What I Remember Most

by Cathy Lamb

  “You mean, I look like a whore?” My temper was now at a dull roar.

  “That language!” Marilyn squirmed, lips tightening. “Not quite like a whore.”

  “Not quite like a whore?” Roar again.

  “Do you want to know the truth?” Marilyn asked, eyebrow arched.

  I hate that question. People preface rude and critical statements with that line. I didn’t even answer.

  “You’re throwing yourself out there for any man. All that reddish hair. That bust. Those eyes. Your lips are . . . so puffy. And with you being a bartender, too. Perhaps you need a more restrained style, not so suggestive.”

  Any man? Man, I was pissed. “Let me tell you what I need. I’ll say it slow because you don’t seem too bright to me. I need to stay employed. I need to work hard without people like you getting in my way. I am grateful for the job, but I stopped taking shit a long time ago and I’m not taking it from you. I get what you’re saying, so shut the fuck up.” Roar!

  Marilyn sucked in her breath.

  “You don’t like me because of my hair and puffy lips and boobs. You don’t even know me, but you’re going to judge me harshly because you feel threatened about your own life, your gopher hair, your husband, your lard butt, or something else. I don’t know what it is and I don’t care. But if you ever say, or imply, that I look like a whore, I’m going to take that as an invitation for me to shove my sandwich down your fat throat until you choke. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Goodness.” She flushed bright red. “I think you’ve threatened me.”

  Rozlyn crossed her arms in front of her. “Yes, disagreeable one, do you understand?”

  Eudora glared at Marilyn and said, “Why so spiteful? In my previous work, people like you ended up in rivers.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to sit here anymore,” Marilyn said. She stood up, then paused as if waiting for someone to tell her to stay. “I’m leaving.”

  I stood up, too. I was taller than her. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again.”

  She waved a hand. “My, you have a temper.”

  “You have no idea.” My temper was flaaaamming.

  This time, she backed off. I saw her hand shake as she picked up her lunch bag. I had shocked her with my response. That kind of person lays her power down by assuming no one will challenge her.

  I sat back down. “Would you like me to leave?”

  Rozlyn hit the table. “No! I can’t stand Marilyn! And now she’s gone and I’m a happy hormonal woman!”

  “You stay right there,” Eudora said. “It will be the three of us. A lusty menopausal woman, a woman who threatens to shove her sandwich down an irritating woman’s throat, and me, a world traveler who has done naughty things. Cheers to Grenady. Welcome to The Wood Gals Gang.”

  I wondered what the naughty things were. We toasted our water bottles together.

  I ate lunch with The Wood Gals every day from then on. It was fun. It was entertaining. Eudora was humorously snippy, and Rozlyn lived and thought at full speed.

  I liked them.

  But what would they think of someone who had been in jail for theft, fraud, money laundering, and embezzlement?

  I had my car window fixed. I went to Billy Squared, and they handled things with my insurance company. They were, as I’d been told, the best. Friendly and funny.

  When I left they said, “We’re coming to visit you at the bar, Grenady!”

  I said I would love to see them.

  There sure were a lot of nice people here.

  But not Marilyn.

  My attorneys called. Neither had pleasant news. Swing me a cat, the conversations were downright scary.

  On Sunday I slept until eleven, then found a long wood table at the thrift shop for my artwork. The owner’s son brought it over, and we carried it up the stairs.

  I put it against the wall to the left of the French doors. I set up my brushes and paints: Teal. Amber. Turquoise. Lipstick red. Gold. Deep purple. Magenta. Forest green. Lemon. Pink. Honey. Maroon. Orange. I transferred my art supplies from my kitchen table to this table. My heart felt better, yes it did. I would buy canvases this week.

  I made chocolate chip cookies and brought some to Rozlyn and Cleo. Rozlyn was on the couch with an ice pack over her head because of a headache. She whispered to me, “I think I’m getting these headaches because of a lack of sex with Leonard.” We both laughed, and I heated her up some bread and minestrone soup she’d made.

