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“Here you go,” I said, my voice rising an octave. I slid the bill on the part of the table not covered by their limbs. They seemed astonished by my presence.
“Oh. Thanks!” the woman said, straightening.
“Was everything okay?” I asked. Why was I feeling shy towards them?
“Perfect as always,” she said.
“It was great, thanks,” the man added, digging for his wallet.
“Let me get this one. You always pay.” The woman leaned sideways and pulled her wallet from her purse and gave me a credit card. Her bracelet tinkled as she moved. “Here you go, sweetheart.” She was my age and calling me “sweetheart”? Her confidence let her get away with it. When I took the credit card, I thought I saw concern flash across her eyes. Was she noticing my stained brown work shirt? The one I always wore because it matched the color of the food that ended up on it? I felt suddenly aware of my appearance. I also realized I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Oh God, and my shoes—brown and flat. No stockings—ankle socks, if you can believe it. What had happened to me? When had I turned prematurely into a middle-aged frump?
My face burned as I walked away, shoving the credit card in my apron. I headed straight for the washroom to splash cold water on my face. I smoothed down my apron and looked in the mirror. I wore brown clothing because it was practical. I can’t wear a dress. I am a waitress. As for my messy ponytail, hair has to be tied back. It’s regulation. I supposed I could comb it back more smoothly, instead of sloppily wrapping it up in an elastic like a clutch of asparagus. My shoes were the shoes of a woman who hadn’t given a lot of thought to her feet, despite how nice I’ve been told mine are. And it’s true that I hadn’t had a professional manicure since the night before my wedding. But those things are a waste of money. Still, how had I let it come to this? I had officially let myself go. Five Years lay slumped against the bathroom door, exhausted. I returned to the table with the credit card slip, avoiding eye contact with either of them.
“Have you worked here long?” the man asked, while the woman scribbled her signature.
“About four years.”
“You’re very good at your job.”
“Thank you.” I felt heat rise in my face.
“We’ll see you next week,” the woman said. “I just love this old place.”
“It’s seen better days.”
“It’s perfect for us,” she added, handing me the bill and winking at her man.
I looked at her signature, expecting something florid and interesting. Pauline Davis seemed plain and small, which was kind of reassuring to me in that moment.
My eyes followed the couple as they left, walking past the tables and outside, where they kissed and parted ways. As she passed the front window, the woman glanced in at me and waved. I must have looked like such a dork, standing there staring at them. I waved meekly back at her through the dusty glass.
My trance was broken by an elderly woman sitting at the next table. “That lady dropped something,” she said, pointing under the table.
I bent to retrieve a small, burgundy notebook. It looked well worn and was soft to the touch, like skin. The cover had the initials PD embossed in gold, the same gold edging the pages. I gingerly opened it to the first page, looking for Pauline’s address or number, and accidentally caught a glimpse of the contents: “… his mouth on me … never felt so alive … it shot through me like a white-hot … coming over me in waves, swirling … bent me over the …”
I slapped the diary shut.
“You might be able to catch her,” said the woman, slowly chewing a pastry. I noticed she was missing a front tooth.
“Probably too late,” I said. “I’ll … just hold on to it. She’s in here a lot.”
The woman shrugged and pulled another strip off her croissant. I tucked the notebook into my waitressing pouch, a shiver of excitement running up my spine. For the rest of my shift, until Tracina arrived in her impatient bubble-gum haze, spiral curls bouncing in her high ponytail, the notebook felt alive in my front pocket. For the first time in a long time, New Orleans at dusk didn’t seem quite as lonely.
On my walk home, I counted the years. It had been six since Scott and I first came to New Orleans from Detroit to start over. Housing was cheap and Scott had just lost the last job he ever hoped to hold in the auto industry. We both thought a fresh start in a new city looking to rebuild itself after a hurricane would be a good backdrop for a marriage hoping to do the same thing.
We found a cute little blue house on Dauphine Street, in Marigny, where other young people were flocking. I had some luck finding a job as a vet’s assistant at an animal shelter in Metairie. But Scott blew through several positions on the rigs and then he blew two years of sobriety when a night of drinking turned into a two-week bender. After he hit me for the second time in two years, I knew it was over. I suddenly got the sense of how much effort it had taken him to hold off hitting me since the first time he’d taken a drunken fist to my face. I moved a few blocks away to a one-bedroom apartment, the first and only place I looked at.
One night a few months later, Scott called to see if I’d meet him at Café Rose so he could make amends for his behavior, and I agreed. He’d stopped drinking, he said, this time for good. But his apologies sounded hollow and his demeanor still flinty and defensive. By the end of our meal I was fighting back tears and he was standing over me hissing a final few sorrys over my lowered head.
“I do mean it. I know I don’t sound sorry, but in my heart, Cassie, I live every day with what I did to you. I don’t know how to make you get over it,” he said, and then he stormed out.
Of course he left me with the bill.
On my way out, I noticed the job posting for a lunch waitress. I had long been thinking about quitting my job at the vet clinic. There I took care of the cats and walked the dogs on the afternoon shift, but the post-Katrina strays weren’t getting adopted, so my job mostly consisted of shaving spots on the skinny legs of otherwise healthy animals in preparation for euthanasia. I began to hate going to work every day. I hated looking into those sad, tired eyes. That night I filled out an application for the restaurant.
That was also the night the road washed out near Parlange, and Scott drove his car into False River and drowned.
I did wonder whether it was an accident or a suicide, but fortunately our insurance company didn’t question it—he was sober, after all. And since the guardrails had rusted at the bolts, I received a healthy settlement from the county. But what was Scott doing out there that night anyway? It was so like him to make a grandiose exit that would leave me laden with guilt. I wasn’t happy to see him dead. But I wasn’t sad either. And it was there, in that numb limbo, that I had remained ever since.
