Pallbearing

  Jen wrung the bear out as best she could on the steps, then put it on a chair near the fireplace to dry. She went out to the half-finished carport to bring in more firewood.

  She started the vacuum and Beck yelled, “Mu-um. Wait for a commercial!” Bea started crying. Jen turned it off until the program went to break, then quickly finished the room. She picked up and bounced Bea until she stopped crying. Then she dusted, cleaned the windows. Ran a cloth along the baseboards. When she was done, she looked over the room. It looked the same.

  She went into the computer room and loaded her email. She wrote:

  So great to hear from you! Sorry for the slow response, I don’t check email that often. But yes! It’d be great to see you. Maybe we could meet in town somewhere? I’ll bring the girls. My number is:

  Then she remembered: she didn’t know when Jack was getting back. She deleted the message and looked at the blinking cursor. Did Robert know Jack? Jack had been a few years ahead of them in high school; Jen hadn’t recognized him years later when he came into the hardware store where she worked as a cashier. Jack had said he remembered her. He’d asked her out the next time he was in the store. She’d said yes and now they had two kids.

  Beck asked, “When’s lunch?”

  Jen made peanut butter and jam sandwiches for the girls. She got the leftover plate from the night before out of the fridge for herself. They ate in the living room again. Beck got bored of the TV and wanted to play. Jen put Bea down for a nap and then played a few games of Candyland with Beck while she thought of the best way to meet Robert. The house was out, and it was already afternoon and she still had no idea when Jack would be home. They’d have to meet the next day.

  Jen put on a movie for Beck and went back into the computer room. She wrote:

  Ack, sorry. Just got this. It would be great to see you — it’s been so long. I suppose it will have to be tomorrow? Why don’t you email me in the morning and we can plan something.

  Then she deleted that too. She wouldn’t know if she had the truck until tomorrow. She’d just email him in the morning.

  * * *

  Jen woke up on the couch. She’d fallen asleep watching late-night TV. It was off now; she half-remembered Jack coming in and telling her to come upstairs.

  She made coffee and a piece of toast and went into the computer room. She tried to think of what to say to Robert. They could meet in town at the old coffee shop. She smiled and thought how nice it would be to hear him talk again.

  Beck popped into the room and said she was hungry. Jen said, “Just a second.”

  Jack hadn’t picked up groceries. She used the last of the pancake mix and added a handful of frozen blueberries she found in a balled-up bag in the back of the freezer. She went up and grabbed Bea from the crib and they all sat around the table. Beck told her a long story about a dream she’d had; there had been a bird and then she knew how to fly and their grandma was in it too. The stairs creaked. Jack came into the kitchen. He said, “Pancakes again?”

  Jack started the coffee maker and then flipped a couple of pancakes onto a plate. He sat at the end of the table. Jen said, “Can I take the truck into town? I need to pick up some groceries.”

  “Sure, yeah. I need it at noon though.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you take the girls with you? I want to get a couple of things done around the house.”

  Jen got the girls dressed and found their rain boots and got everyone out to the truck. Jack had taken the car seat out. She got Beck to make sure Bea didn’t fall out of the truck while she pulled the car seat out of the carport and anchored it to the middle of the bench. She knew she should run in and write Robert, but Jack was in there and he’d ask what she was doing. It would be easier to stop at the library and try to get in touch there.

  She drove carefully down the driveway; it was all potholes. One had gotten so bad she had to pull into the underbrush to avoid it. Branches scraped along the side of the truck and then they bounced onto the road, which was still dirt but a little bit better. Ten minutes on that road took them to the highway into town.

  The library was closed; it was Sunday. Jen said, “Fuck.”

  Beck said, “Bad word!”

  “I know, sorry.” She drove back to the shopping centre out on the highway and put Bea in the cart and told Beck to hold on to the side. They went up and down the aisles, Jen dropping things in and taking out what Beck tried to sneak in.

