Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Linda said in a slow drawl, “Second shift did a little too.”

  I could imagine. Keeping a twenty-four hour a day, seven days a week restaurant clean was a constant battle. Motivating my employees to become engaged in keeping it that way? Insurmountable. I was stunned by what I was seeing.

  “It looks great. Good job, guys.”

  I turned to head to the back room and unlock my office, when Linda called my name. “Cole?”

  I turned around.

  “We heard you got in trouble for kicking those guys out.”

  I shrugged. “It’s no big deal,” I said.

  “Is to me,” Dakota said. She didn’t really look at me when she said it.

  I gave them a half smile, but there was little else to say. So I turned and walked into the back room.

  They’d been at work back here too. The shelf area where the hourly employees kept their coats and bags and purses had been decluttered and organized, and the floor had been detail-cleaned right down to the grout in the corners. I didn’t understand it. I’d had this restaurant for almost three months and had struggled against a long-term trend here of neglect. My predecessor hadn’t been that interested in keeping the place clean, which was one of the reasons why our business was so slow. Correcting that trend had been a goal which I hadn’t accomplished yet, one of my biggest frustrations about this job. I couldn’t understand what had prompted the sudden change. Had Brian offered them all bonuses or something?

  I was unlikely to answer that right now. I unlocked the office and began preparing for shift change. I scanned through the notes left behind by Bryan’s manager-trainee, who closed out yesterday’s first shift, then started counting the drawers.

  As I was doing that, the swinging door to the back room opened and Julie entered. She was wearing a sweatshirt and carrying her uniform shirt as she walked by, saying, “Morning, Cole.”

  “Morning,” I said without pausing what I was doing. As I finished my count and began entering the numbers into the computer, out of the corner of my eye I caught Julie peeling her sweatshirt off.

  What the hell is she doing? She had her back to me, revealing a well-muscled lean body. She wore a nude strapless bra. Christ. I diverted my eyes, back to the computer and my work. But the whole time, my mind was running in circles. Was she being intentionally provocative? What was she trying to do?

  I could still partially see her reflected in the glass one-way mirror between my office and the rest of the restaurant. She was getting her uniform shirt on.

  I tried to formulate a rebuke. But I had no idea what to say. I finally decided to let it go then picked up my phone to call Brian and report my numbers for the day. The conversation was short and awkward. Brian didn’t mention our argument from yesterday. I wasn’t foolish enough, however, to think that he would let it go. I would hear more about it.

  When I was finished with that, it was time to head up front. But Julie appeared at the door of my office.

  “Hey, Cole. Are you doing okay? After, you know … yesterday?”

  As she asked her question, she leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed under her breasts. The effect pulled at my eyes and was obviously intentional. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  I stood up from the stool at my desk, with the intention of her getting out of the way so I could go out front. Instead she stayed, blocking the door, which had the effect of putting us two inches away from each other.

  She spoke in a breathy voice that disturbingly reminded me of Teagan. “You know, while your wife is out of town, if you need a home-cooked meal or anything…” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

  Shit.

  Crazy. I remembered the crazy emotional high when Teagan first approached me, when we first had dinner on a business trip, when I kissed her for the first time. I remembered how alive I felt, how fucking amazing it was.

  I remembered how stupid and entitled I was, how much I hurt my family, and it was like someone had dumped a bucket of ice on me.

  I didn’t want a young pretty waitress. I wanted Erin. I wanted my family.

  I pushed past her. “No, thanks, Julie.”

  Sam

  My text message was simple. Dad, can I take Mom’s van?

  I sent it about eight a.m., but I knew he’d be busy, so I logged into Second Life while I waited. The sim was usually quiet this time of day, and that morning was no exception. For the past few nights, I hadn’t played much, just a couple of hours a night. Gunstock was usually on when I was, and we’d been spending more and more time together. I’d kind of hoped he would be now, but no luck. Maybe tonight.

  It was weird. Neither of us knew who the other was in real life. And he could never know. But in the confines of our little world, I was … falling for him?

  No. Not really. This was all fake. But our characters? That’s what they were doing. And sometimes it felt almost real.

  I wandered around aimlessly online for a while. There were only a couple of people in Erie, and they were players I never actually interacted with. I wasn’t in the mood. I felt strangely restless, and very, very nervous.

  I was planning to talk with Mrs. Mullins today. About Hayley.

  I didn’t hear from Hayley at all last night. Which was unusual … unusual enough that it made my stomach knot up in fear. I tried to tell myself to not be paranoid, but I hadn’t heard from her this morning either.

  At eight thirty, Dad texted me back: What for?

  Great. He wanted to ask questions. I responded: I want to go buy some drugs and bring girls back to the house.

  I could imagine his expression. There was brief pause, then he responded: All right. Be careful. Don’t scratch up your mother’s van.

  I laughed. LOL. Thanks.

  I quickly sobered up though. I dialed the school and asked to speak with Mrs. Mullins. After a few moments, she came on the line.

  “Mrs. Mullins, am I allowed at school to meet with you?”

  “Officially, no. But what’s this about?”

  I took a deep breath. Then I said, “I need to talk to you about something really, really important. And it needs to be in person.”

