The Last Flight(55)
“Thanks for helping out in a pinch,” he calls, just before disappearing back into the kitchen. “Kelly will show you what to do.”
Soon we’re busy with linens, table settings, and flowers. “I’ve been waiting for this event for months,” Kelly says.
“Why?”
Her eyes sparkle. “It’s a banquet for the Oakland A’s.” She looks around the room. “In a few hours, this place is going to be crawling with professional athletes. I’m hoping to at least get an autograph.” Then she winks at me. “Maybe a phone number.”
She slides away again, leaving me to my napkin-folding, but I’m suddenly unable to make my fingers work. My gaze leaps to the exit and then back to my pile of linens. I’ve run events like this before, with big names in a big location. And one of my first calls was always to the media. The more photographers, the better.
I finish the napkins with trembling hands and begin the table settings, trying to remind myself that I look different now. And in my black pants and white shirt, I’ll be just one of many faceless workers sliding between the crowd, paid to remain invisible.
*
An hour into the party, I feel more relaxed. The photographers were clustered near the entrance, taking people’s pictures as they arrived. There are only two inside, and they’re easy enough to avoid. I feel my chest loosen again, and I navigate the large space, offering appetizers and napkins. Some people smile and thank me, while others take what I’m offering without even making eye contact or stopping their conversations at all.
I’m surprised by how physical the work is.
“You’re a natural,” Kelly says as she passes me, carrying a tray of dirty glasses toward the kitchen.
I massage a knot in my shoulder. “It seems pretty simple. Keep the food moving, stay in the background.” I think of Marcy, the caterer I always used in New York. A tiny woman who had the grace of Jackie Kennedy but the countenance of a bulldog. She commanded the respect of all who worked for her and had a gift for making any event sparkle. Her staff was always impeccable, though until tonight, I had no idea how hard they worked. I wonder what Marcy thinks of my passing. Whether she will cater my funeral.
*
As I circulate among the guests, offering bacon-wrapped scallops, I pass a beautiful woman in a tight blue dress, holding a whispered argument with a well-built man who must be one of the players.
“Just stop, Donny,” the woman hisses.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
My nerves tighten reflexively, even though I know he’s not speaking to me. But the way he spits the words at her, his voice laced with venom, makes me hurry past them, eyes cast downward, fear zapping all my nerve endings and making my skin buzz. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that kind of anger. And I wish I could turn back, help that woman in some way. I wonder how many people here know this is how he treats her. The other players. Their wives and girlfriends. Do they see it and look away, as so many people did with me? Do they whisper about it to each other, but do nothing to help? I feel impotent with rage, at the careless way people discard other people’s problems, and how I’m no better. Watching it happen and doing nothing.
My eyes track them as they move away from me and become swallowed by the crowd, the way his hand remains on her lower back, and how easily that can shift from solicitous to a shove.
*
Midway through dinner, a man approaches the microphone set up at the front of the room, and the crowd claps. I take my tray and stand alongside the back wall to listen. He has the voice of a radio announcer and talks about his years of working inside the booth at the stadium. But my attention is soon drawn back to that same couple, now directly in front of me. At first he’s trying to silence her with what looks like platitudes and promises, but she’s having none of it. Her anger spirals upward, and I tense, waiting for him to react. Don’t make him mad, I silently plead with her. You still have time to turn this around. My palms grow sweaty, and my breath comes in short gasps that I try to elongate, reminding myself that all couples argue. Just because my husband used to hit me doesn’t mean this man will hit her. And yet my body is reacting. Tensing. Preparing.
The man at the microphone draws another laugh, which covers the sound of their argument for a moment, but when it dies down again, their words slip into the silence.
Heads turn toward them. The woman begins to step away, but Donny grabs her arm, yanking her toward him, the people nearest them gasping.
I’m close enough to see the fear flash through the woman’s eyes. It’s just a split second, but it’s long enough to tell me that this has happened before. That she knows what will come next.
Without thinking, I drop my empty tray to the ground and push off the wall, taking two giant steps until I’m between them, doing what no one ever did for me. I press my palm against the man’s shoulder and say, “You need to let go of her.”
Surprised, his grip loosens, and the woman yanks her arm away. She rubs it, staring daggers at him over my shoulder and says, “You’re a fucking liar, Donny.”
More people turn away from the speech at the sound of her voice and stare at the three of us.
“Cressida,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. I’m done.” She pushes past me toward the entrance, and I finally step back.