by Connie Cook
The men ordered for themselves and the girls, and Ruth left to put in their orders with Jim in the kitchen.
Just as Ruth returned to Graham's table with cutlery and condiments, the high-school-aged girl sitting across from Graham was saying in a tone that was probably much louder than she realized (she didn't smell like liquor, but everything else about her showed signs of recent imbibing), "She's retarded, isn't she?"
"Nah," Graham answered her, also plainly audibly. "Philippa's not retarded exactly. She's just slow."
Ruth slapped cutlery on the table, but the conversation didn't alter from its course.
"Hey, Philippa!" Bernie called to the large girl's back at the counter, his words favouring a tendency to slurriness. "You're not retarded, are you? Marti here thinks you're retarded. Why don't you come over here and tell her you're not retarded?"
Philippa and her mother kept their eyes fixed forward, turned to stone.
The ketchup bottle came down hard on the table, not because Graham and his ... friends ... were ever going to get to use it but as an attention-getter.
"You're not getting served here tonight," Ruth told them, trying to keep her tone low and even.
"What? Wha'd'y'mean? We already ordered?" Bernie protested.
"I don't care. You've been drinking. You're disturbing our other customers. We don't have to serve anyone who's been drinking," Ruth told them. She didn't know if it was true or not. It didn't matter. It was true they weren't getting served at the Morning Glory that night. If ever again. That much she knew.
"Why? Just because your friend's a retard? That means we can't get the food we ordered?" That was Bernie again.
"Get out! Now!" Ruth ordered. She'd stopped trying to keep her tone low and even.
Glo was at Ruth's elbow before anyone had a chance to say anything else.
"What's the problem?" she said, not to Ruth but to the four at the table.
"Your waitress is kicking us out," Bernie answered.
"Then I suggest you git," she said. She didn't need to ask any questions. She knew Ruth.
"Oh yeah? What about the customer's always right and all that? I want to speak to your manager? I want to file a complaint against your waitress. She'll serve retards but not good, paying customers like us." Bernie laughed in a fuzzy kind of way. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
"I am the manager, and whatever Ruth's told you to do is what you'll do."
"C'mon, Bernie. Let's just go," Graham said, already on his feet and trying to pry up Bernie by his arm.
"No way! I don't have to leave. It's a free country. I demand service. I want the food I ordered."
"You can get him outta here! And I mean right now!" Glo was never one to worry about watching her tone.
Graham succeeded in dragging Bernie to his feet and hauled him for the door, the sobering girls following awkwardly.
"HEY! RETARD!" Bernie fired a parting shot from the sidewalk back through the open door and kicked the door shut in one last attempt to prove that he wasn't beaten.
Ruth went back to tell Jim to cancel the four orders. He was in the act of dishing the food onto the plates, but without a word, he fired the food into the garbage can. From back in the kitchen, he hadn't witnessed the scene in the restaurant, but he was a man of few words. He wouldn't waste some of his precious store to ask Ruth questions he didn't need to. He could tell that her voice was shaking. Glo would tell him all about it later. Whatever it was, Ruth was in the right. That was all he needed to know for now. He gave her his support silently with his eyes.
Ruth was especially attentive to Philippa and Mrs. Handy that evening, going out of her way not to avoid them, making sure they had everything they wanted, trying hard for their sakes to appear normal. It seemed to her that the best thing to do would be to pretend nothing had happened. As obvious as the pretence was. Some experiences didn't need mentioning, even by sympathetic parties. The two finished their food quietly, heads down, and left the cafe as soon as they could.
When Glo heard the whole story, she was afraid they'd never be back, but there they were in their usual spot at the counter the next Monday.
Surprisingly, Graham came in later that week. He sat in Ruth's section, but she bribed the other waitress, Phoebe, to wait on his table. When Ruth had to pass his table, she looked up and over his head. She sensed that he was trying to signal her with his eyes, but he wasn't about to get the chance, that was one sure thing.
