Night of Miracles

by Elizabeth Berg

  Monica sees it now, the little bulge. “What are you going to do with them? You’re not going to throw them away, are you?”

  He futzes with the onions, mixes them into the hash browns, lays down some French toast.

  “She says those dolls hear her. She says they help. So maybe I will talk to them. I will tell them, ‘I am worried about my wife. I am worried she will leave me and my children will weep. I am worried she is talking behind my back. I am worried she is in love with another man.’ All these little dolls, I give them my worries, and then we will see.”

  Monica says. “You know what I think, Roberto? I think the solution to this is really simple.”

  He looks at her. “What is it, then?”

  “When was the last time you and Lollie had a date?”

  He snorts. “Date! Before you marry, you date, then you marry, you no have to date no more.”

  “Oh, but you do! Lots of married couples schedule date nights.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have to….It’s to keep the love alive. Okay? It’s to give your woman something to dress up for. Something to look forward to.”

  “I take her on vacation once a year. She picks the place, God help us. Also every year, I take her to see her relatives, her big fat mother who breathes fire out her mouth, her father like a shriveled sardine, her old aunt who likes to put her hand on my leg.”

  “Oh, come on, take Lollie to a pretty little French restaurant.”

  He makes a face.

  “Take her to another kind of restaurant, then. Something with candles. Music. Buy her a fancy drink. Dance. Make conversation.”

  “We are together every day. You think we don’t have conversation when we are together every day?”

  “Ask her what she thinks of something. Then listen to what she says. Tell her three things you still really love about her.”

  “She knows what I still love about her.”

  “Does she?”

  “Maybe you think you can open a clinic for the broken hearts. But I think maybe you are giving advice when you don’t know nothing. No offense.”

  None taken. He’s right. She’s not married. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend. Well, she has a boyfriend, but he doesn’t exactly know he’s her boyfriend.

  She loads two cups of coffee onto her tray and goes back out into the dining room.

  “Monica, look!” Polly says, grabbing Monica by the arm and in the process nearly spilling the coffee.

  “Careful!” Monica says, and looks out the window of the Henhouse to see what Polly’s pointing at: Tiny’s truck, pulling into the lot.

  “It’s him!” Monica says.

  “What’d I just say!” Polly snatches the tray from Monica. “Here, I’ll deliver this, you go and fix your makeup.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Polly squints at her. “You’ll see. Who ordered the coffee?”

  “Teenage couple over in the corner booth,” Monica says. “Probably skipping school.”

  “You can be judge and jury later,” Polly says. “Hurry and fix your face and then go and wait on Tiny. And as I keep telling you, give him a sign! Let him know! I don’t know where your confidence goes when you fall for a man.” Then, looking out the window and drawing back a bit. “Damn. He’s got her with him again.”

  “Who?” Monica asks.

  “Don’t know her name,” Polly says. “He brought her in here that day you went to the dentist. Janelle waited on them and got no information whatsoever. Remind me to fire Janelle from my surveillance team.”

  Monica says nothing, watching Tiny walk into the Henhouse with the woman. She’s blond, tall, very pretty, real good posture. Real expensive purse. She’s wearing a black cape draped over herself like a model in a magazine. It might be cashmere. She’s not from here, that’s for sure.

  Well, this is a bit unsettling. She’s never seen Tiny come in here with another woman, only with Dan. But that woman? Obviously just a friend; now that she’s closer, Monica can see she’s old enough to be his mother.

  In the bathroom, Monica gargles with mouthwash, freshens her lipstick, pulls off the mascara clots in her lashes. She puts on more blush, then takes it off. Standing back from the mirror, she hikes up her bra straps, checks to see that the bows in her shoelaces and apron ties are even. Then she yanks the door open to go out.

  “Mommy!” a little girl right outside the door says, grabbing her mother’s leg.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, did I startle you?” Monica asks.

  “She’s all right,” the mother says of her wide-eyed daughter.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica repeats.

  She bends down to speak to the little girl, who hides behind her mother and begins to wail.

  This is a bad sign, Monica thinks. It’s a bad sign.

  Tiny is in his usual chair at his usual table by the window, and seems deeply engaged in conversation with the woman. He stops talking when Monica comes over, order pad in hand.

  “Hey, Monica, good morning!”

  “How are you, Tiny?”

  He nods, his usual response. Then he points to the woman he’s with. “Monica, meet Iris. She lives in my apartment building, just moved in a month ago.”

  “Two, actually,” Iris says, laughing.

  She has a low voice, Monica notices. A low, kind of scratchy voice that some might think is sexy, like a singer. Or cute. Or maybe she’s got a cold.

  Monica herself has a little-girl voice that she despairs of, but what can you do. In her brief sexual history, she has never said things during the Act, despite having heard that it helps. Helps what, she isn’t certain, but everyone says you should talk during sex. If she did, though, it wouldn’t be in some sultry tone, but rather something that would sound like those dolls you pull a string to make talk.

  “I’m having the usual,” Tiny says.

