What Happens to Goodbye(67)

“I don’t know,” Jason said. “If it’s there, it’s not my doing. I haven’t been in touch with them in ages.”
“You went to Brain Camp, too?” I said.
“He didn’t just go there,” Dave told me. “He’s, like, a Brain Camp legend. They pretty much genuflect to his IQ scores.”
“Not true,” Jason said.
“Order up!” I heard Tracey call. “Salad for the big boss, so make it good!”
“Duty calls,” Jason said, then smiled, walking back toward the prep table. Dave watched him go as I pushed open the back door, a bit of snow blowing in.
“So Jason was a big geek deal, huh?” I asked as I pulled on my gloves.
“More like a rock star,” he replied. “He went to Kiffney-Brown and took U classes, just like me and Gervais, but he was a couple of years ahead. He went off to Harvard when I was a sophomore.”
“Harvard?” I glanced back at Jason, who was pulling a pan out of the walk-in. “It’s a long way from there to prep cook. What happened?”
He shrugged, walking out the door and pulling his hood up. “Don’t know. I thought he was still there until I saw him upstairs the other day.”
Strange, I thought as we passed by the half-open door to my dad’s office. I could see him inside, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the desk.
“. . . been pretty busy, with the new menu and some corporate meetings,” he was saying. I heard his chair creak. “No, no. I’m not, Lindsay. I promise. And lunch . . . would be good. Let’s do it.”
I looked out at the snow. Dave had his head tipped back, looking up, the outside light hitting the flakes as they fell down on him.
“Your office, city hall, eleven thirty,” my dad continued. “No, you pick. I’m sure you know the best places . . . yeah. All right. I’ll see you then.”
The door at the other end of the hallway, which led to the restaurant, suddenly opened. Opal was standing there, her wineglass in one hand. “Hey,” she said, “is your dad still on the phone?” she asked.
I nodded. “Think so.”
“Well, when he’s done, remind him we’re waing for him to join us. Tell him Chuckles is insisting on it.” She smiled. “And, um, so am I.”
“Okay,” I said.

“Thanks!” She lifted her glass to me, then disappeared back through the doorway, letting it swing shut behind her.
For a moment, I just stood there, right in the middle of the hallway, alone. In the kitchen, some bouncy dance music was playing, and over it I could hear the clanging of utensils, the squeaking of shoes on the damp floor, and the grill sizzling, the soundtrack to the beginning of a rush. All things I knew well. Almost as well as the tone in my dad’s voice just now, finally accepting the councilwoman’s offer. It was as familiar as the set of his jaw as he sat next to Opal earlier, even as she celebrated unknowingly beside him. Something had shifted, changed. Or, actually, not changed at all.
“Hey, Mclean,” Dave called out through the screen door. I looked over to see him surrounded by white: on the ground at his feet, blown onto the wall behind him, and flakes still falling. “You ready to go?”
I looked back at my dad’s door, now all quiet behind it. No, I thought. I’m not.
Ten
“Do you hear that?”
I looked up from the fire station I was trying to get straight on the model base. “What?”
Dave, who was across the room, cocked his head to the side. “That,” he said, holding up a finger as the sound of voices, loud, in the restaurant below rose up the stairs behind him. “It’s been going on for a while now.”
“It’s probably just everyone setting up,” I said, moving the station again. It was just a small square that needed to go neatly into another small square, but for some reason, it would not cooperate. “Isn’t it close to five?”
“Four forty-six,” he said, still listening. “But that’s not setting up. It’s someone yelling.”
I put down the building, then walked over to where he was standing, peering down the stairs. I couldn’t see anything but the deserted side dining room, but now, I could hear the sound loud and clear.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s just my dad.”
Dave raised his eyebrows. “Your dad?”
I nodded, listening again. This time, I was reasonably sure I made out a bullshit, the word inept, and a mention of a road, and a suggestion that whoever he was speaking to consider hitting it. “Sounds like he’s firing someone.”
“Yeah?” Dave squinted as if this would help him decipher better. “How can you tell?”
“The volume,” I replied. “He never really gets that loud unless he knows the person isn’t going to be around much longer.” Just then, equally loud, there was a stream of expletives.
Dave raised his eyebrows.
“That’s whoever just got the hook.”
“And you know that becaus . . .”
“My dad doesn’t use those words. Even when he’s firing someone.” There was a crash. “I would wager that’s whoever it is throwing something. Sounds like a bus bin.” A bang. “And that’s the back door. It was probably a dishwasher.”
“Why?”
“Girls usually don’t bang out or throw stuff. And kitchen guys yell more.”
Dave was just looking at me as if I was insane. “What are you? The restaurant whisperer?”
I shook my head. It was quiet downstairs now, that heavy silence that falls after someone gets axed and everyone else is tiptoeing around, extra careful to keep their distance from the boss in case unemployment is catching. “I grew up in a place like this. After a while, you start to recognize things.”