the cars brake at the stoplight. Birdie had never met a divorced woman before, never seen up close someone who’d lived through it. What happened? she wanted to ask. Where did he go? Why did he leave?
A big blond man came through the door and sat at the other end of the counter.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Fay called, laughing. She stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. “Why don’t you fill up those sugar bowls,” she told Birdie. “It’s next to the coffee filters, under the counter.”
Birdie stood and smoothed the uniform over her behind. As she circulated through the tables, she noticed the blond man watching her, his pale blue eyes following her around the room. She was aware of her legs in the nylon stockings, the brown uniform tight across her chest. Her hands shook a little as she placed the sugar bowls on the counter and reached underneath for the sack of sugar, conscious all the time of the ring on her left hand, which her husband had placed there eight years before.
The counter was Fay’s station; she joked with the man as she brought him a plate of french fries. “Looks like you had a rough night,” she said, setting down the plate.
“You could say that.” The man stuffed a french fry in his mouth and wiped his hand on his thigh.
Birdie went into the kitchen for the bus pan and cleared the coffee cups from her tables. She strained to hear their voices over the clattering dishes. The man spoke in a low rumble; Fay laughed sharply, like a crow’s call.
Birdie carried the bus pan to the kitchen. The man was no longer watching her; he stared blankly out the window. She studied his faded denim shirt, his square, handsome face. His eyes tracked a yellow convertible turning the corner. She saw that his gaze was unconscious, instinctive. He reminded her of a hunting dog.
“Who was that?” she asked Fay later when they sat down for their coffee break.
“Buck Perry,” said Fay. “He comes in for lunch sometimes.” She inhaled deeply; smoke shot out her nostrils. In between drags she nibbled at french fries wrapped in a paper napkin, left over from the customers. Birdie wondered if they’d come from Buck Perry’s plate.
“He’s a charmer,” said Fay. “All the girls love Buck.”
Is he married? Birdie wanted to ask. The words sat inside her mouth. She gulped and swallowed.
C harlie stepped carefully from rock to rock, holding the pie tin with both hands. He was getting better. Last time he’d spilled most of the milk. This time he spilled less than half.
He approached the old house and set down the milk. “Here, boys,” he called to the puppies. Then he heard the noise. Near the house a truck was idling. A fat man leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. Charlie watched him cup his hand to his mouth and hold the cigarette there. In the distance he heard men’s voices, the sound of splintering wood.
Charlie ran around to the front of the house. A different man carried an armload of boards to another, larger truck.
“Hey,” said the man. “This ain’t no place for you.”
Charlie squinted past him, at the porch.
“This is a demolition,” said the man. “You could get hurt.”
Charlie found his voice. “There’s puppies under the porch. They live there.”
The man shrugged. “They going to have to find another place to live.”
B irdie had no wine for three days, but she remembered it was there. On the fourth day she came home from the luncheonette and opened a bottle. “Just a glass,” she said as she poured, as if anyone was there to hear.
The next day she awoke with a headache, the alarm clock as piercing as a drill. In the kitchen the empty bottle sat on the counter. She found the last two slices of bread and dropped them in the toaster, one each for Charlie and Jody; her queasy stomach wouldn’t mind going without. In the living room the children were already awake, watching a woman do exercises on television.
“Mummy!” Jody squealed.
Birdie
A big blond man came through the door and sat at the other end of the counter.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Fay called, laughing. She stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. “Why don’t you fill up those sugar bowls,” she told Birdie. “It’s next to the coffee filters, under the counter.”
Birdie stood and smoothed the uniform over her behind. As she circulated through the tables, she noticed the blond man watching her, his pale blue eyes following her around the room. She was aware of her legs in the nylon stockings, the brown uniform tight across her chest. Her hands shook a little as she placed the sugar bowls on the counter and reached underneath for the sack of sugar, conscious all the time of the ring on her left hand, which her husband had placed there eight years before.
The counter was Fay’s station; she joked with the man as she brought him a plate of french fries. “Looks like you had a rough night,” she said, setting down the plate.
“You could say that.” The man stuffed a french fry in his mouth and wiped his hand on his thigh.
Birdie went into the kitchen for the bus pan and cleared the coffee cups from her tables. She strained to hear their voices over the clattering dishes. The man spoke in a low rumble; Fay laughed sharply, like a crow’s call.
Birdie carried the bus pan to the kitchen. The man was no longer watching her; he stared blankly out the window. She studied his faded denim shirt, his square, handsome face. His eyes tracked a yellow convertible turning the corner. She saw that his gaze was unconscious, instinctive. He reminded her of a hunting dog.
“Who was that?” she asked Fay later when they sat down for their coffee break.
“Buck Perry,” said Fay. “He comes in for lunch sometimes.” She inhaled deeply; smoke shot out her nostrils. In between drags she nibbled at french fries wrapped in a paper napkin, left over from the customers. Birdie wondered if they’d come from Buck Perry’s plate.
“He’s a charmer,” said Fay. “All the girls love Buck.”
Is he married? Birdie wanted to ask. The words sat inside her mouth. She gulped and swallowed.
C harlie stepped carefully from rock to rock, holding the pie tin with both hands. He was getting better. Last time he’d spilled most of the milk. This time he spilled less than half.
He approached the old house and set down the milk. “Here, boys,” he called to the puppies. Then he heard the noise. Near the house a truck was idling. A fat man leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. Charlie watched him cup his hand to his mouth and hold the cigarette there. In the distance he heard men’s voices, the sound of splintering wood.
Charlie ran around to the front of the house. A different man carried an armload of boards to another, larger truck.
“Hey,” said the man. “This ain’t no place for you.”
Charlie squinted past him, at the porch.
“This is a demolition,” said the man. “You could get hurt.”
Charlie found his voice. “There’s puppies under the porch. They live there.”
The man shrugged. “They going to have to find another place to live.”
B irdie had no wine for three days, but she remembered it was there. On the fourth day she came home from the luncheonette and opened a bottle. “Just a glass,” she said as she poured, as if anyone was there to hear.
The next day she awoke with a headache, the alarm clock as piercing as a drill. In the kitchen the empty bottle sat on the counter. She found the last two slices of bread and dropped them in the toaster, one each for Charlie and Jody; her queasy stomach wouldn’t mind going without. In the living room the children were already awake, watching a woman do exercises on television.
“Mummy!” Jody squealed.
Birdie
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