by CJ Daly
her a jovial wave with his unoccupied hand. A throb pulsed inside my wrist,
but I flatly refused to speak. Didn’t even care if my hand withered up from
lack of circulation and fell to the floor.
“You’re just gonna quit on me then, huh?” He laughed sharply. “Didn’t
take you for a quitter, Glasses. But I guess I was wrong about you—again.
You have absolutely zero potential.”
I still refused to meet his eye.
“Pathetic!” Ranger flung my hand away and abruptly stood, threatening
as a skyscraper in a sandbox. He scooped up the last remaining bill and slipped
it into his back pocket. “I was going to leave a dollar, not that you deserve it,
but I do like to give back . . . And you definitely strike me as a charity case,”
he sneered.
I tried hard not to flinch when he leaned over to whisper, “So here’s your
tip instead—get yourself a tailor. Your ill-fitting uniform’s gonna cost you
more tips than you can make here.”
With that parting shot, Ranger plucked the cherry from the ice cream and
popped it into his mouth. Something about the way he looked at me made
• 34 •
me catch my breath. But he didn’t say anything more, just pushed passed me to leave. He started to bypass an oncoming, smiling Norma and changed his
mind midstride.
“Thanks for the free meal,” he grinned. “It was e-Normas-ly kind of you.”
A follow up wink and he barreled through the door, the abused bell shrieking
after him.
Ms. Norma got caught out in the aisle, turning two shades of pink and
quivering with the eleventh-hour realization that she might’ve been had. She
one-eightied, once again, and bustled away at the same time Baseball Cap
took his stand. I took back full plates to pass the awkward moment. A cleared
throat indicated some sort of apology was to take place.
“Save it,” I said, halting him palm up. I stared at him through foggy
glasses, with tear-stained cheeks and grease-stained clothing, but with all the
pride bred into me as a Connelly. “I don’t want or need your pity.”
Before he could say anything, I escaped and fled through the same
swinging doors as Ms. Norma.
• 35 •
4
DON’T BITE THE HAND
THAT FEEDS YOU
Shoulders slumped and sniffling, I sped home with a tinfoil-covered
dish full of Norma’s meatloaf for the boys rolling around the back—her
idea of an apology. I wondered if actually feeding it to them could be
considered child abuse. I feared I was failing them and sniffed again, letting
it all out before facing my father. Daddy would have zero sympathy for me
crying over a couple of guys hassling me. This would only conjure another
lecture. And I didn’t think I could take another lecture tonight. Plus, he didn’t
really want me working outside the home, even though the money sure was
useful. I’d barely talked him into letting me work there weekends so didn’t
want to give him an excuse to make me quit.
I auto-drove down the packed dirt road, stopping at our mailbox, which
was cemented into a bald tire by the side of the road. This was the only marker
that let people know where we lived. You couldn’t see our house from the
road, not just because it was a long, low thing, but also because it was too
far away. You’d have to drive past the Keep Out! sign nailed to the fence post
and follow the tractor tracks two miles, snaking your way through rotting
pasture to find it.
I remembered riding my bike determinedly down that bumpy road to
retrieve our mail, Blue following closely at my heels as a frisky puppy. A
happier time for our family, to be sure.
I sniffed again, noticing I was too stopped up to really appreciate the
aroma wafting over from the backseat—a bright light in an otherwise dark
night. I quickly sorted through the junk mail, bills, and requisite weekly
church bulletin to what I was saving for last. When my fingers registered
• 36 •
what it was, my heart sank at once. I glared at the thick, expensive envelope embossed with a roaring lion symbol.
Another one. Can’t these people take a hint?
A flicker of anger at Andrew’s well-meaning teachers flared in my chest.
For once, Daddy was completely justified in the raucous he threw at the
school when he found out. “ Busy bodies that had no business interfering,”
Daddy had said, and I agreed. Last year they had sent some of his creative
writing samples and standardized test scores to a few exalted boarding schools
without our knowledge. Each had accepted him promptly. All were firmly
and impolitely rejected by Daddy, who was furious at the intimation that
Andrew would be better off at a boarding school than home with us. Andrew
was his pride and joy; there was no way he was going to part with him. And
he promised Mama he would never send any of us away to special schools,
which sounded plain crazy at the time.
Where would we possibly go?
I guess she had more than an inkling of his academic giftedness early on.
Actually, we were all pretty good at school stuff (I filed the understatement
under inbred modesty). Andrew just happened to be exceptional . . . at
everything, really. Is that why she yanked him out of kindergarten overnight?
That made a lot of sense, because overprotectiveness was the one parenting
ideal both my parents could get behind.
I pondered our family situation further as I bumped my way to our house,
slowing to a crawl over the more serious potholes. I guess it was a big deal to
be so sought after that schools were willing to throw in free room-and-board,
in addition to tuition. That was just it though—it was too generous.
