More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  I was really looking forward to after the meal when everybody was free to wander around and go into the garden and dance and everything. When Mr Bagley wouldn’t be constantly snapping his fingers at me. I thought things were bound to get better.

  And then dinner was announced.

  Loretta

  Things are bad, then things get just that enormous amount worse

  I was so relieved when the guests all went inside for dinner that I nearly wept. Which is probably the closest I’ll ever come to crying at a wedding. All afternoon, while I’d been scurrying back and forth like an obedient servant, I’d had no time to think about Gabriel. I suppose, in a way, that was a good thing. One less agony in a day of torment. Then came the halcyon moment when I finally watched everyone stroll inside, and prepared to shrug off the yoke of servitude and fulfil my mission.

  It was my and Claire’s job to clean up outside and get things ready for the after-dinner party. We loaded the glasses on trays and put all the rubbish in bags. One of us had to stay in the garden because the band would soon be arriving and setting up in the large marquee; I volunteered to bring the rubbish to the bins outside the kitchen and the dirty glasses into the kitchen itself. We both had walked miles that afternoon – largely in circles, but the mere fact that a hamster doesn’t get anywhere doesn’t mean she doesn’t cover a lot of ground – and Claire was happy enough to let me do the hiking up to the house and back. I took the bags first to get them out of the way. When I finished with them, I grabbed a tray and headed for the kitchen.

  It had already been a very long day; exhausting and stressful. The main purpose of putting myself through it, was, of course, to speak to Gabriel. It was only as I trudged up the sloping lawn that I finally began to think about what I was doing. To question myself in a critical manner. I’m not what anyone would call bold or forward when it comes to boys, and yet here I was being forward and bold. Had I misplaced my mind, if not actually lost it? What did I think I was doing, barging into a busy kitchen where everyone was working flat out to confront a boy who’d given every indication that he wouldn’t be disappointed if he never had to speak to me again? It wasn’t even as if he was my boy – or ever had been. We’d never had a date. We’d never so much as joked about having a date. Now that I was about to stand, sweaty face to sweaty face with him, what exactly was it that I planned to say? I had no idea; I hadn’t given it any thought. All I’d thought about was wanting to say it; wanting to look him in the eyes and say something. So much for all my lists and planning; so much for always being prepared. You don’t have to do this, said a reasonable voice in my head. All you have to do is leave the dirty glasses and go. That was true, I thought. That was all I had to do.

  I stepped up to the back door and went inside.

  The kitchen staff weren’t just working flat out, they were past frantic. Except for the absence of blood and crashing buildings, it was a scene from a disaster movie. Guys were running back and forth, shouting and cursing. Even the ones who were standing still were moving. Accompanying the urgent male voices was the clatter of pots, dishes and cutlery. Accompanying all of it was the heat; it was so intense that the sauna that was the garden was chilly in comparison. Even the pans hanging overhead seemed to be sweating. If I’d been a candle, I would have started to melt the instant I crossed the threshold; it was as if I’d walked in, not on the kitchen crew of the Old Clipper Inn, but on the crew that was stoking the fires of Hell. Or, in Gabe’s case, washing Hell’s dishes. Which is to say that I assumed he was washing dishes, but there were so many people and so much noise that I didn’t see him at first. Wondering what I was going to do, I stood by the door for several seconds, holding out the tray of glasses smudged with lipstick and clouded by fingerprints like an offering. I finally spied him on the other side of the large but cramped room, bent over a sink with his back to me.

  Everybody was so absorbed in their jobs that they hadn’t noticed me come in – or, if they had, couldn’t be bothered to care. I didn’t think to myself, Yes, I’m going to ignore the voice of reason and go over to him; I simply went. I left the tray on the counter of dirty dishes and crossed to the sink where Gabe was working furiously.

  I had to touch his arm before he realized there was anyone beside him. Gabe jumped, splashing us both with dirty water.

