Usually our fridge is packed with castoffs from the diner, but with it out of commission since Ted died, actual food has been scarce. My mom hasn’t cooked a meal in years. Never thought I’d miss Ted “Moderately Edible” Dickson’s culinary stylings.
My mom used to cook. Before Christmas, we hopped around. Sometimes living with relatives, sometimes on our own. No matter how small our kitchen, though, she made it work. She’d spend hours putting together tamales, dancing and spinning stories in musical Spanish. She’s different in Spanish than she is in English. Warmer. Happier. Funnier. Mine.
English mom began when we came to Christmas. She got a job here as the site administrator—a fancy name for a secretary who has to do everything. We lived in a little trailer right at the mine site. Then she got a second job managing the diner, and she and Rick started dating. And it wasn’t just the two of us anymore. One of these days, she’ll show up with her own “Rick” label, right across her forehead.
Fridge possibilities exhausted, I head over to the diner to make sure our schedules haven’t changed and to get something to eat. There’s a dented minivan in the parking lot. Several car seats inside. Luggage strapped to the top. Bad news.
The door opens with a rusted jingle, and an animatronic Santa insults my moral virtue three times. Ho, ho, ho. A train track overhead circles the entire room, a dusty Polar Express forever stalled on the verge of reaching the North Pole. Every surface not reserved for eating is covered in holiday kitsch. Glittery Styrofoam snowflakes, empty boxes covered in sun-bleached wrapping, twinkle lights with one strand always blinking out of sync, stockings with hot-glue stains revealing where pom-poms used to be, and a stuffed deer head, red-bulb nose long dead and antlers strung with limp tinsel. As if that weren’t freak show enough, from the ledge above the kitchen door, a sinister elf gazes malevolently down, its head cocked at a horror-movie angle.
A year ago, I stuck a tiny knife in its hand. No one has noticed.
I look for the other waitress, Candy—she covers mornings and early afternoon, while I do late afternoon and evening. But she’s not here, and I was right about the minivan. The corner booth is a pending full-mop situation. A harried-looking woman wears a pair of sunglasses with only one lens. She’s bouncing a screaming infant on her lap. A toddler climbs on top of the table in spite of the mother’s cautions, while a middling-sized one whines and a bigger one pouts.
She sees me, a combination of hopelessness and annoyance warring on her tired face. “Good luck. We’ve been here five minutes with no sign of a waitress.”
I freeze. If I back out now, I can leave. I’m not scheduled to work.
The bell at the window rings. Ted was short, like me, so he never used the order window. We always had to go into the kitchen to get it. “Order up!” a cheery tenor calls.
The woman sees my reaction and narrows her eyes.
“I—uh—I work here.” You had to admit it, didn’t you, Maria. “Be right back with some menus.”
“Thanks.” Her voice is tight.
I approach the window to find a miniature box of Cheerios, three kids’ cups of chocolate milk, one large Coke, and a deep dish filled with—baked macaroni? I lean forward, breathing in, and … wow. I’m not huge on pasta, but this smells like comfort smothered in cheese. There’s a bread-crumb layer on top that’s baked a perfect golden brown. The whole thing is still steaming.
I get on my tiptoes, but my view into the kitchen is limited. “Hey? I work here? Who is this order for?”
“Table two,” the voice calls. I look out to double check. There’s no one else in the restaurant. Just the crazy family.
“She said no one has taken her order yet. Is Candy back there?”
“It’s for table two.”
Frowning, I walk the tray over. “Here’s your food.”
The woman huffs in exasperation, prying her hair out of the baby’s fist. “No, we haven’t even ordered. Can we—wait, what is that?”
I’m already swinging the tray away, but I pause mid-action. “I think it’s baked macaroni. Do you at least want the drinks? No charge.”
The woman pushes her glasses up on her head, finally noticing the missing lens. Her laugh surprises me. It rings through the room. “Well, that’s embarrassing. And shows you what kind of birthday I’m having. You know, it’s the oddest thing, but this macaroni looks and smells exactly like what my mom used to make us on our birthdays.”
