Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  Albert bit into his burger and watched Jayne bend over to pick up a fork someone had dropped, noted the rounded swell of her ass under the uniform, and the lack of panty line. She must be wearing a thong, he thought, and his dick twitched in his jeans.

  “Anyway, my mother smokes dope,” Bobby was saying. “I know she does. I saw the roach, and it sure as hell wasn’t Ivy’s. They’re such fucking hypocrites.”

  “Your old lady smokes weed? Where does she get it from?”

  Bobby sucked on his straw and pulled it out of the soda, his finger against the end so the liquid stayed in the straw, then he let it drain out. “I don’t know. But I’ve seen her come out of the bathroom after she’s been in there for a damn hour, saying she’s reading. She’s stoned. I can’t believe he doesn’t know.”

  “Maybe he does know. Maybe he smokes with her.”

  Bobby laughed. “My old man? Are you kidding? I’m surprised he even knows what grass is.” He shook his head, grinning. “My father, Chinese-eyed. That’d be something to see.”

  The door opened and Bill Corkum stepped in. As he ran his hand over his shaved head, he looked around, his eyes pausing on Albert for only a nano-second before coming to rest on Jayne, who stood behind the counter. He smiled, walked to the end and took a seat where Albert imagined he could keep an eye on him and Bobby. Albert finished the last of his burger and pushed the plate away. So, that’s why Bill had looked at Keith so funny that afternoon. He was trying to stick it to his old lady, huh? Well, Jayne wouldn’t go for that shit. Not Bill Corkum. Bobby hadn’t noticed Bill; he was folding creases into his placemat and mumbling about his mother.

  “You not working?” said Jayne to Bill.

  “Mixer broke down again. Told us to take lunch.”

  “Must be hard working at Kroeler’s,” said Jayne.

  “Naw, it ain’t hard.”

  “You like it?”

  Bill laughed. “No, girl, I don’t like it, I do it. So, you coming to Aunt Gerry’s tonight?” he said, popping a toothpick in between his teeth.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Eating. Food. At the house.”

  “No,” Jayne laughed. “How could I do that?”

  And Albert thought, smart girl.

  “Which means what, exactly?” said Bill.

  And Albert thought, it means she’s not going to fuck you, pal.

  The bell rang in the kitchen. “Table six up. Table nine up,” Pataki yelled.

  “Excuse me,” said Albert. “Can I get some more coffee, please? If you’re not too busy.”

  Blushing furiously Jayne said, “I gotta go. I’ll be right with you, Albert.”

  Bill did not look at Albert. Jayne picked up two meatball sandwiches and one grilled cheese and bacon and delivered them to the waiting customers. As she circled round, she stopped to grab the coffee pot and came to Albert and Bobby’s table. Albert leaned over the table, drumming his fingers on the surface.

  “Can I get you anything else?” said Jayne, pouring the coffee.

  “Whatcha got?” said Albert, smiling at her with that smile he knew was his best feature.

  “Well,” Jayne said, smiling back, “we’ve got pies—apple, blueberry, cherry.”

  “I think I’ll have a cherry,” said Albert. “Bobby, you want anything else?”

  “Naw,” said Bobby. He dangled his dripping straw over a pile of salt in the middle of his ketchup-stained plate.

  “So have another Coke, and stop playing with the fucking straw,” said Albert.

  “Coming right up,” said Jayne.

  Carol stood by the register, facing the mirror, pressing lightly at a pimple on her chin. Jayne whispered something to her as she walked past and Carol gave her a dirty look, one hand caressing the small gold cross around her neck. Jayne cut the cherry pie, licking her thumb afterwards, pulled a fresh cola from the soda gun and brought the order to Albert and Bobby. Before Albert could say more than thank you, she ducked back around the counter in front of Bill. “Okay Bill, what can I get you?”

  “How come you won’t come to supper? Not town enough for you?” He grinned at her, his tone teasing.

  “Are you the cook?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Well, I can’t just go to supper at someone’s house when they don’t even know I’m coming. A person just can’t barge in like that.” She stood with pencil poised. “What can I get you?”

