by Jen Clarke
After class was over, Bri talked to the boy, thanking him for his pen. I thought I heard him ask her something. I heard her laugh and say, “No, but thank you,” and she turned to me. Bri’s mouth opened, but I spoke first.
“So, we should get together,” I said. I’m not good at making the first move, but I knew I wanted to be around her.
Bri’s eyes lit up and she smiled broadly. Because of my words or was she just that friendly to everyone?
“Oh yes,” she said. “Here, let me give you my number…”
I handed her my phone, watched as it was cradled in her palm. Her other hand moved gracefully as she typed.
“And, I’ll give you mine…” After I handed back her phone, we picked our way through the staggered auditorium seating, almost the last ones to leave. As we emerged from the lecture hall, the hallway was bright and I blinked.
“Bri!” I heard someone call. The new person had dark hair, her eyes thickly lashed, her nose and lip pierced. “I didn’t know you had a class here.”
“Just changed classes,” said Bri.
“Who’s your friend?” asked the dark-haired girl. She wasn’t much taller than me, but she wore boots that added to her height. I defensively straightened my back as I looked her in the eye.
“Andrea, this is Ellen.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. She looked me up and down. I could imagine what she saw. Brown hair, tied back in a ponytail. A hoodie from the charity event my dad’s landscaping company participated in. Jeans and sneakers bought at Marshalls.
“Would you believe she’s also from Cape Cod?”
“Yeah?” said Andrea. “My aunt and uncle have a place there.” She sounded bored.
“Oh, do you go out there?”
Andrea shrugged. “Not since I was a kid. There’s not a lot to do.”
“No, there isn’t,” I admitted.
“Ellen, see you in class. Or text me?” said Bri.
“Sure,” I said. I was watching as they left, and Andrea placed an arm around Bri’s shoulder. I hated Andrea. I also hated myself for crushing so hard and fast on the first friendly face I’d met.
I never acted on that crush. I just accepted it as background noise to our friendship. Bri was different. She knew a million people, but somehow she always had time for me. Not just at school. Bri’s friendship kept me going when I first moved back to Cape and began working at the Whale’s Tail. Everyone else had worked together for years. No one wanted to get to know me. That summer, I’d get home late at night, too wound up to sleep. I’d open my laptop, and comment on one of Bri’s pictures. She almost always responded and we’d chat. About Amherst, gossip about people we knew, books we had read or movies we had seen.
I’m not sure when our chats became further and further apart. I know I did some pulling back, embarrassed I couldn’t keep up with Bri. Back in the Valley, with all the students from UMass and the other four colleges, people got excited about ideas, about trying to live and think in new ways. A lot of it I rolled my eyes at, but I missed it terribly. I don’t think anyone I worked with on Cape got really excited about anything, unless it was the Red Sox or a Dunkin’ Donuts coupon. Then Denise got hired. Thank God. She was another outsider in the cliquey world of the Whale’s Tail and refreshingly out of fucks.
I’m startled out of my thoughts when I see the restaurant’s shattered window from halfway down the street. That fucking ship is toast, I think. Pulling into the parking lot, I realize the smaller sign, the one above the big window, also looks pretty bad. We’ll have to replace it or take it down. I took a deep breath; I’ll think about Bri later.
Chapter Four
There’s a photo wall just inside the door to the Whale’s Tail and I pause and glance at the pictures while I try to compose myself. The first is of the father and son who founded the restaurant, holding their first dollar in front of a cash register. It has that faded look of old color photos, like someone went a little crazy with a filter. So cheesy. The cash register has changed, but the dollar bill is still framed and hanging on the wall. There’s pictures of them posing at customer’s tables, there are the old candles in netted jars, lobsters in front of the adults dressed in coat and tie or dresses. The kids look polite and are eating hot dogs.
The next row is mostly pictures of the son posing with people you might recognize. Celebrities who visited Cape Cod and then ate here. The very last row begins with the son with his arm around a woman’s shoulders. His smile is broad, hers is shy. Then there’s pictures of them and their son, a wide-eyed baby in a sailor suit. The very last picture shows the wife in a bell-bottomed pantsuit. One arm is around her son, now a little boy. On her lap is a baby wearing a ruffled dress. That baby grew up to be my boss, Julie.
Julie. Time for Julie. I stick my keys in my pocket and go in.
Galina, one of the waitresses is the first to notice me. “Hello Ellen,” she says in her accented English. “What a mess!”
“You said it,” I say, looking around. The tables are set up for lunch. There’s a broom and vacuum leaning against the bar, but I see pieces of glass still on the carpet. The room’s chilly, with all the unseasonably cold April air coming in through the broken window
“Is Rick here yet?” I ask. I’m going to need help cleaning this up. He’s the dishwasher and I can’t remember when his shift starts.
“Yeah. He’s looking for some cardboard to cover the window,” she answers.
I nod. “There’s tape in the supply closet. I just saw it. There’s also some plastic. Where’s Julie?”
“She’s downstairs. The detective just arrived. She’s talking to him.”