  She wondered where Robert was staying. There probably wouldn’t be much reason for him to come to the grocery store, but she lingered anyways; it would be nice to bump into him. She didn’t drive home right away either. Instead, she pulled into town and drove down Main. It had been a long time since she’d gone downtown; she mostly stuck to the shopping centre out on the highway. There were new shops everywhere. She was surprised to see a record store, and thought she should check out the new scrapbook store sometime.

  She drove by the old coffee shop where she’d spent most of her later school years. Maybe Robert had thought of checking it out himself? She saw the owner through the window, looking exactly the same as she remembered. A bunch of teens were sitting out front, and a few old guys she recognized as the same old guys who had hung out there when she was a teen. She’d thought they were ancient back then, but they must have only been in their forties. Not so old-seeming anymore.

  Beck said, “Mom, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just driving around.”

  “I’m bored. Can we go home?”

  “Sure.”

  But she took another pass through town, enjoying just driving, looking at the town, not rushing home. She knew it was silly to think she’d run into Robert, but she thought, again, how nice it would be if she did. After a loop through the park where she and Robert used to go when they skipped school, and a quick drive-by of the community centre some of the boys used to skateboard behind, Jen got back on the highway and headed home.

  * * *

  Jack was standing on the front step when she pulled in. She unhooked Bea from the car seat and got out, holding the baby between her and Jack. He said, “I told you I needed the truck at noon.”

  “I know, it just took a while.”

  “Two hours?”

  Jack stepped forward; Jen stepped back. Jack got into the truck and slammed the door. Jen balanced Bea on her hip and pulled the groceries out of the back before Jack backed out. He turned around and revved the engine on the way out. A black cloud of smoke lingered over the driveway. Beck walked though it and said, “Where’s Dad going?”

  “He’s got to visit some friends. Come on, let’s go in the house.”

  She dropped Bea on the floor and picked up the dish Jack had left on the coffee table. In the kitchen, she loaded the groceries into the fridge and made the girls lunch, then turned on the TV for them. She kissed the top of Bea’s head and ruffled Beck’s hair. Beck said, “Mu-uuum,” and leaned away.

  Jen went into the computer room and turned on the computer. She wrote:

  Hi Robert, Sorry I missed this. I don’t check email very often. It would have been nice to see you though! Let me know next time you’re in town?

  She looked at what she’d written and then deleted it all. She turned off the computer and went into the living room to play with her girls.

  Fernando’s

  A friend told Jeff that he knew someone who was a sous chef and needed a dishwasher at her work. Jeff got the address, and the next afternoon printed out a resumé at the copy shop on the corner that charged four cents a page. He paid with a quarter, got his change, and headed over to the restaurant.

  Fernando’s was a fine dining establishment in an old character house. It wasn’t open yet, but there was a waiter laying down the tables in one of the private dining rooms. He led Jeff back to the kitchen.

  Mary looked at the resumé while Jef
f explained their connection, which, he realized, was just some guy. She said, “Can you start today?”

  “Like, now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess.”

  “Let me run it by Concepcion. She’s the head chef.” Jeff realized there was another person in the kitchen, a small woman behind one of the floating counters. Mary said, “Dishwasher?” and pointed at Jeff.

  Concepcion said, “No, no, no.”

  “I need help. I can’t prep and cook and wash dishes and do everything else around here.”

  Concepcion said, “No, no,” and put her hands on either side of her head, shaking it.

  “Come on. It’s a Friday, I’m going to be slammed. I need the help.”

  She swooshed her hands downward. “Ask Fernando.”

  Mary said to Jeff, “Fernando will be in in an hour. Get started — I’m sure it will be okay.”

  Mary handed Jeff an apron and he went to the dish pit. There was a dish rack, a deep sink with an overhead faucet on a boom, and space to slide the dish rack into the washer.

  There were three racks, enough to keep things moving. Two racks were already full of dishes and the sink was overflowing with pots and pans soaking in dishwater. He tied on the apron and got started.

