Call to Love

Chapter 2: The Coven

Chapter 2: The CovenWhen he brought the appetizers to Vera and her friends, Garner noticed there was a new, and distinctly odd, vibe in the little group. He expertly placed each item, an antipasto platter, bruschetta, arugula salad, tomato crostini, in front of the correct diner, then he stepped back to survey the table generally, to see that everything was okay and respond to any further requests. Vera was smiling a thank you up at him, but the others hardly seemed to register his presence.

Garner remained where he was for several seconds. Two of Vera’s friends were glancing in the direction of the man at table twelve. The third, though he had started eating, had the air of deliberately hiding his actions. There was an unpleasant feel to all three. The sensation of this was so palpable that for a moment Garner felt slightly dizzy. The man at table twelve, thankfully, did not seem to be aware of the group and, reminding himself that a waiter doesn’t get involved, Garner shook his head and went back to the kitchen.

It bothered him nevertheless. Rude people sometimes came in to eat, he knew; and it wasn’t his job to judge. Once in a long while he encountered someone who was so unpleasant that Garner had to take refuge in simply being scrupulously efficient; he couldn’t offer more than that. But the sense he’d gotten this time—it was different somehow. And it was directed at someone special, his regular.

When he brought the entrée to table twelve, he was aware that here too the vibe had changed. The man, though still scrupulously polite, seemed tense and distracted. Deliberately, therefore, Garner remained standing there until the man looked up. Those dark eyes! he thought, they were as beautiful and captivating as before, but now there was something different—a slightly troubled look.

“Is everything to your satisfaction?” Garner asked with genuine concern.

The man blinked, then smiled at him. A beautiful smile, Garner thought. But the man still seemed distracted.

“Oh, yes,” the man said, unconvincingly. Then, looking down at his plate, he picked up his cutlery. Thus dismissed, there was nothing Garner could do. He left the man to his meal.

On his way to the kitchen, he paused to close his eyes and take several deep breaths. It was a technique he had developed that helped him regain composure. He served table eleven, and then decided he should check on Vera’s group. But first he looked at table twelve—and saw that the man was sitting, fork and knife clutched in his hands, motionless, his head bowed as if he were in pain.

It hit him quickly, then—the conviction; and when he looked over at table fourteen, he saw that all three of Vera’s companions were staring beadily at the man. Their expressions were nasty, too, predatory.

A wash of ice passed through Garner, quickly followed by intense anger. He walked directly into the line-of-sight between the two tables, then straight toward Vera’s table. This last felt oddly like he was moving against some invisible force. But he was driven by a cold rage, and he felt bizarrely like a warrior going into battle—strong, fierce, and confident (at least for the moment).

As he came up to the table, he asked in a challenging voice, “Is everything okay here?”

There was something in his tone that made all the diners at the table turn to look at him, startled. He glared at each of Vera’s companions in turn.

“Well?” he asked. Part of him was mortified at this completely unprofessional demand, but that feeling was being strongly suppressed by his rage. He cleared his throat. “Is everything satisfactory?”

Three of the diners continued to stare at him with shocked expressions, Vera with simple open-mouthed astonishment. Two of the others, however, a woman and a man, both dark-haired, looked uneasy. The fourth, a blond man with a distinctly take-charge air, regarded Garner with a blank expression and only the suggestion of a smile playing about his lips. Taking this as defiance or a challenge, Garner turned his full attention on the man.

Their gazes locked in a kind of duel of wills for several seconds, but then the man deliberately looked away. Maintaining an air of indifference, he took a sip from his water glass. Putting the glass down, he looked back at Garner and gave a brief dismissive nod.

Clearly the man knew how to play the game. Garner had been dismissed. But as he turned away, he did have the sense that for an instant the man had begun to quail under his glare.

Feeling suddenly wrong-footed and mortified at his own actions, Garner took refuge in focusing on his next task. Looking down at his pad, he nodded as if at something, and retreated to the kitchen.

He asked Tom the busboy to clear the appetizers at Vera’s table, and by the time he served their entrées, Garner had gotten hold of himself. He put up a wall of polite efficiency and went through the motions of waiting on them without offering anything in the way of warmth. He avoided looking at anyone but Vera, who still seemed to be puzzled by his behavior, but he could feel the amused gaze of the blond man.

Determined not to be intimidated, Garner glanced at the man when he had finished setting down the dishes, meeting his gaze. He saw that the man was not only amused, but seemed interested as well, and puzzled.

Garner again experienced several seconds of mortification, in which all his waiter’s instincts told him he had overstepped himself and that he should depart gracefully. But when he looked at the other two, saw them exchange glances and look as if for instructions at the blond man, a fresh wave of fury hit him, and he resolved, whatever else, to remain where he was—until he had gotten some sign of the blond man backing down, of acquiescence.

He didn’t stare at any of them now, but merely remained standing motionless, as if waiting for an order. He was shaking inside, however. It took some time for the three to register that he was essentially making a demand. He sensed them exchange more glances. The blond man appeared to be sizing Garner up. Garner ignored this until the man had finished. Then Garner looked at the man questioningly, deliberately raising his eyebrows.

