“I’m well, thank you.” I gesture at the used napkins. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. I’m just asserting my right — one overly dramatic moment a day per person. I figured this could be mine.” He straightens, puts his hands behind his back. “How is everything, okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Anything else you’d like, or are you set for now?”
“For now, thank you.”
“We have lovely sandwiches.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He turns to the back. “Joy?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no music. Will you put some on, please?”
“Sure. What do you want to hear?”
He leans toward the table. He really doesn’t look like me at all, just the shape of his body, but his face is round, small, his skin tone has much more yellow, his eyes are almost black.
“Excuse me,” he croons. “Do you like reggae?”
“Oh, yes.”
He straightens again. “Joy, would you put that reggae mix on?”
“Sure.”
“And would you bring him some more coffee, please. I’m going outside to kill myself.”
“Oh, Ben,” she moans, hitting notes I would’ve thought to be too low for her. He puts a finger to his lips, silently shushes her, and leans into the door to open it. He gives me a warm smile just before he exits. I try to reciprocate, but I’m too slow.
Drum roll. Marley scats, introducing “Ride Natty Ride.” Joy appears beside the table with the tray and matching pitcher. She looks down into my full cup, to me, and then back to the cup. I lift it quickly, swallow half of it, and put it back down. She shows me that funky tooth, warms the cup, and spins, slower this time, away.
Ben is smoking a cigarette, watching people walk past. He goes to lean against the window and catches me looking at him. He gives me the same smile, warm, too warm to seem genuine, but what other reason would he have for flashing it? Behind the counter Joy tears into that box and begins arranging things on the hidden shelves. Her thin leg and little foot stick out into view. She half hums, half sings along. She can’t sing very well, but the fact that she is singing, discreetly, but without shame, makes me want to listen. I stack the used napkins, fold the pile in half, and put them in my pocket. I sit back with my coffee and watch Joy rotate her ankle back and forth in time.
I remember moving day in our old apartment. The boys were confused and moping among the stacked boxes. I put the stereo on — one of the few things left unpacked. The boys jump to their feet, ready to dance and sing. “. . the stone that the builder refused. .,” sings Bob, “. . shall be the head cornerstone. .” They twist and dip and jump, moving so far out of time that any particular rhythm ceases to matter — it never mattered. My girl uses my leg to pull herself to standing. I bend down low. “Fire!” Bob and I cry. “Fire!” yell the boys in response. My girl, only a few months steady on her feet, rocking her head and body, smiling, watching her brothers: C, the silent brooder, the magician with his alchemical potions of toothpaste and juice and spit. X, the stomping tyrant lizard king, the warrior, little lord of the flying head butt. Everybody’s dancing. “Fire!” Teaching my boys, right in front of their Brahmin mother, to hold the burning spear. Whipping them into righteous rage and indignation — the young lions. C, the griot enchanter. X, the Brahmin eater. The song ends. The boys are panting and sweaty. My girl, still rocking, waits for our eyes to meet and blows me a kiss.
I stand up abruptly and almost upset the table. I catch it and step into the aisle, ready to do something, but I’m not sure what. I should go, but I don’t know where. I think about the soccer store, the Ronaldo shirt, and admit that it’s not in the budget — nothing’s in the budget. Claire’s pants will have to go back, too. The image of empty-handed me telling her, “I got to go. .” I shake it off, get out the list, and still standing, copy it from the sandpaper to a clean sheet from the tablet. I start to write down what I have in my pocket, but it seems that such an act would concretize the amount — make it much more difficult to alter: Twenty-four hours to go, over twelve thousand dollars short, and I’m in a little café doing nothing. I’ve got to go. Ben has disappeared. Joy’s foot is gone. I hear myself weakly call out to her like a half-doped patient asking for his nurse.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes,” she answers in that strangely low voice, peeking around the wall as she does.
“I need to step out for a moment. Is that okay?”
“Sure, honey,” she’s squeaky again. “You’re not chewin’ and screwin’, are you?”
“Me, no. I just need to find a phone.”
“No cell phone?” she asks somewhat disbelieving.
“No, sorry.”
She thumbs at the counter. “You can use this one. Ben wouldn’t mind.”
“Thanks, but it’s long distance.”
“Oh,” she exaggerates. “I think there’s a pay phone across the street.”
“Thank you.”
She looks at the scone, crinkles her face, and fakes a pout. “You didn’t like it?”
“Oh, no. I haven’t started.” I look down at the little menu. “I was thinking that I’d like a sandwich.”
“Really?” she perks up. “So you’re saving that for dessert?”
“Yes,” I lie. “I’ll have the grilled cheddar.”
“Great. Go make your call.”
I go outside to call Claire — the preemptive strike. I have to go up the avenue a ways to find a working pay phone. I dump a pound of Marco’s change in.
“Hello?”
It’s Edith. Tight-jawed Edith. I suppose it’s good to know that she addresses everyone like this — formal and suspicious. Closed to anything moving or new.
“Hello?” she asks again, raising the tone, perhaps an eyebrow, as well. Someone, I think X, shrieks with pleasure or rage in the background. Edith’s growing cross at both of us. I speak.
“Hello, Edith?”
“Oh, it’s you. I didn’t think anyone was there.”
“Sorry.”
“Quite all right.”
“Hey, is Claire handy?”
“No.”
I don’t expect the negative response to a formality. I stumble.
“What’s going on there? What’s she doing?”
“She’s out.” She says it with too much relish — especially for a woman like her: Edith the ghostless; Edith the sexless — no boyfriends — only vague peripheral suitors; Edith of the closed wallet, who, in spite of her only child’s pleadings still maintained that public school — something she’s never experienced — would be fine for grandchildren.
“Out?”
“Yes, out.” What had she said to her late husband as he prepared another miniature for a sculpture that wouldn’t sell? Thank goodness they both had trust funds. He drained his to make art and put his daughter through school. She added the proceeds from his life insurance policy to hers.
“Where’d she go?”
I try to imagine her with faceless people at the Sizzler or Red Lobster out on Route Six.
“Boston.”
“Boston?”
“Yes, she’s meeting some of her school friends.”
“When will she be back?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No sense in making the trip back late, is there?”
“No. No.” I try to regroup — to keep her from hearing my head winding up, preparing to spin. I don’t want it to spin. Not in that way. Hotels. Mojitos — or whatever those murmuring, smarmy, preppy fuckers are into. “We’re having drinks with fun names, so that means we’re having fun.” Claire would never fall for that shit.