Graham came in the next week, as well. He sat in Ruth's section again, and she repeated her strategy. This time he touched her arm as she made her way past his table with her eyes high. She wouldn't have gone near enough for touching if she had any choice, but there was no help for it. She had to get past that table in the crowded restaurant somehow.
In spite of herself, she glanced down at him when he touched her arm. It was pure reflex that she would have controlled if it wasn't involuntary.
"Ruth, I wanted to say I was sorry ..." Graham started to say, but she cut him off.
"We're busy tonight. I don't have time," she said and walked away.
After Graham had gone, Phoebe handed her a note.
"I was supposed to give this to you," was all the explanation she had.
Curiosity got the better of Ruth. She opened it and read, I said I was sorry. Are you never going to talk to me again?
Graham was in a few days later. It was the breakfast shift, and Phoebe wasn't working that morning. Ruth had the waitressing to herself.
"Would you like to see a breakfast menu?" she asked Graham as though he was a customer who had wandered in from off the street, maybe a stranger in town. Actually, she was friendlier to customers who wandered in off the street. She looked over Graham's left shoulder when she handed him the menu. If she once looked in his face, she knew it would be only a matter of time until it was all up with her.
"Ruth, c'mon! I said I was sorry."
"I know you did. You think that makes it all right?"
"I'll apologize to Philippa the next time I see her if that's what you want."
"And that will make it all right?"
"It wasn't me, anyways. It was Bernie."
"It doesn't matter, Graham. We don't need to discuss this anymore. Are you here for breakfast or just coffee or what do you want?"
"I'm here to see you."
"Why?"
"Because ... well, we were getting along pretty well at the dance, and then the thing with Bernie ... I dunno. I just ... Never mind! Forget it! I'll have coffee."
"Black?"
"Yeah, sure. No, I mean, I take sugar and cream."
When Ruth came back with the coffee and the creamers, Graham said, "I just don't like knowing you're mad at me. I'll do whatever you want."
Ruth said, "It doesn't matter what I want. I don't want anything. Nothing you can do can fix it. It's already done."
"Well, let it go then. Can't you look at me once in awhile when I come in here? Maybe you could even smile and say 'hi.' Would that be so hard?"
Ruth pulled in a deep breath. Though she was still consciously trying to avoid the moment when their eyes met, they met anyway. His eyes had a pleading look, and she couldn't understand why.
"Hi Graham," she said. She couldn't make herself smile, though. Smiling didn't come naturally anyway.
"There! Did that hurt? It's a start, anyways. Okay, bring me a cinnamon bun, I guess. And orange juice, too. Please, I mean."
She'd never seen him so humble.
Other than, "Here you go," she didn't say anything when she returned with his roll and the juice. He didn't say anything other than a quick, "Thanks."
She had to see him one more time to bring him the bill, and she knew she wouldn't be able to do that in silence, so she planned out what she would say.
"There's your bill, if that's everything for you. How was the cinnamon bun?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Good. I know the cinnamon buns are a good choice. Jim makes them fresh every day. T
hey're my favourite." It was a small olive branch, but it was an olive branch.
Graham accepted the olive branch for what it was. "So, if I'm forgiven, how about seeing a movie with me tonight, just to make it official that you're not mad at me anymore."
"What's playing?" was the first answer that came into Ruth's head, so she said it.
"I don't know. Does it matter?"
"I hate sitting through a lousy movie," she said, desperately buying time. What on earth was she going to say next?
"I can go and check what's playing and come back and tell you, but why don't you just tell me right now if I'd be wasting my time. If you really don't want to go with me, just tell me right out."
Ruth hesitated. The soap bubble was sitting right there in front of her, its door open, beckoning her in. But she knew good and well how soap bubbles end up.
"Look! I'm just asking you as an old friend. I really do feel bad about the other night, and I don't want you to go all your life thinking of me as that jerk who got kicked out of your restaurant, all right? That's all this is about. It's just a friendly movie. So wha'd'you say?"