  She didn’t respond right away. But after a few minutes, she said, “This had better be really important, Sam. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks in fifteen minutes. Will that work?”

  Fifteen minutes? I could make it, barely, if I skipped my shower and just got dressed and went. I scrambled, throwing on whatever clothes were handy, then had a panicky moment when I couldn’t find Mom’s keys. That’s because they were hanging on the hook where they were supposed to be.

  I drove carefully. I’d only had a driver’s license for a few months and hadn’t had much practice driving lately. But since Mom was gone, I decided to ask Dad if I could use the van to go to school. It would be nice to stay clear of the school bus for a while.

  I made it in exactly fifteen minutes. I looked around: she wasn’t there yet. So I took a seat and waited. I didn’t have to wait long—she strolled in just a couple of minutes later.

  “I’m getting a coffee. Would you like something, Sam?”

  “I —”

  “Don’t worry, I’m buying.”

  “Coffee, then. Thank you.”

  After she ordered and got our drinks, I poured a lot of cream and sugar in then sat down at the table facing her.

  “All right, Sam. So … what’s the mystery?”

  I took a deep breath. I still had incredibly mixed feelings. What if I was wrong? What if this was only going to cause trouble for Hayley? What if she decided we couldn’t be friends anymore?

  “Sam…” she said.

  “It’s Hayley,” I blurted. “I’m worried about her.” I closed my eyes. I felt like I was betraying Hayley. But I continued. “Her father is the one who gave her the bruises. And when she was late yesterday, my Dad and I dropped her off—I was worried. Her father was real mad.”

  She nodded. “I see.” Her tone was grave. “How many t
imes do you know of that he’s hurt her?”

  “I’m not sure. Sometimes she has bruises on her arm, like he twists it. And sometimes she … she winces when she moves. Like somebody hit her, but I couldn’t see the bruise.”

  Mrs. Mullins nodded. She leaned close to me and said, “Sam, thank you for coming to me. I’m going to tell you something in confidence now. I shouldn’t, but I think you need to know.”

  I tilted my head, afraid to ask what she was talking about.

  “This morning Hayley came to school with a black eye. Mr. Flowers and I had already discussed it, and this was the last straw, so to speak. I called Child Protective Services this morning.”

  I gasped. “Oh my God. Wh-what … what happens now?”

  “Well, a caseworker is meeting with her at the school right now. They’ll be calling her father soon. It’s really up to the county now.”

  “God,” I said. “Was she badly hurt?”

  Mrs. Mullins sighed. “It’s hard to say, Sam. But the bruise on her face was bad. Almost like yours. But … a little worse.”

  I shuddered. Billy had punched me in the face more than once. My face still hurt, and the bruises hadn’t even begun to fade. The thought of somebody hitting Hayley like that made me want to scream. My feelings about her confused me. They really confused me. I loved her like I’d loved Brenna—I trusted her and looked up to her and cared about her. But there was more, a pink feeling of unexplainable warmth and fear at the same time. She was so pretty. I wanted to be with her, and not just as a friend.

  It was confusing, because whenever I thought of romantic things, I’d always thought of boys. I used to fantasize about going to my prom. Of being recognized by everybody else as a woman, just as sure as I knew I was one. This made me—what? Gay? Was I a lesbian? I didn’t know what I was. All I knew was that aside from my sister, Hayley was the best friend I’d ever had. I … I loved her.

  “Where did you go?” Mrs. Mullins brought me right back to reality with her question.

  “I worry about her.”

  Mrs. Mullins nodded. Her face looked serious. “I do too, Sam. Domestic violence is nothing to take lightly.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question and froze. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. But I was tired of being so incredibly alone. I was tired of no one knowing anything about me. I was tired of having no one to talk to. I took a deep breath and froze again.

  “What is it?”

  “A … friend of mine. From Virginia. He told me that he was a girl. Like … inside. What would you do if a friend told you that?”

  Mrs. Mullins looked at me over her glasses for just a moment. Then, quietly, she said, “I suppose if a friend of mine told me that I’d have to give her a big hug. Our society is tough on people who are transgender. They probably need love more than just about anyone else.”

  Hearing that made me want to cry inside. But I kept as firm a grip on my face as I could as I said, “Isn’t that against your religion?”

  She frowned. “You’d think that from all the yelling and screaming you hear about in the news, wouldn’t you?” She pointed a finger at herself. “The Jesus I follow told his disciples that whatever they did to the poor and oppressed … what he called the least of these … that they did that to Him. I think what he meant by that was that if you were mean to people, or treated them like there was something wrong with them, or especially if you harmed them in their spirits, then it would be as if you were doing that very same wrong thing to God. Jesus told me to love everybody, even my enemies. And that’s what I’m gonna do, no matter what a bunch of TV preachers say.”

  I tried to hide it. I tried to stay stone-faced, emotionless. But I couldn’t help it. My eyes watered and tears poured down my face. I was stricken and grabbed at a pile of napkins on the next table, trying to wipe my face.

  Mrs. Mullins said in a very quiet voice, “Sam … you’re not talking about a friend, are you?”

