What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [18]
She could hear Cal swivel the stool, back to his paper, as she made her way back to the kitchen to hand in their order. The girls had finished both the magazine and the cigarettes and had been busy standing around. When one of them saw Arlene, the girl pulled her hip away from the counter and slung her apron off her shoulder to get back to work. Arlene wished she wouldn’t—she’d see the couple out at the table—but in pretending to look rushed, she prompted the girl to hustle even more.
“Hey,” the girl said, looking through the door’s round window, “that’s my station.”
“I don’t mind, Priscilla,” said Arlene.
“I didn’t go over my break or anything,” said Priscilla. “It’s not like I was late.”
“I’ll throw you the tip,” said Arlene.
“He’s handsome,” said Priscilla. “How come the men in town don’t dress like him?”
The cook rang the bell and pushed over the man’s breakfast plate.
“He’s a big eater,” said Priscilla, and before Arlene could stop her, she grabbed his plate and scurried toward the door, giggling at Arlene as she passed through.
The woman’s toast came next, and Arlene cut two small squares of butter as quickly as she could, rushing out to the table. As she’d guessed, Priscilla must have recognized the woman’s face right away: she stood with her hand on her hip, her mouth open in a wide, disbelieving smile as the woman shook her head.
“Your toast, miss,” said Arlene. “Thanks, Priscilla. Is there anything else we can get you?”
“No, ma’am, we’re fine,” said the man, raising his utensils and holding them over the plate.
Arlene put her hand on Priscilla’s arm. Priscilla looked as if she was about to ignore the man’s signal. “Let’s let them eat now.”
It took no time at all for Priscilla to report back to the rest, and Arlene shushed them when they all gathered at the kitchen door to have a look for themselves. “It may or it may not be her,” she said to them in a harsh whisper. “But behave yourselves. It’s all about grace.”
“That’s not her,” someone said. “That’s not her husband.”
“She’s too busty.”
“There’s no such thing as too busty.”
“Grab the magazine,” someone else said. “I think there was a picture of her in there, no?”
“That’s not her husband,” someone said again.
“You big dummy, if she’s having an affair, that’s exactly why she’s here and not in Hollywood.”
“Girls,” Arlene said firmly. “Enough. Get away from that door.”
“We have to get back to work anyway,” someone said. “The lunch rush is coming.”
“Fine,” said Arlene, but she moved in front of them to block the door. “But no gawking. Whether it’s her or not, it’s embarrassing to act like a bunch of teenagers when you’re supposed to be working.”
None of the girls answered back, but she could tell by their folded arms and pursed lips that they resented her tone. Still, each of them gathered an apron or a tray of condiments or a dishrag or a handful of clean silverware and fanned out among the tables and booths. She could see some of them trying to take a good look at the couple, but none of the girls did so obtrusively, the couple involved as they were in their conversation. They were left alone, and as the lunch crowd began to filter in, the girls took to their tables and Arlene positioned herself behind the counter. Cal paid his bill silently and tipped his hat at her pointedly, and after he exited, she had a clear view of the couple as they chatted, the gorgeous yellow of the woman’s blouse and the pretty gray skirt she’d matched it with, the expensive shoes, and the wide belt on her tiny waist. The woman nibbled at her toast and the man spoke more than she did, but never while chewing. He put down his utensils when he spoke and never took his eyes away from her. Such attentiveness, she thought, couldn’t come from a husband. The girls,