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“Junk. All the makeup in the world won’t help if you don’t have character in your face. Character’s the thing.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re beautiful.”
“You would be too if you let your character come out.”
The truth is, though, the makeup did make me look better. And Mrs. Benedict started complimenting me and pointing out things about me to her friends. I’d come to her table to take an order, and she’d make me spin like a model so everyone could inspect me from all sides and angles. After a while, she began referring to me as her “summer project.”
When I told Bunny that, she blew up. “What’s the matter with that old fat bottom?” Bunny demanded. “Doesn’t she think I can raise my own daughter?”
But I figured Bunny was still sensitive about the comment Mrs. Benedict had made at dinner that time. And, to me, the comment didn’t mean much, it was just the way Mrs. Benedict talked.
Then one day Mrs. Benedict tugged on my sleeve and whispered that she had a proposition for me. I was serving lunch at the time, and she promised to explain later, down in the ladies’ locker room, where she was going to play bridge. Once lunch was over, I went down there. Mrs. Benedict hopped up from her bridge game and led me by the hand around a corner, out of sight of everyone else.
“I’ve had a wonderful idea,” she said, breathlessly. “Why don’t you come work for me? Our regular babysitter, Mrs. Johnson, is leaving to spend the rest of the summer with her sister in Minnesota, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have replace her than you.”
“Gee,” I said. “That’s nice of you.” Actually, I was a little disappointed. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’d been a babysitter before and I thought waitressing—even as a substitute—was a better job.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Mrs. Benedict excitedly.
“I’ll have to talk to Bunny.”
“Oh, of course. Of course talk to Bunny.” She backed up a step, cooling by several degrees. “But this is an excellent opportunity. And you’re old enough to start making these decisions on your own.”
Just as I thought, Bunny didn’t like the idea. “Why didn’t she ask me first?” Bunny grumbled, as we drove home. “Nobody thinks about mothers any more.”
“Bunny, Mrs. Benedict is a mother. Besides, I’m old enough to be offered a job by myself.” By then, I’d thought about it and decided the job might be all right after all—the work would be steady, the pay was reasonable, and I’d have something to keep me busy.
“But you won’t make as much money. You’ll earn more as a waitress.”
“I’m not sure. She said she’d use me four or five times a week. That will mean at least fifteen hours.”
r /> “Fifteen hours! No mother leaves her children with a babysitter for fifteen hours a week.”
“Bunny, you used to leave Tom and me alone half the night.”
“That was different,” Bunny said. “I always knew where you were.”
“Huh?”
“You were in bed.”
“Anyway, fifteen times 75 cents an hour means $11.25 a week. I’ve only made that much once out at the country club.”
“But you’ll start working more. Just be patient.” Bunny drove once around the square and managed to find a parking space just down the block from Meyers’ Grocery. We went inside to buy eggs and milk, and when we came out, Dwayne Spinelli, the simple man, was leaning against the hood of Bunny’s car. His bicycle was resting against a pole. “That’s retarded,” said Dwayne when he saw us. It’s what he always says. “Retarded” is the only long word he’s ever learned.
“Hello, Dwayne,” said Bunny. “Tell Martha she should work at the country club.”
Dwayne’s uncertain eyes searched Bunny’s face for some sort of clue, and he plucked nervously at his black hair. His short-sleeved print shirt was buttoned high up under his chin, but the tail had worked its way out of his shorts and was flapping around his hips.
“Tuck in your shirt, Dwayne,” said Bunny. Relieved, he grinned and jumped up and pushed the shirttail out of sight.
When we were back in the car, I said, “They don’t need me out at the country club. Half the time, nobody sits at my tables. Three waitresses are enough, even if one of them’s not working.”
“Be patient. Maybe someone will go on vacation.”
“Who’s going to go on vacation? Beatrice and Millie only work there in the summer.”
“But maybe next year you’ll be full time. Mr. Higgins has taken a shine to you.”