  A gaggle of boys at the register pushed and shoved as each one tried to pawn the cheque off on someone else. They waved their goodbyes to Jayne and she waved back. The restaurant was quieter now, only a few girls left, and they looked about to follow the boys, disappointed they hadn’t been asked.

  “Give me some fries and coffee, lots of cream,” Bill said.

  She fetched the coffee pot and a heavy mug and as she put the cup down Bill took her hand. A flush of proprietary jealousy sat in the pit of Albert’s stomach like a frozen rock.

  “Listen,” Bill was saying, “you don’t get it. My Auntie Gerry don’t care. One more ain’t going to make a bit of difference.”

  Jayne took her hand back, but not, Albert noticed, without a friendly little squeeze. “She run a restaurant, or what?”

  “Feels that way, but it’s all family.”

  Bobby, who was also listening now, muttered “I’ll bet,” and Albert glared at him so that he shut up. The kid didn’t get it. You kept your mouth shut—that was the way you learned. You let people tell you things they didn’t know they were telling you. It was an art he’d learned, growing up in a place where your life depended on recognizing the slightest change in vocal inflection, the smallest shift in conversational subject. An unintended glance could tell you where someone stashed a bottle, or some extra cash, or a hoard of bread and baloney. And if you talked too much and missed the clues, the bruises and blood were your own fault.

  “She’s a pretty great lady. Come on, meet her.”

  “I don’t think so.” Jayne blushed prettily.

  Albert was happy to see her looking uncomfortable. He thought he’d let her squirm for a few more minutes and then step in.

  “Too mountain for you?” said Bill.

  The bell in the kitchen rang. “Table fifteen up.”

  “You flatter yourself, Bill Corkum,” she said, walking away.

  “You’re killing me!” he called after her. “I heard you were a heartbreaker!”

  “Guess that’s one name for it,” said a familiar voice.

  Albert watched as Keith Keyes walked through the door and Jayne stopped in her tracks.

  “Hi, Jayne,” Keith took a table in the window. He ordered fries, grilled cheese and a cola.

  “This should be interesting,” said Albert.

  Bill stayed in his seat, but all the jokiness of a moment before disappeared. He sat straight, his forearms placed before him on the counter. His left leg was flat on the floor, but his right one was cocked, in a stance Albert recognized as one designed for the fastest upward movement, if required.

  “Keith,” said Jayne, in a flat voice.

  Pataki stuck his head out the order window. A goatish little man, he sported a tidy moustache that was better suited to a tango dancer. One of Gideon’s few “foreigners,” Gus Pataki never seemed to leave his restaurant. He spoke with the myth-laden accent of his Greek homeland and had married Alice Sully, a local girl. They lived in one of the town’s finer houses, on Washington Street, facing the Trout River, and it was widely agreed he couldn’t possibly have made his money solely from Gus’s, which was, after all, little more than a diner.

  “We slowing?” Pataki asked, and Carol said they were.

  Jayne busied herself putting on a new pot of coffee and didn’t see Mr. Pataki come out of the kitchen. He
took her by the elbow and gestured with his chin in Keith’s direction. Albert strained to hear and even Bobby had stopped playing with his drink and turned around to watch.

  “You see who’s here?” said Pataki.

  “I saw.”

  “You two getting back together? Going to kiss and make up?”

  She looked at his hand on her elbow. She tried to move away but he gripped her tighter. Albert watched to see if Bill would rescue her, but Bill, although his shoulders bunched, stayed where he was. It was not what he, Albert, would have done. Albert considered going over and tearing Pataki’s hands off Jayne. The idea made him snort.

  “What?” said Bobby.

  “Nothing.”

  The urge to intervene, like his early twinge of jealousy, took him off guard. Perhaps it was because Jayne reminded him a little of his ten-year-old cousin, Toots. Something about Jayne’s independence, maybe, or her skinny legs. But then, Jayne’s weren’t blotchy with bruises, were they? An acid wave of guilt washed over him.

