Clara stopped her crayon, her eyes darting between us.
“The stew is done,” I said. “All you have to do is bowl it.”
“I am the provider here,” Richard said. “If the mother is not at the table, the table is empty.”
I pulled my keys from my pocket, the cold metal biting into my fingers. “We need the five thousand eight hundred dollars, Richard.”
“Then let him work the yard,” Richard said.
I turned the brass doorknob.
“If you leave,” Richard said, “I will not touch that stove.”
Martha walks out the back door into the autumn chill, leaving the stew bubbling on the stove.
The grease on the professional grill did not yield easily to the scraper. I worked the metal edge against the black carbon, using the weight of my shoulder to push through the crust until the silver steel showed beneath.
Brenda came out of the back office carrying a stack of clean towels. She set them on the edge of the prep table, then reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small brown coin envelope.
“Your first shift,” Brenda said, her voice raspy from forty years of diner air. “Sixty-two dollars. It is short because of the training hour, but the weekend shifts pay a higher rate.”
I took the envelope, the paper warm from being near her skin. I slid it into my pocket, where my fingers touched my silver wedding band.
“This stays between us,” Brenda said, running a clean rag over the stainless-steel counter that was already gleaming. “Richard does not need to see my books.”
“He thinks I am at the library,” I said, focusing on the corner of the grill.
“He is a proud man, Martha,” Brenda said. “But pride does not pay for state college.”
I did not answer her. I kept scrubbing until the steel was bright, the smell of vinegar and hot metal filling the small kitchen.
