Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  I’m ready for business at line-up. Paulie runs his fingers along my dry-cleaned shirt. “Nice creases, Frannie,” he murmurs. He turns to the other servers. “Guys, this is a dry-cleaned shirt. I suggest you study it and by tomorrow, make sure you’re wearing one just like it.”

  Artie rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Frannie. Since when do you dry-clean your shirts?”

  I shrug and jam my hands into my apron pockets. I don’t have much time. I need this job. I have to care about something. This morning at the home, I watched Ben, a physical therapist, help a woman walk down a narrow hallway. Clinging to her walker, she hunched over as she took a first step. Ben was behind her, patiently coaxing her. “Come on, Roberta, honey, come on.” Roberta tripped and I held my breath.

  “Tonight’s specials are mahi-mahi, which can be blackened, broiled, or put in a blender for all I care.” Paulie rubs his mustache. He looks tired, and he’s wearing glasses, something I hadn’t noticed before. Someone said his wife, Tina, is divorcing him. In fact, she’s supposed to be his second wife, his first wife left him for another man, or so the story goes. Since all this is passed from waiter to waiter, it’s hard to know what’s true. “The pasta is pasta primavera and the soup is tomato basil. We’re low on soup, so don’t push it. Also, we’re out of vinaigrette dressing but Cecil is making some. It’ll be ready in five minutes.” Paulie leans against the counter. “Anything else?” He waits. “No? Good. Now go out and make some money.”

  “I have something to add.” Artie lifts a finger. Paulie peers into the dining room and tells him to make it quick. “I want to know if anyone can trade stations? I need to get out early tonight.” Artie looks up, expectantly. No one says a word.

  “I guess you’re shit out of luck, Artie my man. Okay, let’s go, guys.” Paulie claps. “Come on. Chop chop.”

  Artie pulls me aside as ten duck aprons file out of the kitchen. “Come on, Frannie. Trade?” He lets his hand linger. I think of Roberta’s hands on the walker, tense from the fear of falling.

  “Okay, I’ll close for you.” I wrench my arm away.

  “Frannie,” he asks suddenly. “Why don’t you like me?”

  “I do like you, Artie,” I say slowly. “We’re friends.”

  He stares at me. “Why don’t you want to be with me?” He tries to kiss me. I pull back. “But why, Frannie?”

  Why? The image of three teenagers straddling the girl in Shelly’s story flashes in my head. I want to tell him that he’s pathetic, that when I’m with him, I hate myself, that sex isn’t supposed to be about fumbling in the dark to make parts fit. “I don’t know, Artie,” I tell him honestly. “I really don’t.” I bite my lip as he slinks away. I’m sorry, I tell him silently, but I can’t be with you anymore, not that way. Not right now. I see Artie, the dewy eyes, the hopeful mouth. Or is it me? I blink.

  There’s a woman sitting at the bar. When I look at her, she smiles at me in recognition, but I can’t place her. She is thin but shapely and her eyes are such a deep blue, it hurts to look at them. She has flawless skin and perfect lips. I wish I could be that beautiful. The bartender puts a soda in front of her. She squeezes a lemon wedge into the glass. I look away, then back. She’s still smiling at me as if I’m supposed to know her.

  Back in the dining room, I place three waters on a table. “My name’s Frannie.” I smile. “I’m your waitress. Anyone want to start with a drink?”

  A heavyset man leans forward and points to his wife. “This is Ann and I’m Bert and this is Bruce. We’re your customers.” He chuckles at himself.

  “Dad!” Bruce moans. He sticks his fingers into the water glass then sucks on them. I watch him suck his fingers and suddenly feel like gagging.

  “A glass of red wine for my wife, a Coke for Bruce, and a Bud for me. Got it?”

  “Red wine for Ann, Coke for Bruce, and a Bud for Bert.” I head for the bar. “Got it.”

  The woman is still in the bar but this time Paulie’s with her. Her eyes travel over the bottles, squinting as though counting, then rest on me. She smiles again but this time doesn’t linger.