  While I did it, I studied another quilt she had hanging on her wall. It was the backside of a woman—quite curvy, black hair like Rozlyn’s—in front of a lake, a rose in her mouth, a purple lacy thong up her rear. It rocked.

  Cleo was singing a song about snails and girls who wear bonnets at the top of her lungs, which couldn’t have been good for Rozlyn’s head, so I asked her if she wanted to come over and help me sew pillowcases for my pillows with the deranged-looking flowers.

  She said, “Yes, yes, cowgirl yes,” and jumped up and down. “I do.” She was wearing silver sequined go-go-type boots; what looked to be a prom dress of Rozlyn’s, which she’d hiked up with a belt; and a hat with a dog on it.

  On the way over we greeted Liddy, and Cleo horse-talked with her. Liddy’s head actually bobbed up and down, as if she understood the gibberish. “Liddy says she wants to be a space alien, too. Like me.”

  I nodded sagely. “I’m not surprised.”

  We cut out fabric, then sewed it up on my old sewing machine. Cleo was pretty good on the sewing machine because of the quilting her mother did. We made the five pillow covers for the family room, then I showed her how to sew buttons on the fabric to make it more interesting. She was a quick learner.

  On the candy cane red pillow, we used one large, gold circular button in the center, then surrounded it with five gold circular buttons to make a flower. On the two blue and yellow pansy pillows, we used three white flower buttons in the centers of three of the flowers, and on the white and yellow tulip pillows, we put two fun buttons—a squirrel and a silver horseshoe—in the middle of each one.

  As we worked, Cleo kept saying the funniest things:

  I wish I had a sixth toe, then I could climb walls better.

  Do you think I look like I have a little dolphin in me?

  Do you think there are people living on the inside of Pluto but they hide whenever we point our telescopes at them?

  “I’m glad you moved into the big, red barn, Grenady.”

  “I’m glad, too.”

  Rozlyn’s headache hadn’t gone away by the time Cleo and I walked back over. I told her to go to bed. Looking at her hurting was making me feel ill. I made spaghetti for Cleo, cleaned up, then I read her three books and tucked her in. She gave me a hug.

  “Night, night,” she sang. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite. If they do, smash them with a shoe in the bumparoo.”

  “I’ll do that, sweets.”

  “Don’t leave until I’m asleep, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You can beat back any bad dreams that come.”

  “I promise you I’ll beat ’em back.”

  I sat there for a full two minutes, her hand in mine, until she conked out.

  I turned off the lights, double-checked the stove, locked the doors, and headed back over to my place.

  I wondered what it would be like to have a child. If she was a kid like Cleo, I thought it might be darn fun.

  “Grenady, can you please, please, please help me with tables seven and eight?”

  “Sure will, Monique.” Monique is spitfire and honey mixed together. Her mother-in-law has moved in with her and her husband, and World War III had broken out, minus the bombs.

  She tells Monique, who is a vegetarian, that being a vegetarian is “grossly unseemly,” that she works “too much and will age rapidly at this rate. I can already see it happening,” that she does not know “her place as a wife, my poor son.”

  The other day I said to Monique, in th
e kitchen, “How are you?” and she picked up a huge knife and killed a cucumber. A week ago I said to her, “Hi, Monique,” and she said, “Hi, Grenady,” then hugged me and cried. When she was done she cut up a salad with two butcher knives.

  “Thank you, Grenady,” Monique said. “I have to call my husband and tell him that if he does not move that Satan witch out of our house, I will move out.” She tipped back a shot glass full of vodka. Tildy does not allow any staff to drink alcohol at any time at work, and Monique knows it.

  I took it as a sign of her desperation.

  “I’ll get the tables, Monique, no problem.”

  She reached for a second shot of vodka, but I grabbed it. “Go ahead and make the call.”

  She stalked away, muttering about moving to Guam. I don’t know why she chose Guam.

  I turned around and grabbed the food from the cook’s window and took it to table seven, smiled, and got them ketchup. When I brought the food to table eight, a woman there, all prissed up with blondish hair curling like a bell under her chin, said, “I thought I told you that I wanted my hamburger to be well-done, not medium.” She pushed the plate toward me with two manicured fingers as if she couldn’t bear to touch it.