“Thanks,” I say before clocking in and heading down the narrow stairs. I walk past the ice machine, the walk-in cooler, and finally to the small office, buried deep in the basement. Julie’s sitting behind the desk, drinking coffee from one of our white mugs. At least three more cups have been pushed to the side.
“Thank God you’re here!” she says as I come in. “Detective Flanagan, this is my assistant, Ellen Ellis. She knows everything that goes on here. I couldn’t do it without her.”
“Ellen Ellis, it’s good to meet you,” says Detective Flanagan, standing up. He looks vaguely familiar to me as we shake hands.
“Detective, you probably don’t remember me, but my mom is Susan Ellis. She works at Town Hall. I think I’ve seen you there?”
He nods, frowning slightly. “Did you used to do your homework in her office?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I say.
“Good to see you again.” His suit pulls against his wide frame as he sits again, back straight in one of our uncomfortable chairs. I admire his fortitude. “I’ve been talking to Miss Gardner here, but I gather she wasn’t here for closing and you were?”
“Yes, I was one of the last people here,” I say.
“Please tell me what happened when you closed last night.”
“I locked up,” I say. “Probably around eleven?” As we go over the events of last night, Detective Flanagan writes everything down. There isn’t much to say; it had been a slow night and the window had been fine when I’d left. Denise worked that shift and so did Jake, our main cook.
“So this happened sometime between eleven and when I came to open,” Julie says, pushing back her dark hair.
The detective nods and puts away his pad of paper. “There’s been a rash of vandalism lately,” he shakes his head. “No attempts at robbery. It’s kids just doing it for fun. We’re doing our best to catch them, but it’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time.”
“It’s just too bad,” says Julie. “I’m trying to make an honest living here.”
The detective nods again. “Slow start to the season?”
“Too slow,” answers Julie.
“Well, summer’s just around the corner. We’re going to step up patrols. The new officers for summer are coming in.”
“Good,” says Julie.
“Also, a coup
le of businesses decided to get security cameras. You may want to look into that.” Facing Julie’s scowl, he quickly adds, “And like I said, we have more patrols scheduled. Which number would you like me to call if there’s any updates?”
Julie stands up to see him out and I follow them up the stairs. The plastic and cardboard in the window look ugly, but there’s nothing else we can do before opening. I wave to Rick. He nods, his attention focused on getting the last of the broken glass off the floor.
After she closes the door behind him, Julie explodes. “Unbelievable! We’re going to have to pay for a new window and a new sign. Makes you wonder why you pay taxes. I assume you’re taking off?” she asks me.
“No, I’m already clocked in. I’ll stay and do some paperwork.”
“Oh?” says Julie. “You’re clocked in?” She squares her shoulders.
“I hadn’t planned to come in today.” I can tell from her face I’ve said the wrong thing and I take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rick hurry out of the room, eager to not hear what comes next.
“Dammit Ellen,” Julie scowls. “Are you trying to bankrupt me? You’re my right hand here. I figured you’d want to come in and see what happened. Be hands-on.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my cool. I’m furious at her casual assumption that I have nothing better to do than come in on my day off and commiserate with her over a broken window. More than that, I’m angry at myself for going along and for being grateful she hasn’t progressed to full-on screaming.
Julie says, “You know, there’s not a lot of spare money, not for overtime, and now that we have this broken window to deal with…”
She must have picked up on my mood, because suddenly she’s being reasonable. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. “I’m sorry, I should have called first. But you know, now that I’m here, I can make some calls to some different places, see who has the best deal for window replacement.”
“That’s a good idea,” Julie brightens. “You’re a big help Ellen. What would I do without you?”
Don’t answer that, I think.
“Here, let me get you the phonebook.” Julie heads to the bar and I follow. Galina is cutting lemons. I can smell the citrus tang and the funky scent of decades of spilled beer. She leans down, grabbing the book from some dark shelf.
“Thank you,” I say. I haven’t used a phonebook, except at work, since I was a kid, but Julie doesn’t see why we need internet at a restaurant. I pick it up and head downstairs to the small office. After I drop it on the desk, I remember I still haven’t written Bri back. Shit. I pull out my phone and confirm what I already know: there’s no signal in the basement office. Julie will never let me hear the end of it if she sees me pull out my phone. I go back upstairs and duck into the ladies’ room and sit in the stall closest to the window.
Bri,
It’s no problem if you arrive early! I’m at work, but won’t be working a full day. My place is a little hard to find using GPS
I give her the address for the Dunkin’ Donuts down the street and add some additional directions so she can actually find where I live. Bri must have been waiting, because she immediately texts me back,
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I’m planning to leave soon. I want to leave plenty of time in case there’s traffic.
I do some math. She’ll be here by early afternoon. I can probably do a quick cleanup. Just then, my phone beeps again. This time, Denise.
My ex is an asshole. I am so pissed.
This isn’t news to me. Denise has mentioned it several times. Several times last night, in fact. I hear a knock at the door. “Ellen? You in here?” says Galina. “We’re out of lemons.”
“Sure Galina, be out in a minute,” I say.
I want to tell Denise about the window and I want to know the latest about why her ex-husband is an asshole, but Galina’s waiting for me. I put my phone away and head out of the bathroom to get Galina some cash so she can run to Stop & Shop. I consider asking Galina to pick me up some granola bars at Stop & Shop, but I don’t know what Bri eats these days.
