Blue Plate Special

by Michelle D. Kwasney

  “Do you, um”—she hesitates, glancing at the building—“do you think that when I die, I’ll go to hell for doing this?”

  I have no idea what they teach in church about hell. I have to protect Muralee, though. So I tell her, “No, I think God will remember you as a good person.”

  She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Thanks, Madeline.”

  When she says my name, my skin prickles.

  “This is for the best,” she continues. “Glenn, he”—her voice catches—“a baby would ruin everything for him. College. His football scholarship. Daddy would make him marry me. Glenn would probably end up resenting me and the baby, and then—”

  “But what about you?” I ask. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m starting at the University of Florida in the fall. It’s Daddy’s alma mater and he’s already worked it out so I’ll stay with my grandparents in Gainesville.” She swallows hard, and it’s obvious she’s fighting back tears. “Look, Glenn and I both want children someday. When we’re ready. But right now, well, it’s too soon. The timing isn’t right.”

  Muralee opens the door and steps out. I watch her walk toward the ugly, red building. I imagine the smell of burned curtains, the sight of coat hangers, men with dirty hands. I can’t let her go through this alone. I open my door and start to follow her.

  Muralee turns. “Please,” she whispers. “Wait in the car. I’ll probably need you to drive. You have your license, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  She holds her hand up, stopping me. Then she hurries toward the wooden door, swings it open, dissolves into the darkness on the other side.

  I return to the car, watching the clock on the dashboard, blinking only when I have to. And I pray, asking God to keep Muralee safe. At first I feel stupid, talking to someone who’s invisible. But eventually, I find the words comforting.

  A half hour passes. Forty minutes. Fifty.

  An hour later, the brown door opens. Muralee clings to the railing, starting slowly down the stairs. When she reaches the car, she leans against the passenger side door. “Slide over,” she whispers.

  I straddle the stick shift and drop into the driver’s seat.

  Muralee eases in carefully, like every movement hurts. “That cost me two hundred fucking dollars,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her swear.

  She lifts the flap on her purse and hands me the car keys.

  I start the car. I’m about to shift into first when I glance at Muralee, curled down low in her seat. There’s blood on the thighs of her slacks. “You’re, um…”

  “Bleeding. I know. He couldn’t stop it. I’ve got a dishrag between my legs.” She leans sideways, collapsing against me. Her head is on my shoulder and she’s crying.

  I wish I could be Muralee’s friend. A real friend like Jeannette or Sharon or Nancy—someone Muralee would choose. But I know that will never happen. We’ve only been thrown together by circumstance. But, for now, I’m all she has so I rest my hand on Muralee’s reddish-brown hair. Stroking her long locks, I whisper, “Shhhh. It’ll be okay.” Over and over until, finally, she stops crying.

  * * *

  Back in Elmira, I park in the lot behind Franklin’s. Muralee’s asked me to buy her a box of Kotex napkins and a sanitary belt for her bleeding. Before I leave, I give her my corduroy jacket to cover her lap, in case anyone walks past the car. I feel proud of myself for guessing what Muralee might need.

  Inside, I head straight for the feminine products aisle, pausing at the pregnancy tests. I glance at the pharmacy window, where Mr. Franklin’s busy filling a prescription, then reach for a box identical to the one Muralee stole. I stuff it inside my handbag, gather Muralee’s supplies, and start for the register.

  When I return to the car, Muralee’s crouched down lower still. “I think the bleeding’s worse,” she says. “But I’m scared to look. Check for me?”

  I lift the corner of my blazer. She’s right. It’s worse. “I think I should take you to the hospital,” I tell her.

  Muralee grabs my wrist. “No, please! No one can know about this. You have to promise me you’ll never tell anyone. Ever.”

  I nod. Smoothing the jacket back, I ask, “Then what?”

  “Take me somewhere to clean up. A bath might help stop the bleeding.” She hugs herself like she’s cold. “Your place. Let’s go there.”

  It’s too big a risk to take her to our apartment. Mom could be there, having sex with a stranger, or passed out in her own puke. Still, I have to think of something.

  I check the clock on the dashboard. It’s almost three thirty. My brain scrambles to remember what Tad told me earlier—that after he finishes work, he’s buying new brakes for his truck. A friend who owns a garage in Corning is letting him use the lift after the shop closes. And since it’s Saturday, Tad’s dad is on the four-to-midnight shift.

  My heart races. “I know where we can go.”

  Muralee closes her eyes while I drive. Fifteen minutes later, we’re at the turnoff for the trailer park. As I veer down the bumpy dirt road, dust clouds billow up around us.

  When I swerve to avoid a pothole, Muralee’s eyes fly open and she grabs the door handle to brace herself. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere you can wash up,” I answer, pulling beside a rusty barrel propped on concrete blocks. There’s a foul smell in the air, like someone’s been burning rubber tires.

