Dispensations

by Randolph Thomas

  For me, May and this place will always be inseparable. That night, after I had settled the boys into their room, called lights out, and retired to the dark of the basement where Melissa and I were to sleep, I remembered May’s voice as clearly as I remembered the stone wall at my back and the lantern burning beside me.

  “I’m going to miss you,” May said. It was two or three nights before I left for school. My eyes focused on her standing in my room, her face above the lantern she carried. She moved to the doorway. “Why don’t you come on?” she said. “I think it’ll be all right.”

  I got out of bed and followed her upstairs, through the living room and the hall, up to the second floor, and to her room, where we got into bed and she turned out the light.

  “Aren’t you going to miss me?” she said.

  I couldn’t answer because I didn’t want to have to miss her. May pulled the sheet over my head and started tickling me. I laughed until my eyes welled with tears. May laughed, and later—after she had whispered my name and believed that I had gone to sleep—I heard her cry. She had already turned away from me. Her cries were muffled, but I still hear them fill the house, echoing through all the rooms. I hear them by the river where we picnicked, and in all the places where my children laugh and play.

  THE SHAME OF THE CITY

  On Friday nights, Marlon’s Steakhouse was able to seat over two hundred people for the $4.99 steak dinner special because the barn of a building had once housed The Dreamland Skating Rink, a place my parents used to go when they were dating. Marlon had kept the raised platform that circled the main floor—he called it the beltway—so the wait staff could have quick access to every part of the dining room.

  Roxanne, who’d worked at Marlon’s longer than anyone else, hated Friday nights even though they were the best nights for tips, and complained that she felt every penny in her feet and back. If the kitchen was busy when she complained, Art, the head cook, would nod to us—the dishwasher and prep cooks working at the sinks and tables behind the grill—and we would all break into a chorus of “Roxanne, you don’t have to put on the red light.” The idea was to distract Roxanne so she would quit whining and carry us through the rush, and most of the time it worked. After an initial quake of embarrassment, she would exhale loudly, pick up the next order, and hurry back into the dining room.

  Of the Marlon’s wait crew, Roxanne was always the first to show up for the night. She sat smoking Kools at the break table in the corner of the kitchen closest to Marlon’s office until it was time to clock in. Art, who was in graduate school and had been working at Marlon’s almost as long as Roxanne, kidded her and said she only smoked menthols so nobody would bum cigarettes from her. He claimed she had gotten the idea from him, “bum avoidance” being the reason he rolled his own. I was sixteen years old—Marlon’s was my first job—and I’d only begun to smoke, having recently found a carton of Dorals in the basement, among other possessions of my late grandfather. I carried a few to work with me in my shirt pocket and stashed them in the dry area above my Hobart dishwashing machine, so I was armed and ready to join Art and Roxanne whenever they called a time out.

  Everybody put in some time at that break table: prep chefs like Georgie Storm, an acid burnout who was older than Art but still lived in his parents’ basement; the waitresses, hot, silent Kaleen with her glittery eye make-up, and Wendy, who was always wagging her chubby finger at me for smoking too much, saying I’d regret it later, if I lived long enough. But most often, in those early days, it was just the three of us. Art read the newspaper and made disparaging comments about President Reagan and what Art called the regime. Roxanne took up for the president and reflected on the sordid complexities of the world. I listened to them go on. Often the talk would turn to Marlon’s Steakhouse lore, usually involving one of the kitchen employees, or even Marlon, drinking and making a fool of himself, or one of the waitresses sleeping with one of the regular customers. At the dinner table, my parents never gossiped like Art and Roxanne, and they agreed to the point that nothing interesting or the least bit controversial needed to be talked about. The lunch table at school was about a social order I had no interest in. I doubt I’d have felt differently if I’d allowed myself to take part in it.

