The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [108]
“Here.” Hero beckoned her impatiently. With a cleaver he lopped off a length of white woven first-aid tape, wound it around her injured and ring fingers so the two were bound firmly together. “No jams.”
“Hmph,” said Pella, impressed. She looked tough, like a football player. After a few hours of steam and soapy hot water the tape’s glue dissolved and Hero cut another length. She made it through both of her shifts without jamming her finger again. Then, the lunch dishes done, her uniform covered in food slop and dishwasher scum, her skin by a sheen of sticky gold grease, she sank down at a round faux-wood table in the empty dining hall with a fresh bag of ice for her finger. The afternoon light through the tall mullioned windows was itself deepening to a greasy gold. David would be arriving soon.
Between shifts Chef Spirodocus had thrust a stiff envelope into her hand. Now she pulled it from her pocket, feeling oddly nervous as she folded and tore the perforated edges. And there it was—an honest-to-God paycheck, made out to Pella Therese Affenlight. The government had taken out taxes: Social Security, Medicare, state, federal. They added up to $49.83. Her first direct contribution to trash collection and public schooling, the maintenance of highways and libraries, the killing of people in war.
She kept looking at the check, though there wasn’t much to see. She and David used to spend more on dinner. But it wasn’t nothing, especially here in the middle of nowhere, especially when your meals and rent were free. And it was hers. She wouldn’t have to ask her father for money anymore. She could buy some underwear to replace what she’d left at Mike’s.
She needed to shower and change, David showed up early for everything, but instead she poured herself a Sprite from the drink dispenser and sat back down to admire the check some more. She still planned to sell her ring, but this was something better. Like Ishmael said: Being paid—what will compare with it! It was embarrassing, how proud of herself she felt. The check proved that she’d been alive these weeks, that she’d accomplished something, however trivial. This was why people grew so attached to earning money, even money they didn’t need. This was how they justified themselves. This was how they kept score.
Chef Spirodocus clomped out of the kitchen in his backache-relieving clogs, frowning down at his clipboard. “Pella,” he said. “You’re still here.” He pronounced it as a great truth of which she might be unaware.
“Still here.” Pella slid the check off the table with her good hand, tapped its edge against the table’s underside. Chef Spirodocus sat down across from her. “You should go home,” he said. “You look tired.”
In Pella’s experience this was a way of telling a woman she looked bad, old, past her prime. “You mean I have bags under my eyes.”
Chef Spirodocus looked up from his clipboard. “Bags? What bags? I mean you worked hard and became tired. Go home. Drink a glass of wine with your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend,” Pella said, “is at baseball practice.”
Chef Spirodocus waved his stubby fingers. “So find a new one. A girl like you can choose.” He set down his clipboard and looked