Finding Mrs. Ford

by Deborah Goodrich Royce

  “All right,” said Sherry. “We’re pushin’ Wallbangers tonight, ‘cause we got Galliano runnin’ outta our asses.”

  “Pushing what?” Susan, wanting to get it right, wished she’d brought a notepad and pen.

  “Are you serious? Where’d you waitress before, a boilermaker bar?”

  “I, um, I…”

  “Fuck. You’ve never done this before. You don’t know anything, do you?” said Sherry looking dead into Susan’s eyes. “Frankie!” She turned and stomped off to consult with their boss privately, out of Susan’s earshot.

  Annie made her entrance right at that moment, airily tossing an apology for her lateness, confident of the world’s forgiveness. She tumbled in, wearing her ubiquitous Candies, which scuffed and slid as she walked, her step a bit mincing and forward-leaning as if she might tip over from the weight of her breasts, now tightly swaddled in her shirt and vest. She wore no coat. Her legs were exposed; her hair was in a low bun and—Susan observed with a small pang of envy—somehow this ridiculous outfit actually looked made for her: sexy librarian in a Vegas chorus line.

  Frankie and Sherry, huddling close together, drew Susan’s attention away from Annie. Frankie held Sherry by one arm in a way that torqued up her shoulder and looked uncomfortable to Susan. After the wink at Diane and his weird stare at Susan, Frankie’s familiarity with his female staff was making her feel uneasy. He mumbled something to Sherry that Susan couldn’t hear, released her arm, and turned to the various assembly that had gathered to open the bar.

  “Good evening, Annie,” Frankie said, rotating to survey the crowd, making sure they were all listening. He never looked at Annie. His voice was low, but it silenced the room. It was cold and quiet in a way that made everyone lean in—commanding their attention more than a shout would have done. “Annie, here, is late,” he told them, pivoting some more like an orator. “Annie thinks she’s special. Special Annie gets to come in late. Do you all think that Annie’s special?”

  Annie stopped short and Susan could see that she was frantically seeking eye contact with Frankie. He continued to look at everyone but her. Annie cast a glance around the room, as did Susan, only to meet the stares of the various waitresses, bartenders and busboys who’d momentarily suspended their set-ups to focus on the little show that the boss was putting on at the new girl’s expense.

  No one answered his question. Susan got the feeling that this crew was accustomed to these outbursts; everyone looked simultaneously uncomfortable that this was happening and relieved that it wasn’t happening to them. The ensuing silence was long and palpable.

  Finally, Annie sputtered into the stillness, “I’m sorry I’m late. I needed gas.” She was floundering, looking at Frankie, searching for a pair of kind eyes anywhere in the room. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t or you’re out.” For the first time, Frankie shot a steely look at Annie. Then, just as quickly, he turned his back on her. “Sherry, baby, you get ‘em both.” With that, Frankie slapped Sherry on the rear end and walked out of the room. Susan was stunned. He had literally slapped her ass, in front of everyone present, and not a single one of them raised an eyebrow, not even Sherry. The slap served as an auditory period on his sentence—like the clapper signaling the start of film action at the beginning of a scene, only this clap meant that the scene was over. All of the workers in Frankie’s Discothèque were released from his spell and returned to their various chores.

  “Great, just great! You two get your sorry asses over here. Have you ever waitressed before?” Sherry shot accusingly at Annie.

  “No.” Annie’s voice was much smaller than Susan had heard it before.

  “Fuck. I don’t know why I followed my asshole of a husband to this asshole of a town. Can either of you answer that question?” Sherry leaned in on Annie and Susan. “Huh?”

  Neither girl responded.

  “I should never have left Boston!” Sherry turned and stomped rapidly toward the kitchen. “C’mon you two know-nothing nitwits! You’ll start on salad prep!”

  “Toto, I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Susan whispered to Annie as they scurried after the retreating Sherry. She peeked over at her new friend, this person she had barely known yet had followed into this sordid scene, hoping that, with a little camaraderie, they might get through it together.

  Annie did not look back at Susan.