  “No, we are not getting back together,” Jayne said, in a voice loud enough to carry across the restaurant. “Can I have my arm back?”

  “You want me to toss him out?” said Pataki. “I can do it, you know. Wouldn’t bother me, if you wanted me to do you a favour like that.”

  What was it about this little chick that got all the roosters so riled up? Albert mused.

  She pulled away, fast and neat, leaving Pataki holding air. The motion looked as if she was drawing back to slap him, and Albert was surprised when Pataki flinched ever so slightly. Albert’s admiration for Jayne grew, and again, she reminded him of Toots.

  “Thanks, but there’s no need,” she said.

  Pataki scowled and hefted up his pants. “I don’t want no trouble here, Jayne. Troublemakers got no place working here.”

  “Hey, hey,” said Bobby.

  “Mind your business,” said Albert.

  “Oh, like you’re minding yours?”

  “This might be my business,” said Albert.

  Pataki caught her arm and leaned in close to her ear. He wasn’t much taller than she was. He whispered something and Jayne looked dangerously close to tears.

  Pataki let her go and brushed off his sleeves. “Now you apologize and get back to work.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Pataki disappeared into the kitchen, and must have slammed a pot against something metal, for a loud bang made them all jump. Keith remained with his gaze fixed out the window, concentrating on the street as if there was a parade going by. Carol put a grilled cheese, fries and a cola down in front of him, but he ignored her.

  It was all working out pretty well. If Albert played his cards right, if he asked her out now, pissed as she was, he’d bet money she’d say yes.

  Jayne looked blankly around her as though wondering how to get out of the place. Albert tried to catch her eye, and she looked at him, but he wasn’t altogether sure she saw him. He winked at her, subtly, a thing just between the two of them. Letting her know he was here for her. After all, didn’t he understand better than most what it was to have people look down on you? Make comments about you? He could be good for this girl.

  Jayne blinked twice and walked over to Bill. She put her hand on his shoulder and a surge of electricity ran down Albert’s arms, so strong his hands jerked from where they rested on his thighs.

  “I can’t make it for dinner tonight,” she said in a steady voice. “Would another night be possible?” She said it loud enough to be heard throughout the room.

  The air around Albert got colder. This happened sometimes, when he got angry. It was as if his body temperature spiked so fast that in comparison the air felt cold, as if he ran a fever of anger. He couldn’t figure out just who he was angriest at: himself, for missing his opportunity, or Bill, for taking his. Or maybe it was Jayne—all those points she’d racked up for dignity and pride, she was willing to throw away on Bill Corkum. Stupid little slut. And he’d fantasized she’d be the one to . . . to what? Fuck that. Fuck her. And maybe he would one day. A mercy fuck.

  “What about Friday?” said Bill, also loudly, and grinning.

  Albert knew if Bill so much as glanced in his direction he was going to jump up out of this booth and slam his rival’s bony chin into the counter. He hoped Bill would look at him, hoped he would hold his winner’s smirk long enough to let Albert smear it off in blood and bits of tooth and bone.

  “Lovely. What time?” said Jayne.

  “I’ll swing by and pick you up after I finish up work, okay?” he said.

  “Hey! You! I want my cheque,” Albert called.

  Startled, Jayne turned to him. “But you haven’t touched your pie.”

  “It’s fucking crap. Give me my bill or I’m leaving anyway.”

  “Fine, take it.” She pulled the little yellow pad from her pocket, ripped off the bill, came to him and slapped it down on the table. It was for eight-fifty. He threw down eight dollars.

  “Pay at the register,” she said, and he ignored her.

  He stood and strode to the door without even glancing at Bill. Bobby said something he didn’t catch and then laughed, following him.

  “You’re short!” called Jayne.

  “So fucking sue me,” he called back.

  “What’s your problem? Albert? Albert!”