  “You know, Tiny, we have something new, starting today,” Monica says. “You might want to switch it up a bit.” And then, she has no idea why she does this, she is not in cahoots with this stranger, but she winks at her! And Iris just stares and Monica is instantly humiliated. Why did she do that?

  But never mind, Tiny is asking what the new thing is.

  “Well, it’s overnight French toast, and I mean to tell you, it is delicious.”

  He frowns, considering.

  “It makes its own syrup sauce while it cooks and it comes with that thick kind of smoked bacon. It’s been real popular, folks just love it. You want to try it?”

  “Nah, I’ll have the double order of pigs in a blanket, same as always,” Tiny says, and right afterward, Iris says, “Me, too. Although a single order will be fine.”

  “Coffee?” Monica asks Iris, not smiling and certainly not winking.

  “Yes, thank you. Black.”

  “I know what you want,” she tells Tiny. “Two hazelnut creamers.”

  “Right.”

  “I got you,” Monica says. “Be right back.” She smiles brightly, and her lips stick to her teeth and she has to turn around to unstick them.

  Still. I know what you want. I got you. That was good. For months, Polly has been saying, “You have got to stop waiting for him to make the first move. Tiny’s not like other men. He’s not going to figure out you care for him unless you tell him. Or show him. Or something!!”

  Well, now Monica has done something.

  “Two orders of tucked-in oinkers!” Monica tells Roberto, sticking her head through the little order window. “Make one double-size for Tiny.”

  “Three oinks,” Roberto says. And then, “Hey, Monica. I called my wife. Tonight, dinner out at Mario’s and then a movie. She was happy like a little girl. Maybe you were right.”

  “Maybe I was.”

  Monica goes over t
o the register to tell Polly what she said to Tiny, then amplifies it by licking her finger, putting it to her bottom, and making a sizzle sound.

  Polly sighs. “That was nothing! For crying out loud, get over there and do something bold. Ask him out!” She unwraps one of the York Peppermint Patties from the little glass dish next to the toothpick dispenser and pops it into her mouth.

  Monica blanches. It’s hard to tell with her pale skin—she looks like a plus-size Snow White with her black, black hair and her white, white skin. But she blanches.

  “My mama didn’t raise me like that. I can’t ask what the man is supposed to ask.”

  Polly moves in closer. “Modern times paging Monica Mayhew: ask him does he want to go to a movie tomorrow night! It’s nothing! Women propose to men these days! ’Sides that, there’s that app Tinderfire where all you do is say I want to have sex with you. And women go on there the same as men.” She pauses, then adds, “I don’t condone it, but they all do it just the same.”

  “It’s called Tinder,” Monica says, “and I would never do such a trashy thing!”

  “I’m not saying for you to go on Tinder. I’m saying other women do. And if they can do that, you can ask a guy out for a simple regular date!”

  Monica grits her teeth and speaks in a low voice. “Tomorrow night is Saturday night, Polly. That’s the big one. I can’t start off with Saturday night!”

  They turn together toward the sudden sound of loud laughter. It’s Iris, and Tiny is sitting with his head down, laughing, too, although silently. That’s how he does it, when he laughs, nothing comes out. It’s another thing Monica likes about him.

  Polly raises an eyebrow.

  “All right!” Monica says. “I’ll do it.”

  “Just say—” Polly starts, and Monica says irritably, “I know what to say!” but she doesn’t.

  When Iris and Tiny’s order is ready, Monica brings it to their table. Then, looking just to the left of Tiny, Monica says, “Hey, Tiny, I was wondering…would you ever want to go to a movie? Maybe tomorrow night?”

  Tiny stops chewing, says nothing.

  Monica is going to quit. She’s going to throw her apron in Polly’s face and quit. She just got a sign not to do this, clear as day, and she ignored it. Now she has embarrassed herself in front of Tiny and that woman. Now he knows she likes him and she can never wait on him again without feeling a fool.

  “Wow,” Tiny says, finally, and Monica says, “Never mind. It’s okay. You need a top-off on that coffee?”

  “I…gosh, Monica. I’d really like to go to the movie. But I can’t go tomorrow. But I don’t know, maybe…”

  “Forget it,” Monica says. “It was just…you know. It was just a thought.”

  Yup, she’s going to quit. She’s going to quit and move to New Orleans. Right after her praline cupcake class tomorrow morning at Lucille Howard’s house. Lucille is a genius. Monica even learned how to make Parker House rolls with her, which she always wanted to do. She’s not missing that cupcake class, and she’d really like to take the upside-down chocolate pudding cake one, too. So maybe she’ll quit the Henhouse but not move. She’ll just take a trip to New Orleans. She’ll go tomorrow. But…alone? She doesn’t want to go alone.

  When Monica comes back to place another order, Polly leaves the register to come over to her. “How’d it go?”

  “He said no,” Monica says, and then, through the window to Roberto, “High stack with extra blue, and two staring up!” She turns to Polly. “I quit. I’ll finish my shift, but then I quit. I mean it.”

  “No you don’t.”

  Polly looks over at Tiny. “That son of a bitch.”

  “Do you want to drive to New Orleans with me this weekend?” Monica asks her.

  Polly’s mouth drops. “For real?”