  So I believed those nights at the break table with Art and Roxanne were something special. At that time, they were special to me. As the hour grew later I puffed on Dorals and drank sodas to keep going. Art joked about all the smoking we did, calling us the Marlon’s Steakhouse chapter of the Suicide Club, telling me I needed to get a move on because I was years behind. He said he’d gotten a call earlier from the home office and the club was running low on members. At this sort of comment, Roxanne never failed to groan and roll her eyes.

  I lived about a mile from Marlon’s, and at night I walked home along Norwood Street, past the last streetlight. By the time I entered the house, my mother had gone to bed because she worked early, but my father was awake, watching Johnny Carson and drinking a beer. While we watched the end of Carson together, he’d ask me about school, not my favorite topic for discussion. When I’d bring up my job at the steakhouse or the people who worked there, my father would exhale loudly. He’d known Marlon back in high school and had, in fact, recommended me for the job. However, I couldn’t mention Marlon or the restaurant without my father making a dismissive comment, as though Marlon was someone who could only be trusted so far or counted on for so much.

  My father would sip the last of his beer and ramble about how wonderful it had been when he was my age, when he was able to get away with anything he wanted without much real trouble. I got the impression he was a failed hooligan, and maybe a failed entertainer, because he was always singing songs from the fifties and telling corny jokes, but he’d given up whatever his dreams had been to work as a security guard. He usually nodded off around the time Tom Snyder came on, and I’d cut off the TV and cover him with the afghan from the back of the couch. I’d tromp back to my bedroom, wired on caffeine and nicotine, to read or listen to music through my headphones until I was able to sleep.

  It was the policy at Marlon’s that employees received a day off with pay on their birthdays. I remember that we were particularly busy the night of Roxanne’s birthday, or maybe I just remember that night better than most of the others. The dinner rush had ended before Art and I were able to take a break. Occasionally, the doors to the dining area would burst open and one of the waitresses, carrying a large tray full of dirty dishes, would enter the kitchen and head for my sink.

  When he took breaks, Art removed his hair net. Art had long, stringy hair, and a long, acne-scarred face. When he’d finished rolling his cigarette and lit it, he took off his glasses, set them on the table, and rubbed his eyes.

  “I fucking hate Roxanne’s birthday,” he said. “She completely bottoms out, and there’s no telling how low she’ll go.”

  Art laughed nervously, like he was already surprised he’d mentioned it, like he wouldn’t have if we hadn’t run out of things to talk about. He put his glasses back on.

  “Last year she was so miserable she totally made a mess of things,” he said, “and I even remember talking to Marlon about it, but of course it was in one ear and gone.”

  “What happened last year?” I said.

  Art sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “You can’t tell anybody this,” he said. “Not Kaleen, and certainly not Wendy.”

  “I won’t tell,” I said.

  “Kitchen Shit’s honor?”

  I nodded and flicked my lighter for an oath.

  “It’s not very impressive. She tied one on and got a DWI. In those days Roxanne had a roommate who called and asked me to go down to the police station and pick Roxanne up. Her roommate was three sheets, too, so I bailed Roxanne out and force-fed her coffee until daylight. I got to hear her life story.”

  “What was it like?” I asked.

  Art rolled his eyes. A drunk Roxanne was hard for me to wrap my brain around, and whe
n I tried to picture her in jail, waiting for Art to come for her, I could only see her at the break table, her legs neatly crossed, smoking Kools and tapping the ashes in her cupped hand because the ashtray was full.

  “Why did she get so wasted?”

  Art smoked and leaned forward on his elbows. He put out what was left of his cigarette, a tiny stub.

  “She just can’t stand it,” he said.

  “Can’t stand what?”

  The swinging doors opened and Wendy came in with a rack of dirty glasses. She slammed the rack onto the shelf above the sink and turned, taking a deep breath.

  “What are you two up to?” Wendy said.

  Art and I shrugged in unison.

  “Something’s up, and you guys aren’t telling me what it is,” she said. “Okay, fine. I’m watching out. I’m on guard.”

  Having warned us, she marched through the door to the beltway.