  An hour later, Fernando was pointed Jeff’s way. He asked, “You work hard?” and when Jeff nodded, he said, “You need to go quick quick quick in the kitchen.” Jeff nodded again. “Okay, good. I pay six an hour, cash, every shift. Waiters tip you out.”

  Six dollars an hour was two dollars under minimum wage, but Fernando explained that, if Jeff were getting taxed on minimum wage it would work out to be less than six an hour, so he was actually paying Jeff more than minimum wage, if you thought about it. And tips would make it even more. Jeff had worked in enough restaurants to know the deal.

  * * *

  The shifts started slow. Prep work for the evening and a bit of cleaning. Mary got sauces ready between smoke breaks, and Concepcion talked to herself in Spanish and slammed things around. Jeff noticed she was often angry and always asking if anyone had seen Fernando, who usually arrived a couple hours after everyone else. After a few shifts, Jeff asked Mary what was up with that and she told him, “Oh, Fernando has a girl he sees before we open,” and when Jeff looked blankly back at her, she added, “Fernando and Concepcion are married.”

  Jeff said, “Ah.”

  The waiters showed up around 4:30 p.m. On weekends, there were two of them, but otherwise Fernando tried to get away with having just one. The waiters took orders and bussed their own tables while Fernando, when he finally showed up, greeted customers and checked in on them. These check-ins were mostly a chance for him to drink wine and tell stories.

  One of Jeff’s jobs was to shine the copper pans. They were a big part of the presentation of Fernando’s scampi dish; the shrimp were cooked in sauce, arranged in a spiral, covered with garnish, and then served in the still steaming pan. Fernando wanted those pans to “shine shine shine” when the scampi was served.

  After scraping off the stuck-on burnt bits and cleaning the pans by hand, Jeff had to polish the outsides using a chemical foam that left the copper shining and streak-free. Because the chemical was so harsh, he had to wear different gloves than he used in the dish pit, but things happened so quick that he just did it without any gloves at all. Once clean, he’d hang them near Concepcion’s station, but more often he would have to hand them right to her. She spent half the shift shouting, “Pans! Pans! Why are there never pans?” or, “I need the pans. Pans, pans, pans!”

  There were only eight copper pans to go around.

  When they were out of copper pans and had a scampi order to fill, which happened whenever it was busy, Concepcion cooked the scampi in a regular pan and left it on simmer until a copper pan was free. She’d yell at Jeff, who would ask the waiters if anyone was done with theirs, and the waiters would tell Jeff it was such bullshit that Fernando didn’t hire a busboy or just let Jeff go out on the floor. And Jeff would tell Concepcion that it would be a minute while she shouted “Pans pans pans” at him.

  When a pan became available, Concepcion would put it on her pass-through and Jeff would spot clean the sides with the toxic cleaner to remove any burn marks or scuffs. He’d try only to touch the pan with the cloth because it was always hot from the fire but he’d often miss and burn his fingertip. Sometimes Jeff got busy and wouldn’t notice the order was up and one of the waiters would take it away, and then Fernando would come back in with the scampi pan seconds later and say, “You send it out like this?”

  And Jeff would say, “I was about to clean it.”

  And Fernando would say, “You need to be quick quick quick if you want to get ahead,” and Jeff would wipe the sides while Fernando tapped his hand against his thigh and repeated, “Quick quick quick.”

  Scampi was their most popular dish.

  * * *

  Eric, one of the waiters, stuck his head into the kitchen and said, “Where the fuck is Fernando?”

  Concepcion said, “He is worthless,” and some other things in Spanish.

  Mary said, “I’m going out for a cigarette.”

  Jeff said, “He’s out.”

  Eric pulled the table cloths out of the linen closet to dress the tables. He said, “This fucking bullshit. What sort of place doesn’t have busboys to do the set-up?” He put the pile of linen down and said to Concepcion, “What the fuck?” Concepcion raised both hands and shooed Eric away.