  “Loretta?” His voice was pitched at a conspiratorial whisper. He glanced around. Nervously. I could almost hear him thinking, How did you get in? Has anyone else seen you? How did you know where I was? “Loretta, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m conducting a survey on job satisfaction in local employment. How the kitchen staff would rate working at the Inn. From one to ten, with ten being the top score.”

  He blinked. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “Of course it’s a joke.” For God’s sake, I was dressed as a waitress – one with the shadows of fish and wine on her shirt, and aching feet. “It’s just that – it’s…” He was staring at me, but not with the awe and affection I would have liked to have seen there. More as if I was an annoying fly and he was working out how to get rid of me.

  I’d never realized before that you could be as rigid as a wall and still give the impression that you were stamping your feet. “What? It’s what?”

  When inspiration fails, the truth will have to do. “It’s just that I need to talk to you.”

  “Now?” His face was shiny from the heat and the steam and sweat; he sounded fairly incredulous. “I can’t talk to you now.” He turned back to the sink. “I don’t have time for this. We’re in the middle of a reception here.”

  How had I not noticed that?

  “I’m in the middle of a reception here, too,” I told the side of his head. “But this is the only way I can get hold of you. Since you won’t answer my texts or calls.”

  “I did answer you. I told you. Nobody got back to me about the Perseids, so I cancelled. That’s all there is to it. There’s nothing else to say.”

  “That’s not true.” A mist of hot, soapy spray fell over us as he scrubbed frantically. “What about me?”

  “What about you?” He was looking at the brush in his hand. If there’d been a pattern on the dishes, he would have rubbed it off. “I didn’t think you were interested any more.”

  “I don’t know how you came to that conclusion. Because I don’t remember being asked.”

  “I – you know. You seemed pretty busy.” I wasn’t sure if he was blushing – everyone in the kitchen was flushed – but for definite he was looking shifty. He started splashing water around even more, as if he was washing his way through the sink. “Loretta, would you please just go? Now.”

  The chef’s attention had been focused on what he was doing at the stove, but some sixth, chef sense must have alerted him to the fact that something he wasn’t going to like was happening in his kitchen. He was a large, stocky man who didn’t give the impression that he was difficult to annoy, and now he was looking right at Gabe and me. “Oi!” he shouted. “Are you doing dishes, Schwartz, or exchanging phone numbers? Tell your friend to get out of my kitchen! This second!”

  “Dishes!” yelled Gabriel, not looking at either of us. “Go, Loretta. Now.”

  “I don’t understand what I did that you won’t talk to me. Just tell me what I—”

  “Hey, you! Girl who won’t stop talking!” bellowed the chef. “Don’t you have something better to do than disrupt my staff? Like a job?”

  “Yes. You’re right. I do. I’m going.” I took a step backwards, so he’d believe me. “I am sorry. Truly sorry. I know how busy you are, but this is very important.” I was practically simpering. The cute-girl lever was working hard, while all my principles were dead and rolling in their graves. “I just need to talk to Gabriel for a minute more. Please. One minute. And then I’ll go. I swear.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  I leaned as close to Gabe as I could without being hit by his elbows. “Just say you’ll talk to me.” I wasn’t sure that
the kitchen guys couldn’t stir, sauté and plate up and still eavesdrop, which made me whisper. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Maybe later,” muttered Gabriel. “Or tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “You promise? Tomorrow?”

  “That’s your thirty seconds up,” shouted the chef. “Now get the hell out of here before I throw you out myself!”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Now go.”

  I went quickly, thanking and apologizing as I hurried to the door. I was feeling optimistic. Not enormously optimistic, but solidly hopeful. ZiZi had to be right, it was a misunderstanding. This happened all the time in plays and novels. Look at Romeo and Juliet. On second thought, they were a bad example; their misunderstanding cost them their lives. My misunderstanding with Gabe had to be a lot less lethal than that. He’d thought I wasn’t interested any more; he’d thought I was busy. We’d got our signals crossed, that was what had happened. All I had to do was uncross them; and then everything would be all right. I’d live through the ordeal of the reception. I’d straighten things out with Gabriel. I’d win the bet and go back to the way I’d been. Logic and order would be restored to my world once more.