  She’s wearing a tailored taupe suit and sling-backs. I feel like I’ve seen her before but maybe I’ve only seen women who look like her, women rushing through the city holding leather briefcases and the New York Times. I shred a bar napkin. Seeing her poised and pretty makes me feel oafish, like I’m not trying hard enough. A memory nags at me, a mental image of this woman sitting somewhere else. In the image, the woman nods her head, rests it against a bench, a booth maybe, a wine-colored cushion.

  “Who’s she?” I whisper to a waiter.

  “She’s with corporate. I don’t know her name. But watch Paulie. He’s crawling all over her.” From the corner of my eye, I see her gesture. She rests her hand on her face. Her hand. It’s her hand that I recognize. Her hand on a dark gray suit.

  I make my way back to Bert, Ann, and Bruce and put their drinks down. I’m distracted when they order, thinking of the pretty woman’s hand, her hand on an arm, fluttering in sadness, clenched in anger.

  Bert holds the menu as if reading a book. Ann turns in her seat, reaches up, and rests a hand on his arm. He pulls away. For a second, Ann’s hand is suspended in mid-air. Then I know. I waited on the corporate woman! She was with that married man the night I got fired!

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I have to check something.”

  The woman is standing next to Paulie, looking out at the parking lot. I can’t see her face but I’m positive by the way her hair swings, that it’s her. Shit, she’s gonna ask Paulie if I’m the obnoxious girl who yelled at her date. She’ll want to know why I’m still here, we have a policy about that sort of thing. She turns slightly and I get a profile. I can see the shape of one full eye; a narrow, fine-boned cheek; the soft curve of chin. She lifts her hand to wipe a lock of hair out of her eyes. In my mind, Roberta almost makes it with her walker. There’s a group of elderly people huddled together, beckoning to her. “Come on, hon.” They hold out their hands. There’s a flutter of a purple scarf, the clomp of her walker as she takes another step.

  I purposely avoid the bar. I wonder when Paulie will ask to see me, when he’ll close his door, sit on the edge of his desk, kick his foot, clear his throat. “I’m sorry, Frannie,” he’ll murmur, fidgeting with some papers. “I have to let you go. It’s from corporate. You’ll find something, honey.” He pats my arm. Each of his gestures makes me want to cry.

  Around eight-thirty, I’m really backed up. I have six tables going. One’s a party of eight with special orders. I’ve gotten their salads and am going over their order with Cecil who can’t stand to be bothered on a busy Saturday night.

  I lean over the pass-out bar and stand on my toes to watch his hands. He works fast, leaning over to grab a stack of plates which are already garnished, the buns lying open-faced in a circle made of a lettuce leaf, a tomato wedge, an onion slice, and a sprig of kale. “I’m sorry, Cecil. But eighty-six the nuts on the chicken. And only a little glaze, hardly any, okay?” I glance behind me. The dining room is full. I flush with exhilaration. Cecil sticks a brush into a bowl of glaze and slathers it on a piece of chicken. “Cecil! That’s too much!”

  “Frannie, let me cook and I won’t bother your tables. The lady won’t know the difference. If I don’t do this, she’ll say it’s bland and send it back. Trust me.” Minutes later, I watch the woman eat her glazed chicken. She lifts the fork to her mouth, chews thoughtfully and swallows. She licks her bottom lip and cuts another piece.

  “Frannie?” Paulie grabs my apron strings. “Take care of the lady on two. She’s a friend.”

  I’m not really paying attention, so when I get to the table, I stop short. It’s the woman from corporate and she’s still smiling that same fucking smile. “Hi.” I falter. I lean on the edge of my foot so my ankle turns under. “I’m Frannie.”

  “I’m Victoria Tayborn.” She extends her hand. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”

  Her handshake is firm. I s
wallow. “I’ve had a busy few months.”

  “So I hear.” She smiles. Her smile really isn’t so bad.

  “I have a business proposition for you,” she says. “We have an opening on our marketing team. If you’re interested, why don’t you call me next Monday?” She hands me her card. “We can meet next week to talk about it.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I study her card and drift back to this morning, to Roberta and Ben. Roberta reaches the crowd. They take away her walker and someone lowers her into a chair. “Oh, my Gawd!” someone screeches. “Roberta, look at you!” Ben and I applaud. As I look into Vicky Tayborn’s face and her eyes glint with kindness, it is this sound, the soft sound of Ben’s hands coming together, that echoes in my head.