With her eyes wide open, Ruth made her choice and stepped into the soap bubble.
"Okay, I'll go."
* * *
And that was the beginning of Ruth and Graham. At least the first beginning anyone in town knew anything about. After that first movie (which was lousy, not that Ruth noticed), they were seen together on a regular basis. Graham continued to date other girls, of course, whenever he felt like it. There was never any suggestion between the two of them of going steady. It wasn't like that. At first.
As the weeks of casual friendship turned into months, Graham saw less and less of any other girl and more and more of Ruth. At first, their time spent together was at the movies or maybe out for ice cream at the Dairy Parlour on hot afternoons. Sometimes there was a card game out at the farm with Wynn and a few friends of Graham's (but not Bernie Jansen!) or an occasional dance at the Legion in the evenings. Gradually, Graham got into the habit of hanging around the Morning Glory till closing on the days when Ruth worked the late shift so he could give her a ride home. He wasn't pleased to learn she rode her bicycle with no lights the three miles to the farm after nine o' clock in the evening.
"It's fine," she assured him. "It's summer. It's still light out at nine."
"Well, it won't be soon. The days are getting shorter already. C'mon. Throw the bike in the back of the pickup. I'm giving you a ride home."
Ruth didn't bother to argue. And that became the routine on her closing-shift days once Graham had her schedule memorized.
The more time they spent together and the more comfortable they became with each other, the more often it occurred that Graham would ask, "So what are we doing tomorrow?" as a matter of course when he dropped her off in the evening.
One evening Ruth had an answer all ready for him.
"You're going to teach me to drive," she said.
He laughed. "Not me. You need someone with nerves of steel to be a driving teacher. My nerves are too delicate for that."
"Well, who else would teach me?"
"You're serious?"
"Yes. I have to learn how to drive someday."
"I suppose. I guess there really is no one else to teach you, is there?"
"Unless I asked Jim, but he's pretty busy with the Morning Glory."
"Wow! I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Guess we could use the pickup."
"You don't have to if you don't want to. I'm saving up for a used car, but I don't have enough yet. I found one I thought might be a good deal. We could wait till I have my own car if you want."
"No, my life's worth more than my pickup, so what does it matter what vehicle we use? We might as well use my pickup. You should know how to drive before you go buying a car. And you'd better let me look over that car you're thinking of before you do anything foolish. You should never try buying a car without a man along, y'know. They'll see you coming a mile away if you don't know anything about cars."
"I'd appreciate that, thank you. I accept. Both letting me drive your pickup and looking at the car with me. It'll be another few months before I can afford the car, though."
"I can run you places, y'know. You don't really need a car."
"I do need a car. And I need to know how to drive it. I can't ride the bike in winter, and it's too far to walk every day into town when the weather's bad, and I'm not going to be dependent on you every time I want to go anywhere. Besides, you're at work during the day when I need to get to the cafe"
"Yeah, I guess. Well, tomorrow then. We could go out to the lake. There's some deserted back roads I know of for practice."
"I'll pack a picnic lunch."
"You'd better. I can see that's all the pay I'm gonna get from this job."
* * *
Ruth hadn't seen the lake in seven years. She was delighted that Graham suggested it.
When they got out onto the back roads and Graham pulled the pickup over to trade her spots, she mastered the basics quickly: steering, brake, clutch, gas pedal, gear shift. Letting the clutch off slowly and stepping on the gas at the same time, just enough but not too much, was the trickiest part of the procedure. After a few stalls and a lurching start, the worst was over. Once on the road, she handled the vehicle like a natural and managed to shift from first to second, grinding the gears only slightly.
"You're sure you've never done this before?"
Ruth laughed in sheer delight. It was a pleasant sound and a rare one. "I like this! I really do. This isn't scary at all."