  “See what I mean?” Art said. “Remember, you promised not to tell anybody. Think of Roxanne’s dignity. It’s Roxanne’s goddamn secret.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “So why did she get drunk?”

  Art seemed to be planning what he was going to say, taking his time rolling another cigarette.

  “It’s simple, really,” he said. “Her birthday reminds her that another year has gone by. It’s not even so much that she’s alone, Kitchen Shit, although that’s a big part of it,” he shrugged. “And she’s got issues with her parents, issues with going back to school, and so on and so forth. Mainly she just feels like life is getting away from her, like she’s not doing a goddamn thing but getting older.”

  I nodded, believing I already understood these issues well enough to sympathize. I lit another Doral, and smoked it until Kaleen came in and complained about my sink being so full of dirty dishes she was having trouble finding a place to set more down. It took me an hour and a half to clean up the mess, and by that time, Art had already started on the floors. Kaleen and Wendy were squabbling over their tips, and I was so engrossed with emptying my sink, that at eleven-thirty, I didn’t even hear the back door open and slam shut when Marlon came strolling in to put the money in the safe.

  Marlon sent Wendy and Kaleen home, and I took over the mopping from Art while Marlon went over Art’s to-do list. When Marlon finally headed back out, Art slumped against the wall and lit a cigarette.

  “You feel like catching a buzz, Kitchen Shit?” he said.

  I said I did, and he turned on the fan at the break table and propped the back door open. We sat at the table and smoked a joint.

  “You been getting any decent pussy down at the high school?” Art said.

  I said something feeble like, “I’ve been getting my share.”

  Art, who somehow had a hot girlfriend, sneered at me in disbelief, and nodded.

  “How about Wendy or that Kaleen?” he said. “You ever think about asking one of them out?”

  I shook my head. “You think they’d go out with me?”

  “Probably not, but you don’t know if you don’t try.” He thought this was pretty funny.

  “What about Roxanne?” I said.

  “You’ve got a boner for Roxanne?” He thought this was even funnier.

  “I mean, about her birthday,” I said. “Maybe we should go look for her.”

  I don’t know where this came from, whether it was my concern for Roxanne or my desire to do anything other than go straight home and watch Johnny Carson with my father.

  “You think you’d be able to find her?” I said.

  Art nodded smugly.

  “It wouldn’t be hard,” he said. “She’s either passed out at home, passed out in jail, or swilling at some bar. She’s safe enough if she’s at either of the first two places, so I’m going to start with the bars. Since she’s a creature of habit, but doesn’t normally hang out in bars, I’m betting on the joint where she tied one on last year.”

  “Let’s go check on her,” I said. “Make sure she’s alright.”

  Art smirked. “You sure you don’t have the hots for Roxanne?” he said. “Maybe you think you can catch her when she’s had a couple and she’ll be easier to put the moves on.”

  I shook my head and said I was just worried about her.

  “Right,” Art said. “Maybe it would be a good idea to check on her, though. In fact, I’m glad you mentioned it.”

  Art said we needed to get moving, so we carried out the trash and mopped the last section of the floor. After he’d locked the door, and we were walking across the parking lot, I said, “Let me come with you.”

  “No way, Kitchen Shit.” Art shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  He stopped at his car. I glanced at the access road to the highway, where I’d be walking home soon.

  “What if you need help carrying Roxanne home?” I said. “What if you need somebody to keep the car running so you can make a fast getaway?”

  “I doubt it’ll get that complicated,” he said. “Can you even drive?”

  “I’ve got a license.”

  This time Art seemed to think about it a few seconds before he shook his head.

  “I’ll tell Wendy the whole story,” I said. “Unless you let me go.”

  Art turned to look at me. He raised his eyebrows.

  “You little bastard,” he said. “You gave your word, Kitchen Shit’s honor.”

  “What kind of honor is that?” I said. Judging from the look on his face, I might have seriously damaged his opinion of me. I added, “I wouldn’t tell Wendy, man. That was just a load of BS.”

  Art’s expression didn’t change much, but he laughed.