  Outside he walked down the street without stopping to see if Bobby followed. The air carried a trace of the fried meat and oil from Gus’s kitchen, and under it the tang of springtime dog shit and wet newspapers. The sound of reggae music wafted from Danny’s Records and he glanced in. A pretty girl stood flipping through the bins of CD’s and collector vinyl. He hated her on sight, with her perfect cheerleader’s nose and pert ass. And then there Bobby was, trotting beside him.

  “Wow, what are you so pissed at?”

  “I fucking hate that place. No class. I don’t know why you wanted to go there. I’m never fucking going there again. All that bullshit. Who needs it?” A pain shot up from his instep and he’d taken another step, endured another flash of pain, before he realized he had a stone in his boot. He sat down on the curb, next to the clogged-up leaves in the drain, the cigarette butts and the dust, and pulled his boot off while Bobby watched him, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Albert held the boot upside down and a small, sharp stone fell into his palm. “How does that fucking happen?” he yelled. “I mean, how does it get the fuck in there?” He threw it at a passing car and was only minimally satisfied with the ting it made when it hit the side. It would have pleased him more if the driver had stopped. A stone in his shoe was just like goddamn life, he thought. You didn’t put it there and you didn’t want it and you couldn’t see it, and then wham! it cut into your instep and made you bleed.

  “You okay?” said Bobby.

  “I’m a fucking carnival,” said Albert, and in that moment all he was left with was a huge gaping pit of loneliness, just a black bottomless space on the ground around him in every direction. He would never admit it to anyone, and maybe he didn’t want to admit it even to himself, but for a while now, and certainly for a few minutes there Albert had wondered about the future in a way he hadn’t before. Permitted himself to think in terms of possibilities. He hadn’t seen it coming, because he’d never really had a crush on anyone before, not in all the years of his being alive. He’d banged a good number of girls. He’d even seen a few for a couple of months at a time, mountain slags, mostly, and one or two too stupid to figure out they were nothing more than booty calls, but for some reason that skinny little bitch of a waitress had been different. Why? Because she’d given him a couple of free coffees? Because she didn’t look at him the same way other people did? Because she’d had the good sense to drop that loser, Keith Keyes? Well, who was the loser now, huh? Who was the fucking loser now? He was a carnival
all right, a fucking freak show.

  Albert pulled his boot back on and stood on the sidewalk, tired down to his bones. He wanted to go back to the cabin and get good and drunk and sleep for about a hundred years. But he knew as soon as he got back there he’d feel like a trapped wolf. He was wiped out and restless all at once. He needed something to do, to plan, a project to get his mind off this self-indulgent shit. He started walking, kicking at stray stones on the sidewalk, crushing a can under his heel with one satisfying crunch. Then he stopped, the tips of his fingers tingling for something to do, for something to take the edge off.

  “You know what, son?” he said to Bobby. “I think you might be ready. I think you might finally be ready to step into the game.” And, his decision being made, he felt better.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A wide, slow moving line of thunderstorms battered Gideon all morning and afternoon. Driving home took Tom longer than usual since two of the roads were blocked with downed trees. At the outskirts of town a power line danced across the street, spitting sparks like a furious cobra and the traffic lights were out. The temperature dropped and for May it was chilly, with a pewter sky and still-roiling clouds. Tom pulled into the driveway. A stray burst of sunlight flashed from between the dark clouds, briefly blinding him. Everything smelled of electricity. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was still high and the trees whipped and creaked. The sickly maple had succumbed at last. It lay on its side across the lawn, but it looked as though two branches had broken off first. One had hit the fence on the side of the house and broken through the top rail. Another lay near the garage. It was a big limb, a good six feet or more, far enough from the mother tree to make Tom wonder how the hell it had got there. Patty’s car was visible through the windows in the garage and he thanked god she’d had the foresight not to take it out on one of her rambles today. A gust came up out of nowhere and a metal watering can bounced and rattled across the walk. He looked up. The sky had that ominous tinge of green you never wanted to see. The weather report on the radio had said the worst of it was over, but Tom wasn’t so sure. Rascal barked from inside the house. The door opened and Ivy stepped out.