  Hurrying to Muralee’s side, I help her out of the car. I hold her arm, steadying her along the walkway, then up the narrow metal steps. At the top, I reach inside an old work boot, lifting out the spare key Tad showed me the time we had the place to ourselves.

  I unlock the door and lead the way into the kitchen. There’s a mound of dirty dishes in the sink. A fly circles a saucepan.

  Muralee grimaces. “No offense, but you don’t live here, do you?”

  Ignoring her question, I flip a light switch and start toward the bathroom. “This way,” I tell her. I dig through a tiny closet and manage to find towels but no washcloths.

  When I pull the shower curtain back, exposing the tub, its insides are stained a mossy brown. “I’ll scrub it for you,” I offer. “There has to be some Ajax somewhere.”

  Muralee reaches behind the mildewy curtain, turning the water spigots on full blast. “Don’t bother,” she says. “I’m just going to make it dirtier.”

  * * *

  I’m in the kitchen sucking an ice cube when Muralee returns, a bath towel wrapped around her. Her arms and legs are pink from the hot water, and her wet hair’s a deep bronzy color. I’d love to be as beautiful as she is.

  “Where should I put these?” she asks, holding out her blood-stained clothes. She sounds about ten, her voice is so small.

  I jump up and take them from her. Then I search below the sink for a bag, stuff the garments inside, and set the bag next to the door. “How’s the bleeding?” I ask her.

  “Better. It’s let up.” She pulls out a chair, wincing as she lowers herself into it.

  Once, I saw a TV show about healers who can take away other people’s pain. I wish I’d paid more attention so I could do that for Muralee now.

  I sit across from her, staring at the centerpiece of fake fruit. I bite my ice cube, shattering it in one quick chomp.

  Muralee pokes a plastic grape. “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Chew ice.”

  I poke a grape, too. “Why?”

  “It means you’re sexually frustrated.”

  I laugh. “You made that up.”

  Muralee leans her elbows on the table. “I didn’t. I read it in a magazine.”

  When I don’t say anything back, Muralee says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. I was just making conversation.”

  I consider telling her the truth—that I’m not only having sex, I’m a week late for my period. Instead, I say, “I’m not sexually frustrated. I have a boyfriend.”

  Mura
lee grins. “The guy I saw you with at McDonald’s?”

  I feel my cheeks redden. “Yeah.”

  “How come he’s never in school?”

  “He graduated,” I lie.

  “Oh, an older man.” She says it with such authority. “Where does he live?”

  I’m getting nervous with all the questions. But I’d never do anything to make Muralee not like me, so I lie again. “Out of the area. Owego.”

  She smiles. “Nice town.”

  I smile too, glad she approves. Then we both sit back, quiet.

  The clock ticks.

  The faucet drips.

  The refrigerator moans and groans.

  Muralee clears her throat. “Um, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. You know, because I had an abortion. I really do want kids someday—when Glenn and I are finished with college and our lives are more copasetic.”

  Copasetic, I repeat to myself. I’ve never heard the word before. It reminds me of Chloraseptic, the sore throat spray. I’m not sure what to say back, so I nod, pick a dried ketchup blob off the salt shaker, flick it to the floor. I notice the linoleum is covered with dried, muddy footprints. I’d like to spend a day here, cleaning.

  “So,” Muralee asks, “does this place have a washing machine?”

  “No. Why?”

  She tips her chin toward the bag beside the door. “My clothes, remember? I don’t have anything to wear.”

  I consider offering to drive to the laundromat and wash them, but that would take too much time. Tad might be home by then. “What size are you?” I ask her.

  “Ten.”

  “Hang on. I have an idea.” I head for Tad’s room and rifle through his dresser drawers. I slip off my clothes and fold them neatly in a pile.

  Tad’s jeans are big on me, but with a belt, they work. I put on an Impeach Nixon T-shirt and tuck it in. Over that, I slip on a long-sleeved flannel shirt. It’s loose and baggy, so I tie the tails together at my waist. Then I button the sleeves at the wrists so my lizard arm is completely covered. I check myself in the mirror. There’s a girl in my English class, Lydia Marcotte, who dresses like I’m dressed now. Rumor has it, she’s a lesbian. I can see why she prefers clothes like these. They’re comfortable.

  Back in the kitchen, I hold my outfit out to Muralee. “Here, try these.”

  She just stares at me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, worried I’ve offended her somehow.

  She stands. Steps toward me. “Aren’t you afraid to wear those?” she asks, giving the flannel sleeve on my right arm a firm tug.

  Everything happens in slow motion. The sleeve slips off my shoulder. Glides down the length of my arm. Gathers at my wrist. Stops.

  Hesitantly, I look down. There they are. My scars. In plain sight.

  Muralee blinks several times before politely turning away.

  I hike the sleeve back into place and smooth the fabric flat. Again and again, like this might erase what Muralee has seen.

  “What happened?” she asks me.

  “It was, um, an accident. When I was ten I got burned.”

