Writers & Lovers(60)

The six beside them is a family that is ready to order everything and put a rush on it because they have to get to their daughter’s performance. She’s a flautist. At Harvard. The two younger daughters, not yet in college, roll their eyes. The mother sees them. ‘There are a lot of schools in this area,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to clarify.’

I’m interrupted three more times before I can get to the computer: another Coke, a cleaner fork, Worcestershire sauce. I punch in the drinks and the rush order and hear the kitchen calling my name for entrées on my deuce, two Radcliffe ladies who tell me they are celebrating fifty years of their Boston marriage.

In the kitchen, Clark is sucking down the beers and the swordfish steaks come back overcooked and the chicken bloody and he’s lashing out at every waiter who pushes through the door. By eight he’s lit into management, calling Marcus a cunt and Gory a sexless cow, and he’s scalded his right hand on the handle of pan that had been under a broiler. He’s like a bull at the end of a fight. Everything is flashing red. I stay far away.

And something’s wrong with the Kroks. They’re early and they’re not in their usual tuxes and they do things in reverse, start in the middle of the room and fan around it, singing a few songs I’ve never heard before, their voices loud and sloppy. But the diners don’t know the difference. They eat it up. At the end of their last song the singers take blue Yale caps out of their pockets and fix them on their heads. ‘Thank you,’ they shout. ‘We’re the Whiffenpoofs!’ The crowd loves the caper. They boo and clap at the same time. The Whiffenpoofs blow kisses. In the doorway are the stunned Kroks in tuxes, the wind finally out of their annoying sails.

I’m dropping desserts at the first six-top—the second has already left for the concert—when Clark comes tearing out into the dining room, hand packed with ice and bandaged with rags and duct tape. He grabs my arm and a small cylinder of hazelnut mousse goes flying to the carpet.

‘Marcus says there’s a five in the club bar that’s been here two hours. I have no dupe.’

At first my table thinks it’s another Yale prank and watch with amusement. When they understand his blood and rage are real, they bend their heads toward their plates. The man at the head reaches out for my hip again. ‘That’s no way to speak to this sweet young lady.’

I sidestep his grab, and I shove Clark’s arm off me. It smashes into his other, bandaged hand. He howls.

‘Get your fucking hands off me.’ My voice is very loud, much louder than I expect, louder than any Krok or Whiffenpoof. I move quickly through the silent dining room out to the fire escape.

My throat has seized up, and I’m sipping small bits of air. I have a lot of crying in me, but not a tear comes out. I’m just trying to breathe. It’s starting again, that need to somehow get out of my body. My heart is hammering so fast it feels like one long beat on the verge of bursting. Death, or something bigger and much less peaceful, feels so close, just over my shoulder.

‘Casey.’

It’s Marcus.

‘I know. I’m leaving,’ I manage.

‘Good,’ he says and goes back in.

I change in the bathroom and leave my filthy uniform on the floor of the stall. In the other stall are two little girls. I can see their white tights and black patent leather shoes. I wash my hands and do not look in the mirror, do not want to see who is in there. The girls are whispering, waiting for me to leave before they come out. I shut the door loudly when I go, so they know the coast is clear.

I go down the narrow stairs then the wider fancy stairs. The presidents watch me go. My chest feels like an old swollen piece of fruit about to split open with wet rot. I hear the little girls’ small voices. I want little girls. I haven’t gone back for the follow-up appointment Dr. Gynecologist suggested. Now I won’t have health insurance anymore. I don’t want to be infertile. I also don’t want to be pregnant. Fitzgerald said that the sign of genius is being able to hold two contradictory ideas in your head at the same time. But what if you hold two contradictory fears? Are you still some kind of a genius?

I unplug the phone when I get home so Oscar can’t call me and Harry can’t call me and Muriel can’t call me after Harry calls her. I can’t stay inside. I can’t stay still. But I’m scared to leave. I don’t want to walk down the driveway and out to the street. I’m scared I won’t come back. I’m scared I’ll burst or dissolve or veer straight into traffic. I’m scared of men at this time of night when I’m on foot, not on my bike. I’m scared of men in cars and men in doorways, men in groups and men alone. They are menacing. Menacing. Men-dacious. Men-tal. I’m outside now. I’m circling the big tree. You hate men, Paco said once. Do I? I don’t like working for them. Marcus and Gory. Gabriel at Salvatore’s was an exception. My French teacher in eighth grade rubbed my neck during a makeup test, swaying hard against the back of my plastic chair. I actually thought he had an itch. And when I asked Mr. Tuck at the airport in Madrid why he hadn’t told someone about my father he said, I liked your dad but you know what happens to the messenger. I hate male cowardice and the way they always have each other’s backs. They have no control. They justify everything their dicks make them do. And they get away with it. Nearly every time. My father peered through a hole at girls, possibly at me, in our locker room. And when he got caught, he got a party and a cake.