I mean I knew Drewy was gifted, but surely there were plenty of other
academically-abled-fish-in-the-sea who were more willing to bite? Well no
matter mind, this elite academy would eventually give up when they continued
to get no response from us. Maybe I should just tell them we already accepted
another offer?
Lying was never a good option for me though. I was terrible at it and made
all the rooky mistakes: stuttering, looking away, adding random, unnecessary
details to avoid actually having to say the lie out right. Mama always busted
me right away the few times I tried to get away with deceiving her. She told
me to scratch attorney or spy off my list of future occupations.
A picture of her flashed unbidden in my mind. I usually tried to repress
the memories because they were still too painful to think about. Since I’d
already broken down a few times tonight, I figured one more time would just
be an encore. Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to really see her, as she was
• 37 •
when she was healthy, smiling at me like I was the best thing she’d seen all day. She was half Cherokee and beautiful in a way that was unique—like an
exotic flower blooming amongst a bed of drooping roses.
I remembered how proud I was that she was my mother, how everyone
seemed to be especially nice to her. She was light personified. Love radiated
from her like heat from a flickering fireplace on a cold day. That feeling a child
Her light snuffed out forever. Ashes all that was left. I shivered as the lonely
feeling I’d grown accustomed to permeated my whole being.
I cut off the overheated engine and sat for a while in the dark, listening to
the engine tick down. The buzzing insects in my ear were a comfort, almost
like friends, or at least friends’ watered-down cousins—acquaintances. Blue’s
shrill bark echoed in the dark, welcoming me home and alerting Daddy to
my arrival.
I’d better hurry then. My meager earnings needed to be counted before
I entered the house. You see, Daddy always wanted to “borrey” a few bucks
from me when I got home. Mostly I didn’t mind because if it was a Sunday,
he’d up and run off, leaving us kids in peace for a while usually with a litany
of extra chores to keep us occupied and “out of trouble.” While he was on
sabbatical, we’d skim our way through the work and enjoy a little extra TV.
When Daddy came home, he’d slyly feel the “idiot-box” for warmth. But we
stayed two steps ahead of him by setting an ice tray on top of the TV while
we were watching it. When he drove up, we’d put it back in the freezer and
change the channel back.
And I didn’t feel more than just a twinge of guilt for deceiving him,
because it was something we learned from Mama . . . and she was the best
person in the world. A smile curved my lips as I thought of all the ways she
helped us get one over on Daddy. She knew he wasn’t the easiest person to
live with, and managed him, much like our money problems and fledgling
ranch. I suspected she always felt guilty about the way we lived so smothered
us in compensation love.
I dumped the heavy contents of my apron onto my lap—heavy was a
bad sign for a waitress. Generally, I made one to two dollars off of every table
(no matter what the bill said), and one of the two dollars was usually left in
change. Folks here thought that was a good tip and felt really good leaving
it, walking away smiling benevolently at me like they’d just made my day.
Truckers were usually a little better. And you could tell when they got paid,
because you might even find yourself with a fiver in your hands (usually folded
carefully with a phone number).
• 38 •
I quickly tallied tonight’s haul: one five, fourteen ones, twelve quarters, five dimes, and two nickels. I breathed in deeply through my nose, inhaling
all the way down into my diaphragm. Not enough. After Daddy’s “tip-out”
and buying necessary groceries, I wouldn’t have anything left over at all to go
towards new school clothes. I thought remorsefully of the ten bucks I’d let slip
through my fingers tonight. How could I have been so stupid? Tears pricked my eyes again, but I couldn’t succumb to them now; I had to get inside.
Grabbing my apron, I was fixing to cram all the contents back in when
I felt some kind of lump stuck inside. Huh? Probably just an old wadded
up receipt or someone’s business card I politely tucked into my apron and
forgot to discard later. I haphazardly dug it out, feeling a definite shape to
it. Intrigued, I turned on the interior light and opened my palm to reveal an
origami heart-shaped bill.
That’s a new one. After running through the night’s customers in my
mind, I came up blank. I couldn’t remember anyone leaving that on the
table. The only one I thought it could possibly be was Mr. Tatum, although
I doubted he was capable of folding a dollar bill into such an intricate work
of art.
And how did it get into my apron?
A diagonal flash of yellow infiltrated the darkness—Daddy pulling the
curtain back, a clear signal. I stuffed the origami heart into the bottom of my
bag, along with two more dollars I didn’t think he’d miss to add to my puny
stockpile. I would claim it was a slow night, which was true enough every
night for Norma’s. After slamming my shoulder against the door, I grabbed
the steaming dish from the back, holding it away from my face as I trudged
into the house to face Daddy. Like my night hadn’t been bad enough.