Back in the basement, I start calling the glass places in the yellow pages. One number’s disconnected, one’s busy. One company doesn’t know when they can come out, maybe some time next week. I finally talk to two companies who say they can send someone out today. I ask them both if they can leave an estimate with the bartender. There’s still the matter of the damaged sign. One of our dishwashers doubles as a handyman. I take a quick look at the schedule. He’s working tonight, so I make one last call and ask him to come in early and take a look. After hanging up, I poke through the supply closet. I know there’s some paint there. It’s probably ancient, but I don’t really want to listen to Julie complain.
“Hey Ellen,” Jake knocks at the doorway after he’s already inside the office.
“Are we busy?” I know we can’t be, because Jake is down here instead of cooking.
“There’s a guy up there in the bar,” Jake jerks his head. “Can you talk to him?”
“About?”
“He’s from Lamb’s and wants to talk about their new product line. Just hear him out and don’t say yes to anything.”
“Okay, I’ll be right up,” I say. This isn’t the first time Jake or Julie has asked me to distract a vendor. At least we’re current on this account.
It’s easy to spot the salesman: he’s the only person in the room wearing a suit. I don’t look like a typical owner or kitchen manager and I catch him doing a double take when he sees me. He offers his hand. “Hi, I’m from Lamb’s Food Service. Michael Evans. Are you Julie Gardner?” he asks.
“Ellen Ellis,” I say, “but I work with Julie. How can I help you?” I hope he doesn’t pick up on the “work with Julie” and ask. I’m not officially a manager, but she never has time and Jake needs to be in the kitchen.
“I’m just making my rounds. It’s that time of year.” He does another quick look at me.
“Did you come here in the fall?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s when I last stopped by. Still can’t believe the old man is gone. He was really one of a kind.” He pauses for a respectful moment, before beginning his spiel. “Well, there’s a few things I wanted to show you, products new for this year…” I half-listen. Jake doesn’t want to add anything to the menu and Julie doesn’t want to spend money. Most of what we have already comes from Lamb’s, except for the fresh fish and the side salad.
“And, let me drop this off for you…” he leans down and brings up a small, portable cooler. He opens the lid and pulls out a package.
“What’s this?” I ask. I read the packaging. “Gluten-free mozzarella sticks?”
“Becoming very popular,” he says. “A place like this, probably most people aren’t coming for the gluten-free menu…” his voice trails off as he looks around. I can tell exactly what he’s thinking. The Whale’s Tail has seen better days. Our décor is the same as it was before I was born: ship’s wheel overhead lights and reproduction paintings featuring solemn fishermen wearing oilcloths. He adds, “But it’s good to have a few items on hand, just so if there’s a gluten-free member in the party, your customers don’t go elsewhere.”
Here’s where I’m supposed to say, thanks, but no thanks. “That’s a good idea,” I say. “We’ve been getting calls about gluten-free options.”
“We also have fried chicken, chicken fingers, and onion rings from the same line. And, these are baked, so you don’t have to worry about changing the oil.” He pauses for a moment and then adds, “No contamination,” in case I don’t understand.
I agree to try them and after a few more words, we conclude with a handshake and he hands me his business card and some fliers. “Whether you like them or don’t like them, let me know. We always want feedback from our customers…” He leaves with a big smile. Having someone hear him out and take his mozzarella sticks probably made his day.
“Who was that?” Julie’s behind the bar,
pouring herself a soda. When did she get back?
“He works for Lamb’s. He’s just making the rounds and telling us what they have for new products.” I hold up the box. “Gluten-free mozzarella sticks.”
Julie peers at the box, then turns it over in her hands, like she’s never seen a food product before. Even after working for her for two years, I never can predict what she’ll do when faced with something new.
Finally, she shakes her head. “Gluten-free.”
“It can’t hurt to try them.” I pause for a moment. “Maybe put in an order if they’re decent.”
“Look Ellen, there’s more to it than that.”
I really hate it when she uses that tone of voice.
“You can’t make promises to salesmen. They’ll hound you until you wish you were dead.”
I didn’t make any promises. I said we would try a product. A product people have been asking about. I don’t say it though. Instead I stand there like a lump.
“It’s not just putting in an order. We’ve got to update the menu…” Julie sits back on her bar stool. “You remember all the problems we had during the seventies and eighties.”
Julie hasn’t forgotten how young I am. I’m the only employee who doesn’t talk about the restaurant as if they were present since it was founded. Even Galina, who’s my age and grew up in Bulgaria. I’m not sure how she got sucked into that mentality, but the other day, I heard her say, “If you remember, back in the fifties…”
“Someday I’ll tell you about it,” says Julie. “Really bad years.”
“I can imagine,” I say. I know the restaurant had trouble during that time. Fast food got more popular. People stopped wanting to dress up after a day at the beach. Or if they did want to dress up, they didn’t want to go to a family restaurant. Most of this I’ve put together from talking to Jake and a couple of the other older employees. Julie won’t talk about this stuff.