Rare Birds: Stories

Rare Birds, 1959 1. There was a point every evening when Elsa would look around and realize that the dinner rush was over, indeed had been over for some time. It always took her by surprise, even after months of working at the chophouse. Like everyone had sensed her exhaustion and up and went at the same time to give her some peace. She liked to think like that, liked to think that the customers were her friends, visitors in her large, wood-paneled living room, and she was just making sure they got a good square meal. It made it easier to deal with the jerks; it let her pretend that the large tip she got was for her kindness or her cooking and not because her uniform was too small. And when would Doug order her a new one, anyway? She could ask Mary, Doug’s wife, who sometimes helped with the hostessing; but Mary didn’t like to be asked things. She left the day-to-day managing to Doug, said she didn’t have the head for it. Still, Elsa thought if she could just find the right moment, she could get Mary to do something. The skirt rode up when she bent down, and depending on the time of the month, the buttons would strain and gap. The last time Elsa had asked Doug he’d yeah, yeahed her and added, it’s not doing you any harm, though. And it wasn’t; God knew she needed the tips. Her job was the difference between a good dinner for her husband and son and being on relief, and she had sworn never to go on relief again. Still. As she cleared the table she looked at Mary out of the corner of her eye. All of the other waitresses were young and single, flirting with the cooks while the busboys flirted with them. She and Mary were older, and they both had little boys. If Mary were another waitress Elsa knew they’d be fast friends. Too, every now and then Mary would stand her a cup of coffee at the end of the night and they’d chat a little, mostly about their sons. Elsa looked forward to that more than she could say. To be herself again, even in her cheap uniform. A little more time, she figured. A few more good chats and she could lean in close and say, Mary, do a girl a favor, can’t you get me a uniform that doesn’t make me look like a sausage? As if in answer to her thoughts, a catalog suddenly appeared in front of her, and she felt a large, warm hand rest on the small of her back. Uniform Supply, the cover read, framed by a smiling waitress and chef. She turned to see Doug standing over her, his shadowed face unreadable. “I can’t let you take the catalog home,” he said, “but if you stay after closing and pick out what you want, I’ll order it first thing in the morning.” Elsa smiled as broadly as the waitress on the cover. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Of course I’ll stay,” she said. She phoned Robert and told him she’d be late, and then settled into the stock room with a cup of coffee and the catalog, squinting at the pages in the dim light. The styles were line drawings so she couldn’t quite tell which one matched the chophouse uniforms, and there were both half and whole sizes, and she couldn’t find the sizing chart. She kept flipping and flipping … She heard Doug saying goodbye to the others, heard the shutters coming down. Her last clear memory was of planning to tell Doug to forget it, that she couldn’t make heads or tails of the thing. Everything afterwards came in flashes. Being held down across the boxes. Doug spitting words in her ear, dirty words no man had ever said to her before, and behind them a roaring noise like she was drowning. Choking on her sobs. He was so strong. And when it was over, and she was fumbling with her clothes—Why didn’t they go on right? Why couldn’t she dress—when it was over, he told her in his normal voice that if she told anyone he would fire her, and she would never get work in another restaurant, and he would tell her husband and her son and everyone in the entire damn city just what a goddamn slut she was. Her journey home was a blur; she felt almost insensible until she finally managed to close the apartment door. Only then did she begin shaking. She dared not enter their bedroom, she knew that Robert would know and what would happen then? Instead she dragged blankets onto the couch and buried herself inside them, pulling them over her head until she was cocooned in a hot darkness, shivering as if she was riddled with fever. There she lay, all night, fighting back tears, terrified lest she make the slightest noise and wake her husband and son. When she heard the alarm ringing, she made sure she was covered from head to toe, closed her eyes, and pretended to be asleep. The sounds of her son running around, Robert shushing him … it all made her feel sick and then ashamed of herself for feeling so about her family. When Robert came into the living room to get his watch, she made herself limp and kept her breathing steady. But when he bent over her and touched her forehead, she cringed. He whispered, “Coming down with something? You feel pretty warm.” She nodded. “Do you want me to phone the restaurant? I can call from the job site.” At once, panic filled her. “No,” she croaked, her voice loud. “I’ll call.” “Tell Doug you need a day off. It’s the least he can do for keeping you so late.” Robert laid his hand on her shoulder, caressing her through the blanket. “He better make it worth your while. I don’t like you missing dinner. It’s not good for Bobby, you know?” As he spoke her mouth filled with bile. It was all she could do to nod again. “Get some rest,” he finally whispered, kissing her forehead. There was the murmur of their voices, Bobby’s distant bye Mommy feel better that she could not bring herself to acknowledge. She didn’t want him to see, she didn’t want either of them to see her. Only when she heard the door shut did she let herself start sobbing, waves of grief so violent as to choke her. She was still crying when she managed to get herself to the bathroom and onto the toilet. The feel of the toilet paper made her feel sick and lightheaded. And then she smelled it, it was everywhere, and she tore off her clothing and climbed into the tub and opened the taps completely. She cried again, though she felt empty of all tears. At least in the water she couldn’t smell herself, couldn’t feel herself. The phone rang out, echoing in the tiny apartment. The noise jarred her; she realized the water was up to her neck, rushing out of the overflow as fast as it poured in. She needed to do … something, yet she could not think what, could only think that if she just stayed in the water nothing more could happen to her. When the hot water turned cold she finally closed the taps. Her fingertips were shriveled. She could not look down at herself. The sudden knocking felt like physical blows, making her mewl in fear. “Elsa?” a female voice said. Mary. Elsa lurched out of the tub and seized her thin bathrobe, wrapping it tightly closed, then wrapped a towel over the robe until she felt cocooned. Mary knocked again, three short raps and then a pause, followed by three more. Elsa started for the door only to hesitate. What if Mary knew, what if she had come to accuse her, even attack her? What had Doug said to her, what was he saying to everyone? “Elsa,” Mary said, “I know you’re in there.” She paused, as if weighing her words. “I know what he did,” she said, her voice barely audible. “For God’s sake, let me in.” Before Elsa knew what she was doing, she was across the living room, unlocking the door and flinging herself into Mary’s arms. The smell of frying eggs made her stomach knot, but she could not bring herself to speak. Mary moved around the kitchen with tight, efficient gestures that seemed to indicate either unease or a barely contained anger. “I knew when you didn’t show up this morning,” she said as she slid the eggs onto a plate. “I knew then. Before—” The word came out so clipped she paused to swallow, then repeated, “—before, with the young ones, half of them would get on the next bus home, the other half would try and blackmail him.” She put the plate in front of Elsa. “I honestly thought you were too old for him.” She stared at the plate—the eggs swimming in grease, the toast almost as yellow as the yolks—and tasted bile again. “What did he tell you?” Mary asked. She could not look up at Mary; she was terrified of what expression she might find. “That I’d never work again if I told anyone, and he’d tell Robert I’m a …” Her throat closed around the word like a fist. “Eat.” Mary sat down across from her, folding her trembling hands one atop another. For the first time Elsa realized just how smooth Mary’s hands were, how pristine her manicure, yet her engagement ring was as tiny as Elsa’s own. She took up the fork and managed to get a piece of white between her lips. The scummy texture made her gag. “I want to divorce him,” Mary said in the same tight voice. “I can divorce him, if you’ll sign a statement saying what he did.” Elsa looked up at her then and wished she hadn’t. The grim face staring at her was terrifying. “A—a statement? Mary, I can’t … I haven’t even told Robert, I couldn’t bear it if he knew. How could I face him—”