  “Yep. I’ve always wanted to go, and I never have.”

  “Yeah, well. You’ve never been anywhere.” She jabs her glasses up higher on her nose.

  “I know that.”

  “I mean anywhere.”

  “I know. But now I’m going to New Orleans. Do you want to go with me or not?”

  “Hell, yes, I’ll go. Only we’ll fly. I’ll treat you.”

  “No, I can’t—”

  “We both know Mike left me money. Let me treat you. We’ll leave Janelle in charge. She can’t do that much damage in a weekend.”

  Both women regard the skinny waitress laughing with a customer at the counter, she with her throw-back beehive and puffed-out bangs. Nothing’s wrong with Janelle’s heart, in fact she’s overly good-hearted and trusting, which is why Polly keeps Janelle’s money for her in a cigar box in the office. Janelle can come and take money from it whenever she wants; her no-good lout of a husband can’t. It used to be that Janelle’s paycheck disappeared hours after she got home; now she actually has an IRA. (The day Polly offered to help her set it up, Janelle said, “But wouldn’t my money be in Ireland, then?”)

  She can be dim, but the customers adore her, the way she calls a group “youse guys,” the way she really cares if they like their food, the way she’ll take a crying baby and sit with it at the waitress table so the parents can eat.

  “Call Suzanne Baxter and see if she wants to work a couple shifts,” Monica says. “She misses it here. She can do the cash register and then Janelle won’t be nervous about making change.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Polly says. “I told Suzanne not to retire; I told her she’d be sitting on her duff all day bored out of her mind and she said, ‘Oh, no, I’ll be fine.’ Well. Every time I see her all she can do is talk about the Henhouse. It’s like working here was her glory days. So I’m sure she’ll say yes. That stupid Lars will probably be here the whole time she’s working; she told me he’s gotten so used to her being at his beck and call. But I don’t care, let him come, I won’t be here for him to annoy with his bad jokes that never even made any sense. This trip is a real good idea, Monica. Mike and I loved New Orleans!”

  “And you’re sure you want to go again?”

  “Oh, hon,” Polly says, “you can never get enough of New Orleans.” She heads back to the register, and Monica looks over at Tiny just as he looks over at her, and then they both quickly look away.

  Never mind. He likes her. She can tell. She may not be very experienced in the world of men, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Her mama certainly told her that often enough; she’d say, Neb mind, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Sometimes Monica wondered if her mama told her that because she was worried about her. Her mama was from a time when young women got married around twenty or so, or they were called old maids. She didn’t want Monica to be an old maid. A few days before she died, from her hospital bed, she told Monica, “You find someone, now. Promise me.” And Monica said, “I promise. I even have someone in mind.”

  Her mother held up a trembling hand. “Don’t say his name!”

  “I know,” Monica said. That would be a jinx, her mother thought. Don’t say the name of the one you want before you get him. Wear your clothes inside out for good luck. Plant your pole beans by moonlight. Put a penny in your bra when you’re asking for a raise.

  “Just as soon as you die, I’m going to run right over and get things going with him good,” Monica said, and her mother laughed. That’s how they were, the two of them.

  “Old maid” is a term that is never used anymore. It’s an insult to women, who are stronger and more independent than they ever were. And they’re starting to get credit for their worth, now, emphasis on starting to, still such a long way to go, including in Monica’s own heart and mind and soul. For there is a little place in Monica that will not go away. It is a dark place, over there by her liver, and sometimes it says, You will never find a man. You are an old maid.

  Strange Goings-On

  LUCILLE SITS AT HER KITCHEN ta
ble with a cup of coffee, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing. What a dream she had last night! Not about Frank. Not about Arthur. Not about anything she’s ever dreamed of or imagined. She almost can’t believe it didn’t really happen. But of course it didn’t.

  In the dream, she was awakened from sleep by the sound of a great thud coming from the backyard. At first, she thought it was an earthquake, and she lay still, trying to remember what she was supposed to do. Stand under a doorframe? But then, moving in the kind of slow-motion, underwaterish manner common to dreams, she went to the window, looked out, and saw a luminescence coming from the bank of hydrangeas running along her back fence.

  She cupped her hands around her eyes to see better into the darkness. A figure lay on his side next to the bushes, a man slight in build, short in stature, wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt. She widened her eyes, stepped back, then looked out again. He had something….What was that? It looked like he had something growing out of his back.

  She put on her robe and went downstairs and out onto her little back porch. “Hello?” she called out.

  “Oh! Hello,” the man called back.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Little tangled up here. I can’t seem to get up and stay up.”

  “I’ll call the paramedics,” Lucille said. “It won’t take them long.”

  “Don’t bother. They won’t be able to see me. I am invisible to everyone but you.”

  Okay, Lucille thought. A nutcase. She opened the door to go back inside and call the police.

  “Once, you tried to kill yourself, but you didn’t really mean it,” the man said.

  Lucille turned around slowly. It was true. She did try to kill herself, once, after Frank died. But all that happened is that she threw the pills up. And then Arthur came over and helped her, and well…here she is.

  “Who are you?” she called out.

  The man tried to get up again, and fell.