He looked at me for a long moment, then slipped the watch into his pocket. He picked up his bag and walked out to the driveway.
Through the window, I watched him walk past my old sedan, noting the red rust creeping around the rear wheel well. The car would need tires before the first snow, but that was another list for another day.
The scent of bleach and yellowing grease met me at the door of the Oak Creek Diner on Route 4. Behind the counter, Brenda was wiping the stainless-steel top of the pie case, though the glass was already spotless.
The lunch rush had cleared, leaving only two state troopers in the corner booth and a stack of dirty plates near the kitchen hatch.
She looked up as the bell jingled, her eyes narrowing slightly through her bifocals. “You’re early for your coffee, Martha.”
“I need the evening hours, Brenda,” I said, sitting on the stool nearest the register. “The five-to-midnight shift.”
She stopped her cloth, leaving a thin trail of gray water on the metal. “Richard let you off the leash?”
“I didn’t ask him,” I said.
Brenda leaned her weight against the counter, her voice raspy from thirty years of breathing the grease from the grill. “He’ll notice you’re not there to put his plate down at six. Richard is not a man who likes his schedule altered.”
“I can prep the meals ahead,” I said. “I just need the work, Brenda. I need thirty hours.”
She looked at the stack of blue plastic cups by the soda fountain, then back at me. “The register needs someone who can count cash without looking at the floor. It pays eight dollars an hour, plus whatever the late truck drivers leave on the tables.”
“I can start tonight,” I said.
Brenda wiped her hands on her apron. “Be here at five. And wear thick socks. That linoleum behind the counter is cold enough to freeze your soles.”
At six o’clock, the beef stew was bubbling on the back burner, filling the kitchen with the scent of onions and turnip. Clara sat at the far end of the table, her lower lip tucked between her teeth as she drew small blue flowers on a paper napkin.
Richard stood by the radiator, his coat still zipped to his chin. “Where are you going, Martha?”
“To the diner,” I said, reaching for my wool cardigan on the peg by the door. “Brenda needs help with the evening rush.”
“You belong in this kitchen,” Richard said, his voice dropping into the short, flat tone he used when citing the town ordinances. “If you walk out that door, this dinner does not happen.”