  “You really don’t have a life of any kind, do you, Kitchen Shit?” he said.

  I shrugged and shook my head.

  Art cleared his throat and said, “All right then, sure, why not? I could use some company, and maybe you could help out.”

  He pointed his finger at me. “But you have to do what I say. If I say wait in the car …”

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Sure enough, we found Roxanne’s LTD at the first place we looked. Dean’s Dinner Theater, the place where, according to Art, she’d gotten shitfaced the previous year. It was a dark, windowless, gray brick establishment farther out on Route 11. Art said I wasn’t old enough to go in, and when I protested, he reminded me that I’d promised to follow orders. He left me the key and told me to play the radio. The AM-FM switch was broken, so I moved from one country AM station to another. While I waited, a number of people came and went from the restaurant, mostly older men with slicked-back hair and middle-age paunches, who were occasionally arm in arm with women in pantsuits and heavy make-up. When Art brought Roxanne out, she was leaning on him. I reached back, unlocked the door and flipped the handle up so it opened. Roxanne slumped against the seat, and Art slammed the door.

  “Jesus,” Roxanne said. “What’d you bring him for?”

  “I needed a wheelman I could trust. Besides, he’s a likable enough delinquent.”

  Roxanne sulked in the back seat. She had on red lipstick and blue eyeliner I’d never seen her wear before. Her curly blond hair, which was usually wound back in a tight bun, dangled down the shoulders of her black dress. She looked almost sultry. It was the first time I’d ever thought about her that way, and I wondered why she didn’t try to look sexy more often.

  Art glanced back at me as if he knew what I was thinking, that I did in fact have the hots for Roxanne. He smirked and reached through my window and locked Roxanne’s door.

  “I’m taking Roxanne’s car,” he said. “She lives downtown, upstairs from Jame’s Shoe Repair.”

  I knew the building Art meant, with the stenciled misspelling some kids had taken to calling the shame of the city, but I’d never known that people lived behind the windows on the second floor. I adjusted the seat so I could reach the wheel better. Both my parents’ cars were automatics like this one, and I felt okay once I found the headlight switch and the brake release. I followed A
rt across the gravel parking lot to the road. Roxanne had sunk down, and her face was lost in shadow. We were halfway back to town with nothing along the dark highway except for the taillights of Roxanne’s car and the occasional porch light, when I heard Roxanne rummaging through her purse.

  “Give me a cigarette, will you?” she said. “Goddammit, I left mine in the bar.”

  “They’re not menthol,” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I reached into my pocket, took out a Doral and handed it back to her. She lit up, took a long drag, and started into a coughing fit.

  “Christ,” Roxanne said, “this cigarette’s stale. What is it, a hundred years old?”

  She rolled down her window and flicked the Doral into the night. I watched the flame hit the road behind us, bounce and splinter.

  “Piece of shit,” she said. “God, I’m dying for a decent smoke.”

  I remembered Art’s package of Drum in the glove compartment and tossed it back to Roxanne. A minute of so later I heard the click of a lighter and saw the glow of Roxanne’s cigarette in the rearview. As I drove into downtown, she was smoking and staring at the windows of closed and empty stores. Some of them had brown paper taped over them and some had been spray-painted. When we came to Jame’s Shoe Repair, Art parked on the street. I pulled in right behind him. After climbing out of the backseat, Roxanne told us she was okay from there on in, but Art insisted we all needed some coffee.

  There was a kitchenette connected to the living room. Art filled Roxanne’s teakettle with tap water and turned on the gas stove.

  “You got instant, I take it?” he said.

  “Somewhere in those cabinets.” Roxanne left the room abruptly, and I eased down into a big chair with wings and doilies on the arms and glanced around at her decor, shelves of framed family pictures and dusty statuettes of Christ and the Virgin Mary. When Roxanne returned, she had a long piece of toilet paper, and she kept blowing her nose into it. She plopped down on a long green sofa with floor lamps at both ends.