  Susan felt a jolt of aloneness, fearing that she might have read more meaning into their budding friendship than Annie had. And then, silently, Annie reached out to grasp Susan’s hand. Still without looking at her, Annie gave her hand a little squeeze.

  The gesture flooded Susan with relief and, still clutching her coat, she accompanied her friend through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

  13

  Tuesday, July 17, 1979

  With what meager enthusiasm she could muster, Susan turned from the service bar, her tray laden with drinks. Three days in, she was determined to demonstrate that she had mastered the finer points of swinging a tray over her head. She’d watched the wrist twist used by the pros, Sherry chief among them, though Diane had a mean wrist swivel too. It was actually rather elegant to see a woman with a heavy load twirl it effortlessly up and above through a flick of her stick-thin wrist—it forced the posture straight, it allowed the waitress to pass through the crowd and it garnered admiring stares.

  It seemed that the trick was to do it fast; grab the tray with two hands, slide it to rest on the flattened palm of your dominant hand—in Susan’s case, the left—and then pivot that wrist around to lift the tray over your head. Susan felt ready to give it a try. She was a dancer, after all; how hard could it possibly be?

  She moved a few paces away from the bar. Positioning the tray on her left hand, she began the turn of her wrist and the sweeping arc overhead just as Sherry abruptly materialized out of the crowd and bore down on her.

  “Susan! Move it!” Sherry barked in her face.

  Susan reached her right hand up to steady her load in the wake of Sherry’s passing, but it had all occurred at the wrong moment of the operation. Over the throb of the music, Susan could hear the tinkle of wobbling glasses. Or, maybe she just felt its vibration, like a coming seismic shift. Sherry, who had been in such a hurry two seconds before, completely stopped moving to watch her.

  Beer, vodka, gin; stickies like Cointreau and grenadine; fruit, olives and onions: all of it poured down on Susan. She felt like human spin art. Glop slopped down her hair, her face, her sharp white shirt; broken glass crunched underfoot. The worst of it was, she couldn’t open her eyes, which were stinging badly. She could neither see to put down the tray nor reach a napkin to wipe her eyes. And, Sherry never lifted a finger to help her. She was probably still standing there gloating. For all Susan knew, the whole bar could have turned around to watch her.

  Her mortification was complete.

  “Oh, honey.” Susan recognized Diane’s sweet voice as the dangling tray was lifted out of her hands. Diane dabbed at Susan’s eyes with what felt like dry napkins, then placed those napkins in Susan’s hand.

  “Come with me,” she said, holding Susan by the shoulders and guiding her across the disco toward the female employees’ bathroom.

  “Here.” Diane handed Susan a clean kitchen towel that she’d run under the hot faucet. It felt so deliciously good on her face that Susan could have cried. She held it there, breathing into the steaming terry cloth, as she heard Diane leave the room.

  “That was pretty rough,” Diane said as she returned to the bathroom with a milk crate. “Sit down. I have some extra uniform stuff in my locker.”

  “Oh, Diane, thank you. I don’t think I’m your size, though. You’re so tiny.”

  “You’re not so big, yourself.”

  “Hey!” Annie popped her head through the door. “What the hell happened? Frankie just yelled at Sherry and she looks like she’s ready to kill someone. Wow, look at you!”

  “Oh, God!” Susan
sank onto the milk crate. “I wish he hadn’t done that.”

  “Don’t worry; he yells at her all the time. She’ll get over it,” Diane said. She turned to address Annie. “I can look after Susan from here—can you cover our tables?”

  “Oh. Okay,” Annie said, looking from one girl to the other. “Sure,” she added. Then she turned and left the room. Susan was surprised to think that Annie might be a little jealous.

  “Here.” Diane came back from her locker on the opposite wall and handed Susan a pile of clothes. “Put these on. You can go in the stall. Take that wet towel with you.”

  “How do you do it?” Susan asked from the cubicle as she wiped herself down. “How do you work here? I mean, this is like one of the nine circles of Hell.”

  “It’s all right, really, once you get used to it. You just have to learn the dos and don’ts.”