  This idyll of optimism lasted less than five minutes, because as I neared the large marquee, Mr Schonblatt burst out, Claire behind him. They were each carrying one of the fans that were intended to keep the dancers and the band from heatstroke. Mr Schonblatt looked the way a mouth ulcer feels; Claire looked like a hostage.

  “You!” Mr Schonblatt roared. “Have you seen Abel? Where has he gone? Is he up at the Inn?”

  “Abel?”

  According to ZiZi, Mr Schonblatt’s patience was a limited resource at the best of times – and even someone who didn’t know him well could tell that this wasn’t one of those.

  “Abel! Abel! The janitor! He’s supposed to be keeping an eye on things. But has he? No, he has not! The air conditioning’s kaput. In the middle of dinner! In the middle of dinner this happens!” He waved his arms around, as if trying to attract the attention of the air-conditioning gods. “Could anything else go wrong? Could it?”

  I took that as a rhetorical question. Which, considering what happened later, was just as well. “I was bringing things up to the kitchen,” I said. “I didn’t see him there.”

  “Well, find him,” barked Mr Schonblatt. “Check the basement. I have to get back to the guests.”

  “But, Mr Schonblatt, I don’t know how to get to the basement.”

  He looked as if I was purposely trying very hard to irritate him – and succeeding beyond my wildest dreams. “Through the kitchen. It’s the door near the big fridge. Now get going.”

  “And when I find the janitor? Then what do I do?”

  “Then you tell him to effing do something!”

  ZiZi

  And then the swan started to melt

  You know those days when you feel pretty sure that nothing more can go wrong because it’s all been downhill since the moment you woke up? And then it does. You’re walking under a lamppost and a pigeon poops on your new blouse, and you’re so surprised you drop your bag and it lands in the road and some bad driver (like Duane Tolvar) runs over it and mashes all your make-up into paste.

  This day was something like that. It got off to a bad start the minute Mr Bagley rolled into the restaurant, snapping his fingers and being a general major pain in the butt. But, because Mr Bagley was really doing my head in, I figured things weren’t going to get worse. I also figured that with my positive personality I could handle it – especially since the wedding had put me in such a good mood. (If you can’t be in a good mood at a wedding, when can you?) Plus, even though there was a chance he’d find a lot wrong with his meal (meat overcooked, vegetables undercooked, lettuce too green), I was hoping that, once the dining room was full, Mr Bagley would see that he wasn’t the only person who needed attention and chill. At least a little. And if he didn’t chill, I’d be way too busy to jump every time he crooked his finger, so he’d just have to live with it.

  I was coming out with a tray of starters, and thinking how I was really glad I wasn’t working in the kitchen. I had noticed it was starting to feel a little warmer in the dining rooms than it should have (I figured it was me, because I’d been running around so much), but the kitchen was so hot it was amazing the plates weren’t pools of glass. So anyway, I was coming out with the first course when who do I see but Dillon Blackstock. I stopped dead. I blinked. If I’d had a free hand, I would’ve pinched myself and rubbed my eyes. He had a good tan and his hair had grown, but it was Dillon (there couldn’t be any doubt, he had his camera with him). The other waitresses glided by me with their trays, but I just stood there, wondering how this could be. What were he and his camera doing here? He was supposed to be in the Ozarks or wherever it was, living on berries and twig tea. What happened to his awesome social commentary? And then, because I guess I knew what the answers to my questions were, I looked over to the bridal table, where the groom was getting an earful from the bride. The family resemblance was unmistakable (same strong mouth and straight nose, same brooding eyes, same carnation buttonhole). So this must be his brother’s wedding (the brother with a different last name). It had been called back on, after all. Only no one had bothered to tell me. I don’t know how I managed to hold on to the tray, I was so surprised. Dillon was looking totally gorgeous in a very smart summer suit and a lemon-yellow shirt that really went with his colouring (I wasn’t so surprised I didn’t notice that!). You might expect me to go into shock-terror mode at the sight of Dillon where I wasn’t really expecting him to be. Especially if you remember my reaction when I almost came face to face with Duane Tolvar. Red alert all the way! And a couple of months ago, or even a couple of weeks ago, I probably would’ve panicked. I would’ve turned around and gone back to the kitchen and not come out till everyone left and Mr Schonblatt dragged me out from under a counter. But here’s the thing. Call it maturity or call it fatalism or call it being worn down to way past caring by Mr Bagley and all the other traumas of the Summer, but I didn’t panic. Seriously? Next to Père Bagley, Dillon Blackstock wasn’t that big a deal. I could handle him being there. As long as I kept out of his way, everything would be okay. I watched to see where he was sitting. He headed away from my section and over to where the groom’s family was hunkered down (as far away from the bride’s as Gloriana could put them, by the looks of it).