  “I’m not your waitress, but I’ll take it back and have the chef make you a new one.”

  “You are my waitress. You were just here. Did you forget?” She rolled her eyes at me. “Why wasn’t it done right the first time?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll take care of it.” I tried to smile. Her companions, one woman and two men, probably their husbands, looked embarrassed.

  “It’ll be fine, Anna,” one of the men said.

  “No,” Anna snapped. “It’s not fine. You have your food. I wanted to eat with you, not after you, like a servant. Can you hurry this up?” Her face twisted, red mouth tight.

  I studied her for a second. She had that vain, shallow, pampered appearance. The one that says, “I spend an hour and a half getting ready for my day. I don’t have anything going on. I don’t work, I don’t volunteer, but I do have shopping, manicures, and facials to attend to. And Pilates. And gossip.”

  “It’ll be a few minutes. I’ll be right back out.” I resisted the urge to call her Miss Priss.

  “This will affect your tip.”

  “No, it won’t,” said the man sitting next to her. He was balding and blushing. “Not at all.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled brightly at him, letting my gaze linger because I knew it would piss her off. He smiled back.

  “We’re still tipping!” the other woman said. She had a round face and a worried expression.

  “Thank you, too,” I said cheerily. “That’s kind.”

  The priss humphed.

  I turned away with the offending, undercooked hamburger.

  I told one of the chefs, Carlos, we had a priss in the dining room who wanted her hamburger well-done. I pointed the woman out. He rolled his eyes. “That’s Anna. Rich. Spoiled. Can’t stand her. Tildy hates her. I heard she was getting divorced, took her ex to the cleaner and ripped him a new one in back. I don’t know who the guy next to her is.”

  I returned to the bar and made two gin and tonics, two Kahlúa and creams, and poured a few beers. When Carlos hit the bell and yelled, “One hamburger ready for the priss,” I laughed and brought the hamburger out to her.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you check it and see if it’s to your liking.”

  The woman took the bun off, then cut into the meat. “No.” Her voice was nasty, furious. “This is not well-done. See? There’s still a line of pink.”

  “No, there’s not,” said the man who I thought was her husband but wasn’t. “It’s fine. Give it to me. I’ll eat it.”

  “It is not fine.” Anna the priss shoved the plate toward me so hard, it skidded across the table and I had to catch it before it went straight over. “Well. Done. Do you know what that means? It means cooked. I don’t want to get sick from any bacteria you all have lurking in that kitchen.”

  “We don’t have any bacteria lurking in the kitchen,” I said.

  “We asked all the bacteria to leave last night. They got on their roller skates and took off.” The men laughed, and so did the other woman, who put her hand over her mouth. I had a feeling she was enjoying watching the priss get her comeuppance.

  The prissy woman was livid. “I did not ask you to make fun of me. What’s wrong with you? High school degree, or did you drop out? And the job is still too hard for you, isn’t it?”

  “That’s enough, Anna!” the nonhusband snapped.

  “Stop it,” the other man hissed. “Damn, Anna. What’s wrong with you?”

  She hit a nerve, oh, she hit a raw, frayed nerve. “The job is not too hard for me, except for in times like this. This is a trying time. As in, I’m trying to hold onto my temper. But I’ll take your hamburger back and make sure that it’s well-done. Not a scrap of pink.”

  “I have never had such bad service.”

  “I’ve never had such a bad customer.” I smiled, tilted my head.

  The nonhusband put his head in his hands and said, “I’m glad for that.” The other man said, “I can’t believe you, Anna.”

  The woman with the worried expression laughed. Didn’t bother to cover it.

  “I want to speak to your manager,” the priss said.

  “I’ll get her. I’m sure she’ll enjoy the conversation. Don’t tick her off, though. She has a bat.” I turned away with the offending hamburger. “And she has a gun.”