  “So that’s why you wear long sleeves all the time, even during a heat wave.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

  I stare at the floor. Nod.

  “Oh, Madeline”—she sounds genuinely sad—“I—I’m sorry you had to go through that. Life is so unfair sometimes.” She surprises me with a sudden hug.

  Aside from Tad holding me in his arms after sex, it’s the first hug anyone’s ever given me.

  When Muralee lets go, I blink back tears and hand her my clothes.

  Desiree

  ned—the same man

  who booked our room—

  schedules an interview

  with jeremy and me.

  the diner closes at eleven,

  he says. charlotte and

  me’ll talk to you then.

  we show up at 10:30

  pick a booth in the corner,

  share a banana split,

  passing time.

  at eleven ten

  the last customer files out.

  ned hits the outside lights,

  flips the open sign to closed,

  drops a coin in the jukebox,

  sits down across from us.

  his black beard is laced with silver

  and his fingernails are chewed to the quick.

  as an old elvis presley song plays

  a lady slides in beside him,

  her red hair gray at the roots.

  she lights a cigarette, inhales.

  so you two kids want a job?

  she asks,

  her words

  encased in smoke.

  jeremy and i nod.

  yes, ma’am, i add,

  folding my hands

  on my belly bulge.

  hoarsely, she laughs.

  you don’t have to call me

  ma’am—i’m charlotte.

  when are you due?

  my heart speeds up.

  larry got me pregnant in early june,

  but i didn’t have sex with jeremy

  till the start of july.

  i do the math. shrug.

  february or march, i guess.

  another husky laugh.

  hell, i didn’t start

  losing track till my third kid.

  how long the two of you been married?

  um, well…i start.

  pfff! she smiles.

  relax, honey.

  ned and me got four kids together

  and we ain’t never tied the knot.

  she rolls her eyes.

  he calls me his significant other.

  ned’s fingers drum the table.

  the openings are for a waitress

  and a dishwasher.

  you two got experience?

  washing dishes,

  we blurt out together.

  how about waitressing?

  charlotte asks.

  i’m a fast learner, i tell her.

  she motions toward my belly.

  you better be!

  there’s a long moment of silence.

  elvis croons only you.

  even though it’s not my

  kind of music,

  it’s getting under my skin.

  the lady draws on her cigarette again.

  when could the two of you start?

  i mean, if we hire you.

  knocking knees with jeremy,

  i answer, right away.

  ned nods,

  finds a hangnail to nibble.

  the jobs are under the table.

  either of you have

  a problem with that?

  not knowing what

  he means

  i tip sideways,

  glancing beneath our booth.

  charlotte elbows ned’s side.

  girl’s got a sense of humor,

  ned, i like that.

  whaddaya say we

  put these kids to work?

  * * *

  my first day on the job

  i cut my finger slicing lemons and

  toss a kid’s retainer case in the trash.

  for my encore,

  i drop a plate.

  breath held, i wait

  to see if anyone jumps,

  screams,

  has a coronary.

  no one does.

  broom in hand,

  charlotte appears,

  sliding the shiny white shards

  into a dingy, gray dustpan,

  saying, relax, honey, it’s only a plate.

  * * *

  waitressing is harder than it looks,

  especially remembering

  who ordered what.

  the last thing i want is for

  a table full of people to

  play musical plates after

  i’ve dropped off their food.

  that’s a sure way to nix a tip,

  and jeremy and i need the
money.

  after several days, i get an idea.

  i make notes on each slip before

  clipping them on the line for ned.

  hey, desiree, he calls from the grill,

  what the heck’s a sem cap turk club?

  rushing past, i answer,

  the guy in the seminoles hat

  ordered a turkey club sandwich.

  when he shakes his head,

  charlotte says,

  the girl’s got a system,

  ned, deal with it!

  * * *

  charlotte gives me plenty of advice—

  what foods to eat for my baby,

  what kind of vitamins to buy,

  which types of shoes to wear,

  so i won’t get varicose veins.

  she even drives me into town

  to sign up for medicaid

  so i can see a baby doctor.

  some folks might call

  her overbearing,

  but i don’t mind.

  i like having someone care.

  * * *

  every night now

  i get up several times to pee—

  probably on account of the baby,

  since i used to sleep straight through.

  i try to move slowly, carefully,

  so the mattress won’t squeak

  and bother jeremy.

  except sometimes

  i wish he would stir.

  like if i forget where i am

  and expect to hear mam snoring.

  or when i wake from a school dream—

  wandering the halls alone,

  searching for carol ann,

  about to miss a test

  i didn’t study for.

  fragmented moments,

  evidence of the life

  i left behind.

  sometimes,

  i’m disappointed

  i was only dreaming.

  * * *

  ned cuts us a deal on

  a bigger, better room,

  complete with a kitchenette,

  and charlotte gives me

  her old maternity clothes.

  at the diner,

  i pick up her slang—

  bossy in a bowl for beef stew,