  “Grandpa tells me you’ve been spending time with him.” My mother tears at a crust of bread. “I appreciate it, Frannie, I haven’t had a chance to see him lately.”

  I shrug. “I like being there.” I pick at a roll. “I’ve been helping out in the kitchen.”

  “Maybe they have something for you full-time.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I laugh. “It’s not really what I had in mind for myself.”

  She tells the waiter that her veal is undercooked. As he walks away with her plate, she grabs my hand. “Did you see that?” she asks. “I’m Grandma.” We laugh and sit for a few seconds. The silence isn’t uncomfortable.

  “How’s your father?” she asks.

  I put down my fork, not really hungry anymore. “He’s okay.” Some woman called my father about his personal ad. In fact, they went out tonight. He told me about it when I mentioned I was having dinner with my mother. It was so obvious he wanted me to tell her. “I thought you guys spoke every day.”

  “Not every day, but we speak often. I meant how are things going between you two?”

  “Good. He’s changed, he’s more mellow. You should come by. What’s up with you?”

  “Things are better.” She thanks the waiter who returns with new veal. “I’ve cut down on the Valium. Marilyn’s helping me.” She stops and I wait for her to tell me I need help, but she doesn’t. Instead she smiles. “I’m sure you consider me a drug addict.”

  “I never paid much attention,” I lie. “Congratulations, I guess.” We’re being too nice. It’s like a first date. My mother picks absently at her veal. “Have you and Abby made up?”

  I shake my head. “I guess we weren’t meant to be best friends for life.”

  “You know Abby’s volatility. She’ll come around. I wouldn’t let it go just like that.”

  “Maybe some things in life are better off let go.” I say this quietly, tracing the rim of my wineglass with the tip of my finger. I drink from it, staring at my mother. Her head looks distorted through the curve of the glass. I have to blink to get her in focus. “Mom, I’ve been thinking. Did Shelly ever tell you about anything that happened to her as a kid? With some boys?” She shakes her head and asks me why I want to know. “I don’t know. Just wondering. Did Shelly ever—”

  My mother interrupts me, her face crumpled into an expression of pain. “Frannie, honey. I’m not ready to talk about Shelly. I don’t mean to cut you off, but I just can’t.” Her eyes get wet. “I also want you to know that no matter what happens with Daddy and me, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “Mom, you’re acting like I’m twelve. Don’t you think I know this?”

  “I just wanted to make sure that you heard it from me.” A waiter comes by and asks if we want dessert. My mom asks me if I want to split something.

  I shake my head, but the fact that she asked me if I want dessert registers. It may be the first time in my life that she’s asked me. I think this is supposed to mean something. “So you and Daddy may get a divorce?” I calculate my tone, try to sound mature.

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.” She looks up. “What do you think I should do?”

  Surprised, I look up. She never asks for my opinion. “Why are you asking me?”

  “I don’t know.” She laughs self-consciously. “It just came out.” She plays with a spoon. “I wish you’d consider going to Tempe with me.”

  Suddenly I can’t help myself. “Are you still seeing Johnny?” I ask, not maliciously, just because I’m curious.

  She stares into the candle on the table. The light illuminates her face, softens her cheeks, makes her glow. “Johnny and I never really had an affair, not the way you think. He was just someone to talk to and he let it go too far. I liked talking to him. He made me feel like I made sense, like I mattered. Your father always blows me off.”

  “You slept with him, though, didn’t you?”

  She rests her fingers on her mouth. Speaking through them, she says, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “So you did.” I rub my legs under the table, thinking of my dad and Shelly. And me.

  “I know you’re not going to understand this—” she starts to say.

  “Please stop telling me what I understand. I’m twenty-six years old.”

  “Okay, Frannie. Yes. Once. It was uncomfortable and I knew it was wrong. But I was lonely.” She pauses. “Despite being your mother, I’m still a woman. And I make mistakes. I’m not apologizing. That’s between Daddy and me. I’m just trying to help you understand.”

  I’m about to crack a joke about Johnny’s size, but listening to her talk to me as if I’m a woman, too, not just a dopey girl who eats her food and uses her towels, makes me stop myself. “You always talked to Shelly,” I say softly. “You never talked to me.” I start to cry.

