Aftermath of Dreaming(19)

“Is that for me?” Andrew said, looking into my eyes and able to see all inside me and all outside me all at once me.

It was clear in that moment that everything was for him, whether it was meant to be or not.

I had to answer but didn’t know what to say. My mind had gone blank. I knew Seamus had said, “Take a phone to Mr. Madden’s table—a call [something] Bonnie Davis.” But I couldn’t recall if he had said “from Bonnie Davis” or “for Bonnie Davis.” That information had slipped away, as though my body had known ahead of time that something momentous was about to happen, and shut down my brain so it wouldn’t get in the way.

But it did get in the way because the word was lost, the preposition was gone, my mind did not grasp its short sound. And it wasn’t like I could turn around, go back to the ma?tre d’ stand, and say, “Seamus, hi, sorry, me again. Is this a phone call for Bonnie Davis? Or from Bonnie Davis?” That was not a possibility, so there I stood in front of them, holding the phone before me, clutched in both hands like some dead telecommunication bouquet.

Finally, I made a decision. “It’s for Bonnie Davis,”

“For Bonnie Davis or from Bonnie Davis?” Andrew replied.

Jesus God, all of this because of one word. I just wanted to hide, but then I saw the smile in his eyes and heard the hint in his words replaying in my head.

“From Bonnie Davis, for you.”

There was a pause. As if I had won. As if the contest were over and in one long, though barely perceptible, moment, we had shifted from crossing the finish line to celebrating the game.

“Thank you,” he said, and looked at me with a smile held inside.

I rested the phone before him, then knelt down to plug in the cord. I had to crawl on the floor because the jack was underneath the table in the middle of their legs. Lily had daintily painted toes on huge feet. Now, I’m usually rotten at telling the size of anything, but I had to put my hand flat on the ground next to her shoe while I inserted the plug, so it was easy to determine the space her feet took up. They were huge. The other woman was wearing clunky, closed-toe, hot-looking shoes of synthetic leather. I imagined neither of them thought while they were getting dressed that someone would be examining their feet from so close up. I figured Lily still would have chosen the strappy high-heeled sandals that she had on while the other woman maybe would not—they probably were stinky when she took them off. Andrew’s black silk-socked feet were encased in black leather loafers; I could sense their desire to be free, like two large children swimming in inner tubes. I scooted out the step or two backward and stood up, sure that I was a mess.

I looked at Andrew again. I hadn’t wanted to, because a small part of me has never stopped believing the one-year-old’s truth that if I’m not looking at you, you can’t see me. He had just said, “Bonnie,” with the receiver to his ear, and I immediately pictured a lass wearing a full soft skirt, sitting on his knee with one arm around his neck and the other feeding him the lamb. Andrew turned back to me and slowly mouthed, “Thank you.” His lips, teeth, and tongue formed each empty sound perfectly, trusting the air to transport and transform them into normal volume for me. I thought I should smile, but couldn’t. It was like being stoned, when just thinking of a response makes me believe it somehow was instantaneously conveyed to the room. I think he got it, but I couldn’t hang around to see. I figured Jurgos would soon notice me still standing there, so I walked away from Andrew.

My mind began its way with me on the walk down the long marble corridor back to the ma?tre d’ stand. Oh, for Christ’s sake, Yvette, you really are too much. Andrew Madden looking at you? Please. You are out of your mind and pigheaded to boot. No one is looking at you, missy-thing, in your polyester lime-green Nehru jacket uniform. You’re practically a walking diaphragm against attractiveness, honey, he was not looking at you.

But privately, away from that voice in my head, I thought of him constantly.



I thought of him so repeatedly that one week later, at seven-thirty as I went to take my dinner break at work, I wished it were the previous Saturday night, right before I met him, so I could live it all over again. I took my plate to the private dining room behind the barroom where customers usually didn’t eat on Saturday nights. When the three private dining rooms were full—during the fall social season or for Christmas parties—we were forced to take our employee meals in the hall, a long passageway that allowed for quick and hidden access from the kitchen to any one of the dining rooms. The few chairs not being used were lined up flush against the wall, like a no-view single-seat train that kept you in place, while waiters, table captains, and busboys streaked past, like the blur outside a windowpane, yelling to one another in the Romance and Slavic languages of their motherland. As I ate in the empty silence of the private dining room, I tried to imagine where Andrew was and who was holding his attention.

When I returned from my break, Seamus sent me down to the coat-check room, normally a prized position because there you could earn tips during your shift. Few to no people gave money for escorting them to their table or delivering a phone, and certainly not for writing down their reservation when they called, but coat-checking enabled us hosts and hostesses to dip into the pile of cash walking in the doors each night, from patrons whose monthly florist bills were the size of our monthly nuts.

Even though we weren’t supposed to. The house got the tips, but the customers didn’t know that; they assumed we did. They’d watch us working hard to keep their coats and scarves from falling on the floor; saw us smiling nicely as we handed their garments over after (usually) quickly locating them, so they’d gladly put a dollar or two down. The tips were then swept into a small square hole that had been cut into the top of the counter, and shot straight to the pockets of the owners via a locked strongbox. Except for the ones that we hid in our hands and surreptitiously slid into our pants pockets, being sure to take them out later to neatly fold since a bulge under the jacket uniform was a dead giveaway.