  I told Tildy I would be back at the bar in a second. She said, “Okay, Grenady. I see you have Anna Sachs tonight. Better you than me. I always want to smash her with my bat.” She cleaned a glass. “Or shoot her. Don’t take any crap from her, ya hear? I’m about to kick her out for the rest of her worthless lifetime.”

  I took the hamburger back to the stove and cooked that sucker myself, flames high. “Fry me a pig and shut up, Anna, you witch,” I muttered.

  Carlos laughed. “This is gonna be good.”

  When it was charred and flaming, I took it off, put it back on the bun and, smoke billowing, walked back into the dining room, people’s heads turning as they laughed. I put the plate in front of the priss, the meat still smokin’.

  “Oh.” Anna’s face scrunched up even tighter. “You bitch.”

  I don’t like being called that word. It reminds me of a whole lot I need to forget. I was now as hot as that flaming hamburger.

  “Now you’ve done it.” I leaned forward across the table. “You’ve gone and pissed me off.”

  Her nonhusband said, “I’m out of here.” He took out his wallet and gave me a hundred-dollar bill. “I apologize.”

  “You asked for it well-done, Anna,” the other woman said, laughing. “It’s well-done.” She whispered to me, “This is the best night ever. Thank you!”

  “It’s on fire,” the prissy Anna shrieked. “I want to speak to your manager right now.” She pointed a manicured finger at me. “Now!”

  “Okay,” I said. “But first, let me put out the fire on your burger.” I picked up her glass and turned it over onto the hamburger. It smoked more. “There. Now it’s not on fire, but it is well-done. Eat up, Anna. And don’t you ever call me or any other woman in this place a bitch. Do you understand?”

  “This is a disgusting, red-necked, white-trash swampland.”

  “And you are a prissy, vain, silly person who needs to figure out why you’re so unhappy so you will stop trying to make the world unhappy with you.”

  Something flashed in those eyes, and I knew that this time I’d hit a nerve with her. We were nerve for nerve now.

  “I’m not unhappy!”

  “You are. Now eat your flaming hamburger and shut up.” My temper kept rising, high as the sky, then it flew around, unfettered.

  I didn’t know Tildy was behind me; someone must have told her.

  “Who did you call a bitch, Anna?”

  Anna’s friend with the wor
ried expression pointed at me. “Anna called our waitress a bitch, Tildy. But I didn’t. I didn’t say it. I didn’t think it.” The friend pointed at Anna so we could find her at the table. “She did it.”

  Tildy had the bat. She tapped it on the table. “Get out. I’ve had it with you. Never come to my restaurant again, Anna. You disrespect my staff every time.”

  Anna went white.

  Anna’s friend groaned, “But that doesn’t apply to me, does it, Tildy, does it? I didn’t say anything mean at all.”

  “It will if you’re with her, Tracy.”

  The nonhusband started scooting out of the booth. “I’m sorry, Tildy. Sorry to you, too.” He nodded at me. “This is the worst date of my frickin’ life. It was a blind date. I didn’t know it was her. Somebody should have told me.” He turned to the other man. “That would be you, Austin. You should have told me.”

  “She’s a terrible waitress!” Anna’s mouth reminded me of a sharp claw. “She almost burned me with that hamburger. She almost caught my hair on fire.”

  I was so ticked at being called a bitch, I was so ticked at being talked down to, I grabbed the bat from Tildy and smashed it right in the middle of that overcooked hamburger. It made a huge, popping noise, the tomatoes squishing out, the ketchup spurting.

  “Get out!” Tildy and I both told Anna.

  Anna screamed when the bat bammed and cracked the plate, then started to scramble out.

  “No one, especially a dropout waitress, talks to me like that! Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father is? You’re nothing,” Anna said, but her voice wobbled. “You’re going to regret this.”

  “You’re going to regret calling me a bitch,” I said. I smashed the bat on the table, right where she was. “And I am not nothing.” Whoo. My temper was out of control. I hit the table again.

  “Worst date ever,” the man said to Austin, totally exasperated. “Ever. How could you do this to me? I thought we were friends!”

  “We are, buddy. Man, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry.”

  “Is this a joke? Do you hate me?” He turned to me. “I apologize, again.”