They locked eyes again. At last Garner sensed a withdraw on the part of the other man who, though he was still smiling, deliberately lowered his eyes and nodded in a different manner, as if to say: Okay, we’ll stop.

But, still somehow unsatisfied, Garner didn’t move, remaining where he was, looking at the man and waiting for him to meet Garner’s gaze again. When the man finally did, Garner gave him a slow, careful nod. Then he turned, and walked away, his legs suddenly feeling distinctly rubbery, his heart pounding and his chest heaving.

Aware that his face was burning, Garner went into the washroom to rinse his face and neck with cold water. After he had combed his hair, he regarded his disturbed reflection in the mirror.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked, but he received no answer.

He leaned on the counter, aware that his pulse was still racing. He replayed the encounter back in his mind. Quite apart from the strange behavior of Vera’s friends, and the bizarre exchange he’d had with that blond guy, there was the mystery of his own behavior—and it had in turn been driven by those weird, horribly intense feelings!

What the hell?

He nearly cried out in his confusion and sense of betrayal. Hadn’t he always been averse to confrontation? And strong emotions. So, what exactly had happened? What had erupted inside him, and where had it come from? And, even more importantly, why?

* * * *

Garner emerged into the main room several minutes later, having recovered himself somewhat. But he had no answers. He was immediately approached by Sharon, who was looking concerned.

“What’s wrong with you?” she hissed. “You can’t disappear like that!”

“What? Oh. Sorry!” Garner rubbed his face with his hands. “I’d better see to—” He turned toward his section, and then stopped, stunned. There was no one at table twelve.

“Oh, he’s gone,” Sharon said, having followed his gaze. She shook her head. “You know, it was strange. He just put the money on the table, got up and left. Hardly touched his food.”

Garner closed his eyes, breathing deeply and telling himself: Don’t! Don’t interpret! Don’t get involved! For he could feel another wave of rage rising in him. He was resolved this time not to let it take hold, so he gritted his teeth and concentrated on pushing it down. A moment later, he started at the touch of Sharon’s hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy, Garner,” she said. “Just—get a grip. Do your job. Tom has cleared table twelve.” With a final squeeze of her hand, she left him.

He nodded and looked after her gratefully.

“Thanks.”

He suppressed a desire to look to see whether Mike was watching him, squared his shoulders and resumed his work. He told himself that if he was going to be fired for his behavior tonight, then there was nothing he could do about it now. He found that didn’t help much.

However, he did have his own work ethic, the appeal in him to carry out his job as a waiter, to help the customers enjoy a pleasant dining experience at Mario’s. Focusing on the needs and wants of others was his personal royal road to inner peace. He did that now, and soon it drew him out of himself, so that for the moment he forgot his own worries.

And, when the memories of recent events threatened to surface, he applied as far as he could, reassurances designed to dismiss his concerns. He had, he told himself firmly, experienced strange feelings before. The best way to cope was to keep focusing on his job at hand. And it was necessary, if he were to keep his job—to do so in his own métier, his own way.

He went to table twelve, where Tom was setting the cleared table. Tom gave him the money that the regular had left. It contained a considerable tip—this, Garner reflected, with the food and drink barely touched. He struggled with himself, but managed at last to take the tip as tips were meant to be: an expression of appreciation. He entered the final codes for the table in the cash register—again, mercifully, having no trouble—and then served the appetizers to table nine. When he passed Tom, he handed the busboy the full amount of the tip, shaking his head to still the kid’s objections.

There was a new couple seated at table twelve now, and he went to attend them. He was scrupulously gracious, and efficient, and managed to keep this up generally—minus some of the goodwill whenever he had to deal with Vera’s friends. He managed the latter by focusing his attention on her whenever he was at their table.

He did his best to smile at her whenever she looked at him. She seemed a bit unsettled, though perhaps that was due to the vibe at their table that had changed. It was somewhat subdued now, but Garner resolutely refused to allow himself to focus on that. It was the middle of the dinner rush now, and he was in his high-function mode, moving swiftly and smoothly about his business—curiously, aided by the after-burn of the recent trauma to his system.

It was near the tail end of the rush that, having a moment to take a breather, he went to stand next to Sharon near the cash register.

“You okay?” she asked, looking at him.

He nodded and smiled at her, but she still looked concerned. Then she looked over at table fourteen and shook her head. They had certainly taken their time, but were now dealing with the bill he had just left them.

“Man, I hate it when people do that sort of thing!” she murmured.

Garner stared at her, at Vera’s group, and back.

“You noticed that?” he asked.

She seemed surprised. “Of course!” She touched his arm. “Though you kind of helped bring it to everyone’s attention in how you handled it.”

“Oh. How did I handle it?” He didn’t want to ask, but felt he had to know how it came across to others.

She shrugged. “Just a little heavy-handed. Otherwise, okay.”

“Really!”

“Yeah. But you were—I don’t know—too upset, or something.” She frowned at him. “You know, you can’t do that, Garner. Professionalism in everything, right? No matter how obnoxious they get, always treat the customers like royalty. Usually you’re so good at that, but whatever happened tonight, remind yourself. Never react.” She smiled at him. “And then you won’t have to beat yourself up afterwards.”