  She smooths my hair away from my face and her eyes fill with tears. For a few seconds, we sit and size each other up. “It was awful,” she tells me firmly. She stirs her coffee. “Just awful. The man really should get some exercise.” She smiles through her tears.

  I wipe my eyes. “I’ll bet,” I say because I know just how awful it can be.

  My mother excuses herself to go to the ladies’ room. When she returns, she’s followed by a crowd of waiters holding a chunk of cake with a candle, and singing “Happy Birthday.” “By the way”—my mother smiles—“you’re not twenty-six, you’re twenty-seven. Happy Birthday.”

  Imagine that. I close my eyes to blow out the candle. I make a wish. I’m twenty-seven. In two months, Shelly would have been twenty-five. She didn’t make it. I’m sure my mother’s thinking the same thing, because she’s crying and we’re holding hands.

  I’m sorry, I want to tell her. I’m sorry I made it and Shelly didn’t. And I can’t help but think about the girl in Shelly’s story, lying naked in the dirt, sucking on her fingers, wishing she could fly.

  18

  One night, I dream about St. Mary’s. Shelly and my grandfather are sitting on her hospital bed, watching television. I try to walk into the room, but can’t. Shelly is really fat, obese like Keisha, the bus driver, who suddenly appears. Then, Pia, the poet, also appears, and she tells Shelly how well Shelly writes. In the dream, I know that they’re not letting me enter the room because I read Shelly’s story. “We have secrets,” Cynthia says as she whirls in a circle, whirling, whirling so fast, she becomes nothing but a blur. Shelly is a skeleton, lying on her bed, and she’s covered in dirt. Little boys tickle her toes. She screams for them to stop, but they won’t. Then it’s me, not Shelly, who is in the bed. I hear a deep voice, a man’s voice, telling the boys to go away. I look up. Standing in the doorway, still yelling at the boys, is Charlie.

  “I was in the city,” I tell Diana the next day when I stop by St. Mary’s. “I wanted to say hello to Cynthia.”

  “Cynthia checked out,” Diana says. “She went home to live with her aunt. I can give you her number. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

  “She checked out? Wow, that’s great.” I feel a pang of sadness. “Yeah, give me her number. I’ll call her,” I say, knowing I won’t.

  As I walk out of the hospital, I hear someone yell my name. “Hey, Frannie! Wait up!” I turn around and beh
ind me, in all his baldheaded, needle-sticking splendor, is Dr. Bryan Thompson. “Uh hi, Bryan,” I say. I stand for a second as he walks toward me. Then, not feeling much like talking to him, I turn away.

  “Wait, Frannie! I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m late, Bryan.” I walk faster. “I don’t have time.” Then I start to run and I’m practically down the block when he catches up to me. He puts his hand on my arm, which I shrug off. “I said I gotta go.”

  “Frannie, I just wanted to tell you I heard about Shelly. I’m really sorry. I was going to call you, but I didn’t think it was appropriate.”

  “Appropriate? What the fuck do you know about appropriate?” I’m sweating and panting, and feel like spitting on him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, picking at his slacks. “I was an asshole. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you sorry about Shelly or how you treated me? There’s a difference, you know.”

  “Both.” He shades his eyes from the sun. “Would you have coffee with me? I’d like to talk to you, to apologize.”

  “You just did.” I start to walk away again, but he won’t let me go. “I’d just like to see you,” he tells me. “Please?” I shrug, but then I think about Shelly, and how maybe he can help me. I nod. “Okay. You can call me.”

  It doesn’t dawn on me until later, when I’m driving home in Shelly’s car, that I almost blew off Dr. Bryan Thompson. Jesus, I think. That was big. That was like major. I smile, proud of myself. How the hell did I do that?

  The following week, I’m in Vicky Tayborn’s office on Fifth Avenue. I took a lot of time getting ready this morning. I washed my new shoulder-length hair courtesy of Freddie. He cut it one afternoon when my grandfather and I had a special Spa Day at Dames and Gents. Afraid I’ll jinx it, I haven’t told anyone except my grandfather and Freddie about this interview.