  I couldn’t speak. I shook my head.

  “It’s you?”

  A sharp, stabbing anxiety came and then passed. And then I nodded.

  She turned slightly in her chair. “Well, it sounds like you need a hug, baby. Come over here.”

  She held out her arms and I fell apart. Because I’d finally told somebody. And it was okay.

  Cole

  It was a little bit after noon, and I was standing at the grill, completely in the weeds. I had fourteen plates lined up with orders, both grills were covered, and there were people sitting in the waiting area waiting for booths.

  Julie called out an order with three different plates then started to run off before I had a chance to even begin marking the order down. She’d been doing that all morning and it was pissing me off.

  In a sharp tone, I said, “Julie! Stay until I call the order back!”

  She muttered something, I don’t know what. A moment later the other two waitresses both called out, “Good morning!”

  I echoed the call without looking around. Their greeting meant someone had entered the restaurant. I just kept doing what I was doing. It had taken me several months, but I was finally getting some kind of a rhythm down. I wasn’t good at it, but I was slightly better than I had been. I’d have done a lot to be able to have a backup cook at times like this. But staffing levels were determined by corporate, and my store didn’t have enough sales to allow me a second cook. And if I kept getting this backed up, then turning out food that wasn’t great because I was too rushed, we never would get those kind of sales.

  Wanda, my most experienced waitress, came over to me. She stood next to me at the grill and said quietly, “That’s the health inspector.”

  Son of a bitch! “Now?”

  The question was nonsense of course, just my own sense of sudden helplessness. We weren’t even due for inspection for two more months, though I’d been working to prepare my crew for when it happened. This would be my first since taking over the restaurant, and I was fairly confident we would do well. I glanced over my shoulder for just a second, and saw a sour-faced man standing next to one of the booths holding a clipboard and talking with the customers in that booth. That didn’t look so bad.

  I kept track with occasional looks as the inspector worked his way through the front of the restaurant. He looked under the booths, went back into the bathrooms, then returned. He stood there watching for what seemed like an hour but was probably more like ten minutes, occasionally making notations on his clipboard.

  Wanda escorted the health inspector to the grill, and I said to him, “I’m almost finished here and I’ll be right with you, sir.”

  He replied in a thick Alabama accent I could barely understand. “That’s all right, son, I can examine some of the equipment and food back here. You keep on doing what you’re doing.”

  I didn’t have much choice. As I finished the last orders, I watched him run a thermometer through the dishwasher to check the operating temperature, then he checked the temperatures in the sandwich board beside the grill where all of the cold toppings and meats were stored.

  I felt my stress double as he frowned, shook his thermometer, and then muttered, “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  It couldn’t be that far off … I checked the temperature not long before the rush and it was well below forty degrees. A few more minutes, and I’d be finished.

  Only Julie called another order in, and then Wanda did, and I was still stuck on the grill. I was starting to feel desperate.

  Just as I was getting the next meal on the plate, the inspector approached and said, “I’d like to see your food storage in the back.”

  There were only a couple of orders left. I called over Wanda. “Can you take over on these last couple of orders?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” she said. I pointed out what I was cooking, and she said, “I got it.” She reached for the spatula, and I said, “Wanda. Hands. Wash. Please.”

  She flushed red. “Yes, sir.”

  Once she was done and back at the grill, I turned
and faced the inspector. He still had a very sour expression on his face. I was increasingly nervous.

  “This way,” I said.

  “So you’re the new manager here,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, since the beginning of summer.”

  He grunted in a way that made me more nervous than ever. I led him to the back and unlocked the stockroom.

  He pointed at the boxes of freeze-dried hash browns stacked next to the shelves. “Those need to be six inches off the floor,” he said.

  Crap.

  He opened the walk-in refrigerator and walked in, stabbing his thermometer into a shrink-wrapped steak that was on top of a stack. I watched as the thermometer dropped down to thirty degrees. He shook his head and said, “Too warm.”

  What? “The required temperature is forty-one or below, right?”

  “That’s right. You were forty-five. You need to get this equipment looked at.”

  Motherfucker. This was a setup. This guy was either friends with Mayor Prichard or owed him something. I didn’t know which.

  “Can you double-check?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I already double-checked. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go write this up.”

  He marched back to the front of the restaurant. Holy crap. I needed to be calling Brian right now—that was SOP when the health inspector showed up, to let higher level management know. I looked at my cell phone for a moment, sighed, then dialed.

  He answered on the second ring.

  “Health inspector is here,” I said.

  Brian immediately asked, “Is it a young woman? Thirty-ish? Or an old guy?”

  “Old guy,” I said.

  “Son of a bitch! I’m in Alexandria, I can’t get there any time soon. Call me when you get the score.”

  “Will do.” I hung up, walked back to the front of the restaurant, and washed my hands.

  The inspector approached me, tearing off one copy of the inspection.

  My eyes immediately landed on the large letter F in the upper right corner. My mouth dropped open.

  “Here’s your copy, son. You’ve got some serious issues here. You’ve got fourteen days to correct them, or we’ll close this restaurant down. Understand? In the meantime, you post this where it’s visible.”