“Gramma?” the oldest child asks, perking up.
The mom’s face softens. “Yeah.” She touches the edge of the pale yellow dish. “This even looks like one of her baking dishes. That’s so strange! You know what, we want this.”
“Yeah?” I ask, confused.
“Yes. If we could get some plates?”
“Of course!” I rush behind the counter and grab four plates and silverware sets. The mom is in the middle of telling some story about a birthday treasure hunt. Everyone has calmed down—the older ones have stopped whining, the baby is eating the Cheerios, and the toddler is satisfied with his chocolate milk. The mom looks about ten years younger than she did when I walked in here.
“Can I get you anything else?”
She gives me a happy shake of her head. “This is perfect, thanks.”
I retreat, relieved but puzzled. Why did the new cook make that? Maybe someone else was here? I push through the door to ask what’s going on. And then I’m grateful my mouth is already open, otherwise I couldn’t have covered my jaw-drop.
Because the new cook is not some paunched, sixty-something, chain-smoking deadbeat.
He’s tall, a ridiculous chef’s hat making him even taller. Lean, with shoulders slanting inward so he seems to take up less space than he really does. Thick, dark eyebrows. There’s a single line between them that should make him look like a worrier, but there’s something inherently pleasant about his face. Maybe it’s the way his nose has the slightest off-center curve, like it was broken into a sideways smile.
Oh, and he’s not old. Maybe twenty, tops.
Oh, and he’s not unattractive.
“Hi!” He looks up from something boiling on the range. And there—when he smiles, his whole face lights up. It’s like his other expressions are placeholders.
I realize I’m beaming back. I tame my own mouth so I don’t look like a total idiot. “Hey. So. You’re the new cook?” Oof, yes, ask the guy cooking if he’s the new cook.
“Yeah! Isn’t this place amazing?”
“There … was no sarcasm in that statement. I’m confused.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t believe my luck when they hired me.”
Maybe I don’t know him well enough to understand when he’s joking. Surely he’s not sincere. He removes the pot from the stove, wipes his hands dry, and then holds one out to me. “I’m Ben.”
“Maria.”
His hand is big, but not in a meaty sort of way. I let go before he does, self-conscious. I don’t know what I look like right now. I didn’t bother checking myself in a mirror before coming over, because again: this is not what I expected to find.
There must be something wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong. It’s the only explanation for why he would consider himself lucky for getting this job.
The front door jingles as Santa insults another customer. Ben returns to whatever he’s making—for no one, apparently—and I walk out and scan the restaurant. It’s still empty except for the family, who seem to be having a great time. After checking to make sure their drinks are filled, I go back to Ben. I lean as casually as I can manage against the counter, but the kitchen is weird now. No comforting sameness. Ben has transformed it into an unknown quantity.
“So, who ordered the macaroni?” I ask.
“Table two needed it.”
“Right. But she didn’t order it.”
He shrugs, as though he, too, is unaware of how this all worked out. But there’s a sly pull at one corner of his lips. “They like it, though.” It’s not a question.<
br />
“They’re thrilled. Have you looked at the menu? We don’t offer baked macaroni. Probably because Dottie couldn’t think of a way to make it Christmassy.” Her signature dish is the Rudolph’s Delight Salad—iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, and one token cherry tomato.
He shrugs again, and this time both corners of his lips follow the upward movement. “First day. I’ll figure things out.”
“Maybe it’s better if you don’t. That looked way yummier than anything we make.” Since it looks like Candy isn’t here, I reluctantly grab my uniform from its peg. It’s a red polyester dress that never sits right, with a red-and-white-striped apron. We also have to wear sequined reindeer-antler headbands.
Year. Round.
The door to the women’s bathroom always sticks, so I shove it open with my shoulder. It nearly slams into Candy, who’s leaning over the sink.
“Oh, sorry! I thought the bathroom was empty.” I turn to go, when I realize her shoulders are shaking. “Candy? You okay?”