"It's not as scary as I thought it would be, anyways. Why don't you pull over to the shoulder there? Gently. Foot off the gas, start pressing the brake. Easy, though. Just turn the wheel slightly, don't jerk it. Kay, now, clutch in and brake a little harder. Keep the clutch in. Now shut it off."
"Made it!"
"Yeah, but let's work on your starts. Those're a little rough. It takes some time to figure out how much gas to give it and how fast to let the clutch out."
After a couple of tries, Ruth had the pickup back on the road.
"Is this easier than teaching me to dance?"
"Well, you'll probably be a better driver than a dancer, but at a dance, the worst that could happen is I might get my feet stepped on. I don't usually fear for my life when I'm teaching you to dance."
"And you feel like your life's in danger now?"
"Not as long as you keep your eyes on the road. Don't look at me when you're talking to me. Your hands tend to go the same direction as your eyes. Whoa, there! That was a little close to the edge." But they survived that one with a minor over correction on Ruth's part.
The deserted back roads led to a pebbly beach she'd never visited before. They had the beach to themselves. Ruth pulled the truck off to the side of the road and stopped it without any instruction at all.
"How's this look for the picnic?"
"My stomach's too jumpy to eat," Graham said, but he was teasing.
The pair were at the stage of comfort together where silence was no longer awkward. They sat on the rocks, leaning their backs against a log of driftwood and ate mostly in silence, watching the clear water lap onto the pebbles.
"Look!" Ruth almost shouted, pointing at the spot on the lake where a magnificent bird with a wing span of at least five feet had dropped and then flown away again with a great deal of splashing and flapping of his huge wings. "What was it? Was it an eagle?"
"It's an osprey. There's a family that lives around here. Look over there on those old pilings. See up on the tallest ones? See the nest? He's probably just trying to provide for his family. They fish for a living. Didn't catch anything that time, though."
"How do you know it's a he? Maybe it's the momma bird."
"Of course it's a he. No self-respecting male would let the woman provide for the family."
Ruth fixed her eyes on the bird, her egg salad sandwich forgotten, while he circled, watching the lake belo
w. She held her breath when he folded his wings for a fast free-fall to the lake, and she yielded to a short, small cheer when she saw the bird become airborne again with a flash between his talons that glinted silver in the sunlight.
"He's beautiful," she said, half-whispering.
"Guess his family will eat today after all," Graham said matter-of-factly.
After lunch, they walked by the lake. If there was one thing Ruth could never get enough of it was the sound of the water and the sight of the sparkle of the sun on its ripples and the reflection of the blue of the mountains and sky on its mirrored face.
She didn't feel much like talking, but Graham said, "This was a pretty good idea of yours."
"Mmm-hmm!" Ruth agreed. "The lake was your idea, though."
"Well, then, it was a pretty good idea of mine."
"I'll give you that one. I love the lake. I haven't seen it in seven years."
"Bring a bathing suit?"
"No, I didn't think to. Did you?"
"Do we need 'em?"
"What?"
"You could go in without one, couldn't you?" Graham scooped her up in one quick motion and carried her to the water's edge. He pretended to toss her, but hung on instead and set her bare feet down in the water at knee's depth. The water soaked into her cotton dress just above the hem.
She kicked her feet at him, splashing with all her might. In the process, she did more damage to her dress than to Graham who ran away laughing.
"Good, thanks!" She said when she caught up to him on the beach. "I was getting too warm, anyway. That cooled me off."
"Oh really? Wanna go in for real. That could be arranged."
He scooped her up again and again pretended to throw her in. This time, however, he didn't set her down right away. Her reaction was neither screams nor giggles, just calm acceptance, for whatever fate had in store for her. Her arms clung around his neck. If she went in, at least it wouldn't be without a fight to hang on.
She didn't get thrown in the lake that day. Instead, he carried her back up on the beach and placed her gently on the driftwood log.
That day at the lake was the first time they had touched. On that day, they both knew their relationship was changing.