  I was standing there thinking, Everything will be okay, when I kind of blinked again and there was Mr Bagley right in front of me. Like an angry (and slightly perspiring) bull. If he got any bigger, he’d have to go outside. Behind him was the bride, crying. I’d seen her cry so many times before that I didn’t think anything of it.

  I smiled like I was glad to see them. I said they had to excuse me but I was just starting to serve.

  Through her tears, the new Mrs Schreiber burbled, “Tell her, Daddy. Make her do something.”

  “You go sit down, sweetheart,” Mr Bagley ordered. Gently. “Go back to your table. I’ll take care of this.” To me, he said, “Never mind serving. Get the manager. There’s something wrong with the air conditioning.” Sounding about as gentle as being hit by a sledgehammer feels.

  “The air conditioning?”

  “Yes, the air conditioning. Can’t you feel how hot it’s getting in here? If the a/c’s blowing anything, it’s blowing hot air.”

  It wasn’t the only thing that was doing that. And anyway, it wasn’t that hot. It wasn’t cold like it had been, but it wasn’t hot. If you were from India, you probably wouldn’t even think it was very warm.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Bagley, but there’s really nothing I can do.” I raised my tray a little to prove my point. “I have to—”

  “The only thing you have to do is get the manager. Now.”

  What would Emma Goldman do? She’d probably wop him over the head with the tray. I said, “Consider me on my way.”

  If I’d served those starters any fa
ster I’d’ve been clearing them away at the same time. I got one of the other waitresses to cover the rest of my section and (taking the long way around so Dillon Blackstock wouldn’t see me) I went looking for Mr Schonblatt. He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t in the gardens. He wasn’t in one of the marquees. He wasn’t in the parking lot. He wasn’t outside the kitchen, sneaking a cigarette. I finally found him taking an undeserved break with his wife in reception (where the air conditioning was working just dandy). Did he thank me for taking on the job of Mr Bagley’s personal assistant? Did he thank me for looking all over for him (so that now I was so limp and soaked with sweat I looked like I’d been swimming)? Sure he did. And then he gave me a thousand-dollar bonus and the keys to his car.

  “You go tell Mr Bagley everything’s under control,” Mr Schonblatt commanded. “I’ll fetch Abel.”

  By the time I got back to the dining room, the swan was just starting to melt.

  Loretta

  This was never going to be an easy day

  As I was a little unsure of my welcome – or sure that I wouldn’t have one – I approached the kitchen cautiously. By now, it was so hot in there that they’d opened all the windows and doors, trying to get a breeze through. They were still working demonically, despite the temperature – as if by working fast they could finish their jobs before they collapsed with heatstroke. I hovered at the entrance while I looked for the door near the big fridge. The big fridge was a walk-in; the door closest to it was the only one that was painted blue. I took a deep breath, counted to three, walked straight to the blue door, pulled it open and went down the stairs. If anyone saw me, he kept it quiet.