Her reflection is drained of color by the fluorescent lights. She has dark circles under her eyes, but that’s nothing new. At least they aren’t bruises this week. Two years ago, when she first moved in with her boyfriend, Jerry, she was bubbly and bright. We used to hang out sometimes after work, if Jerry was still on a shift at the mine. She wanted to be a hair stylist, someday open up her own salon. She even had plans to go to business school so she could run it. But little by little, she stopped talking about school. Jerry didn’t like it. Then she stopped talking about doing hair. Then she pretty much stopped talking at all. I see her every single day, but I miss her.
She holds up a white stick, expression blank. “I’m pregnant.”
I close the door behind me. “Congratulations?”
“I had to sneak out from my shift to buy the test. I’m sorry. I couldn’t go any other time, because then he’d know.”
Jerry always picks her up. I see him sometimes, on the front sidewalk, counting her tips. And on payday he holds out his hand for her check without even asking.
She leans over the sink. Her spine curves, her head droops. “How am I ever gonna get away now?”
* * *
I make Candy stay in the bathroom. It’s not like it’s busy. When the family leaves, I trudge toward their table, dreading the mess. Instead, I find everything neatly stacked, no spilled drinks, no overturned plates. And—gloriously, impossibly—a twenty-dollar tip.
I squeal so loudly that Ben sticks his head out of the window. “Everything okay?”
“Better than okay! Best tip I’ve ever gotten! Thank you, Benjamin!”
“You’re welcome. But Ben isn’t short for Benjamin.”
The door jingles, announcing my mom … and Rick? Rick always says, “Why would I pay for someone else to make my food?” as he boils a scoop of rice or beans or whatever else he got in the bargain bin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
My mom glances around. She works in the back and rarely visits the actual dining area. She never can get over the diner’s shock-and-awe decorating tactics. A penguin nativity, complete with little baby penguin Jesus, snags her attention. “Our shift was halted. Machine failure. We thought you’d be home. We wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Candy’s … sick. So I’m covering.”
Rick’s hands are jammed in the pockets of his Wranglers. “Your homework done?”
“Yes.” My voice is flat.
He nods. It’s the same motion he makes every evening when he asks me the same question and gets the same answer. Usually it happens at home, though, when we all get in from our various shifts. Then I pass him the remote so he can watch old episodes of Bonanza. A few years ago, I went through a bout of insomnia, and without fail he’d be out on the couch. We’d sit there, silent hours passing, the boring black-and-white cowboy adventures filling in the space between us.
Okay, fine, there were a few good episodes. But still.
The order bell dings, and I frown. Ben has placed three to-go containers on the shelf. “No one ordered anything!” I shout. My mom looks disapproving, so I stomp over to the window. “Ben! No one is here. No one called in an order.”
He leans his head over. “Oh, right! Well, it’s embarrassing, but I messed up. Instead of throwing it out, I thought you could give it to your parents.” He says it’s embarrassing, but his expression is wrinkled with delight.
“Rick is not my dad.”
“Cool. Well. Ask if they want it.”
I glare. It’s harder than it should be, like his sweet, smiley face is contagious. “Quit making food before people order anything.”
“Right.” He grins even bigger and then straightens so I can’t see his face anymore.
I shove the containers at my mom and Rick. “I guess he messed up an order. Want some free food?”
Rick doesn’t even ask what it is. Free is the only part that matters. He turns toward the door. “Are we going, Paloma?”
My mom frowns. “Tell Ben to note what he’s using. We have an ordering system that doesn’t allow for waste.”
When they’re gone, I check the women’s bathroom and find Candy curled up asleep in the corner, an apron under her head. I hang an “Out of Order” sign and take the rest of her shift. As a small act of rebellion, I don’t change into my uniform. It has nothing to do with Ben.
Well. Maybe a little.
It’s busier than normal, a handful of locals sauntering in to check out the new chef. Ben doesn’t talk much—he smiles and waves out the window, too busy to come out. I stick my head through to find him pulling cookies out of the oven. The telltale scent of gingerbread hangs in the air like the promise of holiday cheer. He even has flour on his crooked smile of a nose. It’s adorable.