  Eric set the tables and shouted through the pass-through, “I mean, I can’t do this alone. I told him that. He wants one waiter. He doesn’t have busboys. I’ve never seen anything so poorly run. Twenty-five years in fine dining, I’ve never had to do half the shit he expects me to . . .” Jeff started the dishwasher and drowned out Eric’s complaining.

  When the machine finished, Eric was saying, “. . . in Düsseldorf. And that’s not all. I’m talking to a gallery in Paris, one in Rome. They want me, man.” Eric liked to talk about his art career, which he felt suffered from all the hours he had to spend waiting tables. Eric said, “Fuck. I don’t need this. He needs me, not the other way around.”

  Eric put on his tie while Jeff waited for another load of dishes to come out. Mary came in and mixed some sauces, then went out for another cigarette. Concepcion sat on a small stool, shaking her head. Fernando was not in when they opened.

  Eric greeted and sat the first customers, then came into the kitchen and said, “This is a fucking joke. This is supposed to be fine dining and you run it like a fucking Arby’s. Worse — at least an Arby’s would have a decent fucking manager.”

  Concepcion waved and said, “Go away.”

  Eric went into the bathroom. A minute later he came out and said to Jeff, “So, you’re just going to stand there?” Jeff had started to notice that the coke tended to bring out the worst in Eric. There were no dishes. The pans were all shined. Mary was out back having a cigarette. The only thing left to do was take the orders. Eric said, “Fuck, it’s always like this. Fernando ditches me on these fucking shifts and not one of you fucks is going to help me.”

  Concepcion said, “Go wait tables and leave us alone.”

  “Get your fucking husband back here.”

  “You don’t talk to me like that. I own the place.”

  “Then hire more staff.”

  “You shut your mouth.”

  Jeff picked up a pan and started shining. Eric left and came back a minute later. He said, “Two scampi.” And then, “They’re not even drinking. Cheap fucks. The tips won’t even be worth my time tonight.”

  Mary was back and another couple showed up, and then a group of four. Eight diners were enough to keep them all busy. Jeff fell into scrubbing, loading, shifting, shining. The night went by quickly.

  Eric came in when there was just one table left and said, “This is a fuck
ing joke. They didn’t even order a dessert. What kind of fucking date is that? Cheap fucks. And you” — he rounded on Concepcion — “I’m doing this whole thing myself. Where’s your fucking husband?”

  Concepcion said, “Be quiet. I don’t know where he is.” And she put her hands up on her head and went to the office upstairs.

  The last table left. Eric looked at his tip and said, “Ten percent — are they fucking German?” and tore off his tie and left without tipping out Jeff. Mary collected the last of Concepcion’s dishes and her own. Jeff took out the garbage while the last load was running. Concepcion had left. Mary waited around for Jeff to finish mopping and then locked up.

  * * *

  The next day, Fernando came into the kitchen while Mary was doing the prep work. Jeff picked up a clean pan and scrubbed. Fernando had garlic in a plastic bag. He said, “Use this tonight. It’s from my garden.”

  Mary took the garlic and said, “I already did the garlic. I don’t have time to prep this.”

  Fernando said, “No time? No time?” His face turned red. “You prep it like I said.”

  Mary said, “I’m busy.”

  Concepcion said, “Leave her alone, Fernando. She’s busy.”

  Fernando said something in Spanish. Then he turned to Jeff. He said, “Jeffrey. Here, I’ll show you.” Jeff came over. Fernando said, “You see, it’s from the garden. You ready it, like this.” He banged each bulb with a flat knife so it broke apart. Then he peeled one clove. “When I started out, I prepped the garlic every day. Big place. Hundreds of tables. For three hours I did the garlics and then I got so good I do it in an hour and a half. Then they made me sous chef. You work, quick quick quick, you’ll make it big in this business.” Fernando gestured at the building, in general. He smelled of wine.