Garner felt his face heat up again. He nodded and grimaced.

* * * *

After the main dinner service, Garner went into the back for his own dinner: fettuccine alfredo as usual, and tonight he enjoyed the rich warmth of the dish almost on a spiritual level; it was so calming, so reassuring. Absent-mindedly, he reached down and rubbed his belly, sighing. He paid the price for this sort of enjoyment in the extra weight he carried. But still, for him it was medicine. He knew that—or at least he told himself that.

He spent his meal going over the various little things he was going to do for the customers when he returned to service. He felt sure his job hung by a thread. And besides, he wanted, in some karmic sense, to make up for his unpleasant behavior earlier. He finished at last, complimented the chef, and returned to his duties.

The goal of a good waiter is to be ubiquitous but invisible, and Garner worked especially carefully at that for the remainder of his shift. And by the time closing came around, he felt he had approached that tonight—after the incident. He comforted himself by the fact that once, when he caught a glimpse of the manager looking at him, the man’s expression had been benevolent.

He was entering the final part of his last-but-one customers’ bill when he noticed Sharon looking at him approvingly. He deposited the bill on the table, helped the women with their wraps, and finally returned to where Sharon was standing, at the back near the cash register.

She was looking at him appreciatively, which wasn’t quite her usual thing.

“What?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “I was just thinking: What a waste!”

Garner’s face became warm. Not this again!

“What is?” he asked, slightly challengingly.

She looked at him and shook her head, amused.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that—or, at least, not only that.”

“How did you mean it?”

“Well, guys or girls—you’re not doing much about it either way, are you?”

Garner’s face flushed even more and he felt himself deflate. Apparently seeing this, Sharon relented.

“Don’t take it like that, Garner. I just—well, you’re a good guy. I’d just like to see you with someone. Say! What about your admirer?”

“Stop calling him that!” Garner snapped, before he could stop himself. “Sorry!”

Sharon raised her eyebrows. “Okay!” She paused, then added, “So, you still think he asks for your section because of—what? Your impeccable service? And, like I said before, the guy always asks for your section.”

Before Garner could reply, Sharon stiffened.

“Oh, no! Mike’s looking at us—and frowning!” She smiled at Garner. “One table left each.” She squeezed his arm. “Back to the salt mines, eh?”

* * * *

After closing, Sharon and Garner stood under the canopy outside the restaurant. It had rained earlier and the sky was threatening more. The night was warm for this time in spring, and the rain had given the air a pleasant fresh smell. Garner loved this sort of thing, and was quietly breathing in through his nose, savoring the sensation.

Sharon was waiting for her ride, and he was keeping her company. After several minutes of companionable silence, she turned to him.

“Well,” she said. “Surprisingly, no breakages tonight. Am I right?”

Frowning, he nodded.

“Well, good for you!” She smirked. “You know, with the breakages from other nights, you’re really cutting into your take-home pay.”

“Mike’s covering it—most of it. Claiming it on insurance.”

“Huh.” Sharon shook her head. “Still. You need to focus.”

Garner nodded. “I know.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, kid, don’t let things get to you. The world’s a crappy place at times—and by the world, of course I mean people. Those shits at table fourteen…” She shook her head.

Garner looked at Sharon curiously. “What the heck was that about? Why were they doing that?”

Sharon searched his face for several seconds. Then she shrugged. “Who knows? Don’t try to understand everything. You’ll go nuts.” She sighed. “Some people just like being nasty to other people. Maybe it was because he was dining alone. Maybe they knew him and there was a grudge. Maybe it was just because he was gay.”

Garner stared at her. “You really are sure about that?”

Sharon snorted and made a gesture as if she were asking to see his gay membership card.

“Ha, ha!” he replied automatically. But it did kind of bother him that he didn’t seem to possess to any discernable degree the much-vaunted gaydar other people had. Garner invariably found people too complex and incomprehensible to be able to discern s****l orientation. Besides, he tended to keep his distance, mentally. It made him feel more comfortable—like the fettuccine.

Sharon had observed several times when things like his lack of gaydar cropped up, that: “Other than the fact that you’re into guys rather than girls, there is simply no way that you’re gay.”

Garner had always found this funny, and now, thinking about it, he chuckled gently as he turned up his collar against the damp. It was beginning to rain again—one of those pleasant, light spring rains that was almost a mist, and so refreshing. He felt a sudden wave of happiness pass over him. It sometimes did that when he experienced an especially pleasant physical sensation like this. And with the happiness, came the even more welcome sense of contentment.

A car approached, slowing to a stop in front of them.

“Oh, here he is,” Sharon said.

Turning, she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Garner on the cheek. As she opened the passenger door, she said over her shoulder, “Please find someone.” Garner leaned down to exchange a wave with Sharon’s boyfriend. Seating herself, she added, looking up at him, “And, try a little harder, will you?”

She closed the door and Garner nodded, chuckling. As the car began to pull away, however, the passenger window lowered and Sharon stuck her head out. “Show a little leg!”