  “Yeah. Don’t drop drinks on your head when Sherry’s watching.”

  “Well, sure, but Sherry’s not the only one you have to watch out for. You know the brothers who own the place, right?”

  “Just Frankie.”

  “Well, there are three of them. Vito’s the oldest and he’s the brains of the operation. You’ll see him at the corner table every night with his crew. Stay away from that table unless you’ve been assigned to work it—which you probably won’t be. Frankie usually has Sherry do it.

  “Carmine, the middle brother, is a recluse; he keeps the books and only comes in during the day. He works in the office back here. You won’t ever see him, unless you come in early. And then, Frankie’s the baby.”

  “Some baby.”

  “He can be sweet. You just don’t know him.”

  “Oh, Diane, you can do better than that,” Susan said as she exited the toilet stall.

  “I don’t know about that. You know who they are, right?”

  “What do you mean? Who are they?”

  “The Castiglione brothers? They’re kind of famous in Detroit. Their grandfather was the guy who started Papa Vito’s Pizza.”

  “Wow. That’s a huge chain.”

  “I guess these three couldn’t get the kind of action they wanted at the pizzerias, so they graduated to the disco business.”

  “I guess,” Susan concurred. “But, are you trying to tell me something? I mean, Frankie was really weird that first day with you and Annie. Even with Sherry. What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything. Forget it. Look, we better get back to work before Sherry comes looking for us.”

  Susan regarded Diane for a moment, but Diane did not meet her gaze. So she turned to herself in the mirror. Her hair was still clumped in tufts, a toothpick lodged on one side. “I can’t go back out there.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Diane started to open the door, then looked back at Susan. “And, watch your friend. She could get into some trouble here. It’s not so bad if you know the rules—but, she doesn’t seem like someone who plays by the rules.”

  14

  Friday, July 20, 1979

  On a perfect afternoon, six days into their odyssey at Frankie’s Disco, Susan and Annie arrived at Metro Beach, a thousand-foot sweep of sand twenty miles to the north of Detroit. The girls grabbed burgers, fries, and Cokes as they made their way through the crowd. They squeezed their towels on a small patch of sand at the halfway point, equidistant between Lake St. Clair and the concession stand. Peeling off jean shorts and tank tops, they settled down in their bikinis to enjoy lunch.

  “So what do you think?” Annie asked as she slathered on baby oil mixed with iodine, the homegrown recipe for a good dark tan. “Frankie’s is kind of fun, isn’t it?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Susan had brought a tube of Bain de Soleil. She loved the way it smelled and halfway hoped it would give her a better tan. A French Riviera tan.

  “All right, I admit I got off to an awkward start with Frankie. And you, spilling drinks on your head! Here, would you do my back?”

  Susan took the baby oil concoction and applied it to Annie’s back. “Awkward is an understatement. Frankie’s creepy. And Sherry’s awful.”

  “Well, who gives a you-know-what is what I say. Want me to do your back?”

  “Sure.” Susan turned away from Annie. “I like Diane, though.”

  “She’s okay.”

  “It’s funny, she said she doesn’t want to go to college. I don’t understand it. She sounds like a girl who would.”

  Annie rubbed the suntan lotion vigorously. “Well, you know, it’s not for everyone.”

  “But don’t you like it? I love it!”

  “That’s because you’re in some swanky girls’ school and you live in a dorm and you’re all bonding all the time over your Fair Isles sweaters or kilts or something.”

  Susan couldn’t help but laugh. “Kilts aside, what’s it like at Oakland University?”

  “It’s okay. I mean, I don’t live there or anything. I just go for my classes.”

  “Why don’t you transfer?”

  “It’s probably expensive, and I don’t even really know what I want to do. Anyway, tell me more about Diane.”

  “She’s only eighteen, and she’s really sweet. I can’t figure out what she’s doing there,” Susan said. “Of course, I could say that about us too. Too late now, though. You realize we’ve burned our bridges and we’re stuck at Frankie’s for the rest of this summer?”

