Lady in the Lake(40)

“Why are you trying so hard to get a job as a reporter, Maddie? Most of the women in this business, they get in young, or they marry into it. And most of them are battle-axes, in my opinion.”

“The world is changing,” she said.

“Not for the better, I’m afraid.”

“What about Margaret Bourke-White?” Even Maddie realized she was grasping. Why was she talking about a photographer? Who were the famous women journalists?

“The exception that tests the rule. There will be exceptions, always. Do you believe yourself to be exceptional?”

She took the daintiest bite possible from the messy sandwich, chewed more thoroughly than necessary. “As a matter of fact, I do. And Martha Gellhorn. I meant to say Martha Gellhorn.”

“Then maybe you can turn this story into something. Tell you what, tomorrow on your lunch break, let’s walk down to the cop shop, I’ll introduce you to John Diller, and he can run you through some basics. How to pull a police report, for starters.”

“I met him briefly at headquarters the other day, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in the newsroom.”

“You probably never will. He calls his information in to rewrite, couldn’t write a note to his mother or even a grocery list without a rewrite man on the other end of the phone. Other reporters call him Deputy Diller or Deputy Dawg behind his back. We’ll tell him that this is—kind of a training mission. That way, he won’t get spooked about some gal he’s never heard of making phone calls on his beat. Like I said, he’s more cop than reporter. Blood runs blue. He knows everything that happens at the PD.”

Not everything, Maddie thought, blood rushing to her cheeks.





The Waitress





The Waitress



They’re talking about Cleo, Mr. B and the woman with him. I almost lean in and say, I knew her, but that throws people, being reminded that the waitress ain’t deaf and dumb. It’s a guaranteed way to get stiffed on the tip, let me tell you.

I’m surprised when the woman with Mr. B picks up the check at lunch, more surprised that she leaves a good tip. Not that all women are bad tippers, but this woman doesn’t look as if she knows much about hard work, and that’s what makes the difference in tips. Lawyers are the worst, very stingy. But housewives, who’ve never held down a job, they can be just as bad.

Maybe she’s trying to impress Mr. B. I’ve been waiting on Mr. B for almost ten years now. I remember when he was younger, thinner. He says he’s trying to reduce, then orders deviled ham. I know him well enough that I’ll give him a playful tap when he reaches for someone else’s French fries.

Of course, this woman doesn’t order French fries.

Why would a woman pick up the check for Mr. B? That isn’t allowed. He told me once he has to pay for himself, always. That if I see him with a stranger, I should make sure he gets the check. But he lets this woman pay. How odd. She clearly isn’t a romantic interest, because then she definitely wouldn’t have paid. Besides, he’s married. He says “happily” but I’m not convinced the word happily can be applied to any part of Mr. B’s life, except maybe the newspaper. He likes his job. He doesn’t want to go home. I know because sometimes he comes in right before closing and drinks a very slow cup of coffee while I count my tips, talks to me about where he grew up, a town a lot like the one I come from, back in West Virginia.

None of my business. My business is to get the food on the table, fast and hot.

I’ve been waiting tables since I was thirteen, a leggy thirteen who could pass for sixteen. My parents brought the family to Baltimore during the war, for that Glenn Martin money. That didn’t work out. Nothing worked out for them. They drank, they divorced, they got back together, which was worse than the drinking or the divorce. I had to find a way to escape, even if I was just thirteen, so I got a job at a place called Stacey’s. Then I went to Werner’s and now I’m at the New Orleans Diner. The NOD, as we call it, is long and skinny. It has defeated many a waitress. I’ve seen a lot of young ones come and go because they weren’t efficient. Too much trot, not enough glide. But I know how to cover the maximum ground with the minimum steps.

Not that I was much smarter when I was a young pup. Turns out having cash money at the end of the day isn’t the best thing for a teenage girl on her own. There were a couple of dark years where I almost became my mom. That’s basically the story of every woman’s life, right? You become your mother or you don’t. Of course, every woman says she doesn’t want to be her mother, but that’s foolish. For a lot of women, becoming their mothers simply means growing up, taking on responsibility, acting like an adult is supposed to act. I hear the young women talking over their coffees, complaining about their mothers’ opinions, their rules. I’m on the mothers’ side. Especially now, with the young people starting to act so odd, dress so odd, listening to crazier and crazier music.

Still, I can sympathize with the girls, too. I remember being young, loving Elvis. I wish there had been a mother at home who railed at me a little, instead of a ghost in a bathrobe with a gin bottle who sneaked into my room while I was out and stole my tip money.

Anyway, one day, I woke up pregnant and that was that. The guy married me, but it was the only correct thing he ever did and pretty soon I was nineteen, with a baby, all alone.