimmed lids, and his large meaty hands rub the top of his thighs like his clumsy come-ons are knotted somewhere inside. He slides into a seat, and though his flaring nostrils and leering eyes still prickle her skin, she is glad that he chooses her end of the counter.
Forty-Five
New day.
She remembers.
She shows.
She settles into her chair. But Group is light today. Not even the counselor comes. She stares at the empty seat across from her that should hold Mr. K, or Mr. Beltzer, or Mrs. Farantino, or maybe someone else from their counseling bag of tricks. Will this count against her? Somehow she thinks it will. Somehow it will be her fault. Somehow at their counseling party to see if she will be able to play tennis, they will count it a no-show. And, oddly, today she wants to talk.
She slides her hands outward across the cool surface of the tabletop until her cheek rests there, too. The air conditioner hums. Her stomach gurgles. There are no Food Star antacids left to calm it. She sits upright and looks at the empty counselor chair.
“So what should we talk about today?
“Your life, Zoe. We want to hear all about your life. And your filthy mouth, too.
“My life? It’s pretty much perfect. Not much to tell. And my mouth? I guess I just got lucky.”
She tires of her game and leans back. Stares at the empty chair.
Presses against her stomach. Listens to past conversations that speak louder than present ones. Listens to the hum that is always there.
Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.
The childhood tune she has sealed away to a dark corner breaks through the silence. The tune Grandma always sang. Don’t say a word. She remembers the afternoons Grandma was there for her after school, Kyle already in tow, taking her by the hand without explanation, saying today was special, today they would have an after-school snack at her house. Zoe knew what “special” meant and why it was Grandma and not Mama or Daddy picking her up. At ten years old she was light-years from Kyle’s oblivious innocence, but she went along. For Kyle’s sake she was already going along. And then Grandma would sing tuneless songs around her kitchen to make them laugh while she smeared chocolate frosting on graham crackers and poured cold glasses of milk. Afternoon snacks would grow into late suppers and then borrowing old T-shirts for pajamas. The special time grew and grew until Kyle was cranky and crying to go home. And then Grandma would sing more songs.
Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.
Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.
If that mockingbird won’t sing,
Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.
But Zoe was not the child Kyle was—she didn’t find the song comforting. She wondered at a daddy who only brought home useless gifts and then, as weeks and months went by, the wondering turned—why did Grandma always choose that song? She wished just once the mockingbird would sing a beautiful song and make Grandma be silent.
Hush. Don’t say a word. She pushes the song back to its dark corner. But there is no silence. The hum trickles into the chopped-up conversations with Mama that started nowhere and ended up in the same place. Conversations that bled her dry. Conversations that took but never gave. Because Mama needed so much. Because Zoe owed so much. She owed and the debt would never be paid. Owed for growing in a place she didn’t belong. Owed for Daddy. Owed for people she never knew and places she never saw. Owed for more than Zoe could ever give. And then, owing nothing because Mama would hold her close and stroke her head. Kiss her. Croon and rock her. Mama loved her. Loves her.
And where Mama’s chopped-up conversations leave off, Grandma’s controlling ones begin again. Ones that seem to have truth. She only slings hash. She’ll never make it. She’ll come crawling, and they’ll take her back. But there is no “back.” No room. No stars. There never has been. There is only the room on Lorelei Street.
Come back, Beth. Start fresh. Be a good girl.