  “Yes, I realize that, Susan. I fully appreciate the gravity of my sins and I’m ready to make a full confession. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Susan turned around to peer at her. “Geez! What’s bothering you all of a sudden?”

  “Well that’s how you sound half the time—like you’re poised on the precipice of tragedy.” Annie grabbed her burger from the bag on the towel and commenced eating.

  “I don’t think I talk about my problems all that much!”

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re just so…I don’t know. You’re like Mary Poppins! Practically perfect in every way.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re the perfect one. Look at you—every person you meet falls over their own two feet when they see you coming.”

  “Not everyone. My stepfather hates me. My mother hates me, too. And my half-sister doesn’t like me much—although, in her case, I probably like her less than she likes me.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Susan said.

  “You have no idea what it’s like in my family. No idea.” Annie grew sulky and silently ate her burger.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “I mean, c’mon Susan, don’t you think I would be more like you if I could? Hey!” She suddenly brightened. “Maybe you could teach me French!”

  Susan could not tell if Annie was sincere or teasing. “Okay. Um. I’m not sure how much you could learn in a summer.”

  “Don’t you want to continue our friendship after the summer ends?”

  “Well, sure. I do.” And she did. She felt like a foolish schoolgirl trying to find out if a boy really liked her, but she could not help herself. Annie had that effect. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course, I do! I wanna be friends with you forever! Hey!” Annie made another conversational U-turn and practically yelled. “Truth

  or Dare?”

  “Not again! Last time, I made a fool of myself.” Susan laughed as she rummaged around the bag for her food.

  “And yet I’ve come to like you in spite of how prissy you are.”

  “Annie, you’re trying to goad me.”

  “Why, Susan, yes I am.”

  “I do not respond to goading.” Susan, still laughing, started eating.

  “Okay, I’ll go first.”

  “That’s a ridiculously transparent attempt to get me to bare my soul!”

  “What? Like wearing that cowl neck sweater is the worst thing you ever did?”

  “That is not the worst thing I ever did.” Susan realized with some irritation th
at she was, in fact, responding to Annie’s goading. “I never suggested it was. I said it was a foolish thing and I don’t like feeling foolish.”

  “So what is your worst thing?”

  “It’s none of your business, okay?” Susan sipped her Coke and looked out to the water. “Geez, Annie, don’t you ever give up?”

  “Nope. Just ask my stepfather. He’d tell you I’m as persistent as a mosquito.” Annie stared out at the lake, as well. “Dontcha love that comparison? That’s how they see me in my family—the big, fat mosquito, sucking the life out of everyone else. They clam up when I walk into the room—like they’re in the middle of the most engaging conversation they’ve ever had—then I come in and they all just shut up. They might as well chase me out with a flyswatter!”

  Susan looked at her friend with compassion.

  “Don’t pity me, Susan.” Annie snapped at her.

  “I don’t! I’m sorry. I just…” Susan did not want to tell her new friend that she actually could understand how Annie’s megawatt personality might be overwhelming to some. But to her family? In fact, she did feel pity for Annie.

  “You want to know the worst thing I ever did?” Susan wedged her Coke in the sand as she sighed. “Fine. I was fifteen. My mother wasn’t well, and for about a year, I’d been smoking a little pot with this girl, Christina. She had this big, hunky brother called Dolph.”

  “Dolph?”

  “They were German. Anyway, Dolph was running off the rails, dealing drugs, and who knows what all. One day, we went up to Stratford, Ontario, for the Shakespeare Festival. It was a field trip with our English class to see Twelfth Night. Right after we left, Christina showed me these mushrooms that Dolph had given her. They were psilocybins—hallucinogens. He told her we should eat them on the bus.”

  “That’s it? You did drugs?”

  “If you don’t stop interrupting, I won’t tell you at all. Where was I?” Susan took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Right. Well, we ate them. They were disgusting. Then the whole long day was surreal. In a restaurant, I was transfixed by a glass of water for what seemed like a year. I don’t know how we got to the theatre. I love Twelfth Night, but I have no memory of it.