Jumping for joy, yelping, and announcers talking sports like it was world-
changing news greeted me with the standard cacophony of welcome-home
noise. “Hi, Daddy,” I greeted, dropping my bag to receive enthusiastic licks
from Blue. At least someone’s happy to see me.
Daddy acknowledged my presence with a vague grunting noise.
“Did the boys get down alright?” I tried again.
A few seconds of popcorn crunching ensued. “I’d say so,” he replied
laconically, clearly too immersed in baseball highlights to bother turning
around.
“Okay, great. Thanks.” What am I thanking him for? Answering me?
I paused to see if I could just go on to bed. I was whipped and ready to
settle in for the night so I could commence to licking my wounds. All I could
• 39 •
hear were the sounds of a double play recap. Couldn’t believe I got off that easy.I cleared my throat. “I’m really tired so . . . think I’m just gonna call it a night.” I began tiptoeing away, lamely holding my breath.
“Katie,” Daddy’s gruff voice halted my progress, “them dishes need to be
done before you head in.”
Of course. That was one of the conditions to my employment outside the
home: that it wouldn’t interfere with my chores. God forbid he should lift a
finger to do “women’s work” while I was slaving away to help put food on
the table.
“Okay, Daddy. I was goin’ in there anyway to put this meatloaf in the
fridge.” I held my breath again.
“Whatdidyasay?” Daddy rubbernecked out of his comfort zone, missing
a great catch by a burly fan in the stands wearing head-to-toe red. I watched
long enough to see him hand it over to his mini-me kid and then hold her up for the cameras like she was the real prize.
I cleared my throat again; this time a frog was jammed in there. “I said
that Ms. Norma pressed leftover meatloaf into everyone’s hands tonight.”
“She gave it to everyone?” he emphasized.
“Yes, sir, we were all accosted on the way out on account of it bein’ a real
slow night.”
His eyes narrowed. “How slow?”
Charity meatloaf forgotten.
“Real.” Daddy’s face began to contort, so I hurriedly explained, “Ms.
Norma says it’s on account of folks not spendin’ money goin’ out to eat
because school’s comin’ up and they have to pay for new school supplies and
clothes and what not.”
Daddy harrumphed. “Don’t know why people pay all that money for
supplies. I thought we attended public school, and that’s what all them tax
dollars we pay out is for.”
A silence stretched out. I decided I’d better agree with him, because once
Daddy got started, he’d talk all night before dropping the mike. “Yes, sir,”
I said, shrugging my bag back on to head to the kitchen with my reloaded
apron.
Daddy trailed behind me. “You still manage to make anything?”
Opening the fridge, I hid my face inside with the meatloaf. “Um,” I
h
esitated. If I said no, then he was going to point out that my time would
be better spent at home working. On the other hand, if I said yes, then he
• 40 •
would help himself to the lion’s share of my earnings. Lose-lose. “About fair,”
I came up with.
Daddy shuffled forward to add his glass and bowl to my burgeoning
load. While I ran water over the dried-on glue that was their former dinner,
he hovered over me, humming under his breath. I tried willing him away,
but he only hesitated briefly before proceeding on with what we both knew
he was going to do.
He coughed into his hand. “Well Katie, since you had a good night
tonight, I think I’ll just borrey a few bucks to tide us over till my check
comes in.”
How did my night suddenly go from fair to good? There was an awkward
pause while I inwardly seethed, and Daddy waited for me to capitulate
gracefully.
“I haven’t had time to go to the bank,” he added, which wasn’t true
because he was in town just this morning, picking up feed from Tillman
Mills. He managed to stay gone all day, not that I was complaining.
“Okay, Daddy.” I tried keeping my voice steady. “You know that any
money I earn goes towards helping the family.”
That seemed to perk him up some. “Yer right . . . we are a family, and
what’s yours is mine.”
So clearly missed the point. He plucked up my apron and dumped it out on
the table. My back stiffened as he sifted through looking for the bigger bills.
He seemed to tally up pretty quickly, even turning my apron upside down
and shaking it.
“That it?” he demanded.
I squirted a long stream of dishwashing liquid over the dishes, biding for
time. I was hoping this was a rhetorical question.
“Is this all you made tonight, Katherine?”
“Um,” I hedged again, “I also made my hourly wage of two-thirteen.”
“Yer meanin’ to tell me you was gone from three-thirty this afternoon till
eleven o’clock tonight and all you made—after Uncle Sam takes his share—is
a measly twenty bucks!”
“Uhhh . . . more, less.” I swallowed.
Daddy’s face contorted around a bit before settling into a sneer this time.
“Remember, it was a real slow night tonight,” I interjected quickly. “Ms.
Norma said it’s gonna pick up again after school starts.”