“You are a terrible cook,” I say.
He looks up, gentle features set in alarm. “Have there been complaints?”
“You haven’t followed any of the standard recipes. I’ve worked here long enough—I can tell.” The mashed potatoes are creamier. The fries are crispier. And his rolls are golden, buttery-topped miracles instead of the straight-from-the-bag variety we normally serve.
For a moment, he looks distressed. And then the agitation melts away as his eyebrows lift, disappearing beneath his mop of brown hair. He is the definition of merry. “But has anyone complained?”
I blow my bangs away from my eyes. “No. They’re just being nice because you’re new.”
That’s not true. The regulars like their familiar terrible food, and if anything is ever different, I get yelled at. They’re not nice.
Except … tonight, they are. Steve and Bernie, who always get a steak after their shifts and don’t say a word to anyone, are laughing and swapping stories at the counter. Lorna, who after my entire life of never ever stealing anything still follows me suspiciously around her gas station, complimented me on her way out. And I swear, Angel, the mine’s two-hundred-fifty-pound truck driver, he of the aura of constant menace, he of the incredibly inaccurate name—Angel actually smiled at me.
I think. It might have been indigestion.
But then he tipped me. Ten whole percent, which is a one hundred percent increase over his previous tips.
Ben hums as he dusts the cookies with powdered sugar. “I had to make them circles. What kind of Christmas-themed diner doesn’t have cookie cutters?”
“The kind that doesn’t offer gingerbread on the menu.”
“Right, which, again: how does that make any sense?”
“None of this makes any—oh, no, what time is it?” I dart to the bathroom and shake Candy awake. “Ten minutes until your shift is over.”
She sits with a start, the blood draining from her face.
“It’s okay. You have time. Get cleaned up.”
I clear the tables, and Candy emerges right as Jerry walks in. His eyes, gray and dull as sharkskin, take in the abnormally busy diner. I can see him calculating.
Candy lifts a trembling
hand. “Hi, I—there’s a reason—”
“You dropped your pad.” I stand in front of her. “Here.” I dig out my tips from my jeans and shove them into her apron pocket. She can’t even look at me, but she squeezes my arm as she passes. And then I watch, Frank Sinatra crooning at me to have myself a merry little Christmas, as my tips go directly from her pocket into Jerry’s hand.
Merry effing Christmas yourself, Frank.
* * *
I make it through the next hour until closing time. Everyone wants to linger, huddling around the old television playing a repeating loop of a log-burning fireplace. They’re laughing, talking, acting like friends. Like people who are happy to be in Christmas.
“Feliz Navidad” stabs into my ears from the speakers, and I can’t handle it anymore. I took a shift that wasn’t mine, and I didn’t even get my stupid tips. Ben emerges just as I’m about to scream for everyone to leave.
He’s carrying a tray of gingerbread cookies. There’s a near-visible trail of scent, which reaches out and tugs the customers after him. He holds the door open and gives each person a soft, warm cookie, and an even softer, warmer smile as they leave. And then they’re gone. I flip the sign from “Merry and Bright” to “Closed for the Night” and deadbolt the door.
I turn, fists on hips, and direct my anger at the only person left.
“I’m not sharing my tips with you.”
Ben holds out a cookie. “Okay.”
“Usually we share tips with the cook. But I’m not sharing mine with you tonight.”
“That’s fine.” He pushes the cookie at me, but I swat it away.
“That’s all you’re gonna say? That’s fine?”
He looks down at the cookie like I’ve hurt its feelings. “Yeah, I mean, they’re your tips. You can decide what to do with them.”
“Of course I can. But we’re supposed to cut you in.”
“If you don’t think that’s fair, I understand.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You’re supposed to get mad at me. Then I can yell at you and feel better about everything.”
He laughs. “How would that make you feel better?”
My True Love Gave To Me: Twelve Holiday Stories Page 25
