A Storied Man

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Three.

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Three

Bernie had misheard plenty of utterances since the start of her hearing loss, but this one seemed more important than most. She turned her better ear toward Shonda and said, “I’m sorry, what? I’m not sure I caught that.”

Shonda stammered a bit, then said, “I’m surprised you remembered the name.”

Bernie knew that wasn’t what she had said, but decided not to press it.

“Look, he’s honking, so I need to go keep him from making a scene. I’m in town a few days. Give me your number.”

Bernie started to look down again, but quickly raised her head. “I, um, I don’t have a phone.”

“Well, okay. How about your address?”

Bernie frowned slightly and shook her head. Not being ashamed of herself was one thing, but playing hostess in her shack was out of the question. She wasn’t even sure it would still be there at the end of the day.

“Okay. I’m staying at the Red Apple Inn. Room 218. Come see me at, say, eight o’clock?”

Bernie hesitated. This day started out simple. It was just supposed to be Trout Day. “I suppose that’s fine,” she said finally.

“Great!” Shonda looked Bernie over again. “Just, really, really great to see you.”

“You, too,” Bernie said.

They hugged again and Shonda’s sweet scent faded quickly in the breeze of a passing flatbed truck.

Bernie grabbed her wagon handle and continued to the back of the restaurant. The word “Lockard’s” crawled in messy script across a white door with a greasy black stain around the knob. A few dirty fingerprints fanned out from the knob, as if someone had tried to avoid the filthy core.

A teenaged boy wearing the requisite green apron leaned against the wall, smoking. His arms crossed to help keep warm, he lifted a hand just far enough to pull the cigarette from his mouth and flick the ashes.

Bernie called out to him. “Jim still making you go outside to do that, Dooley?”

The boy nodded and spoke around his cigarette. “Fuckin’ fascist.”

The door swung open. “I heard that, Dooley!” Jim said. He looked at Bernie. “He bothering you, Bernice?”

Bernie laughed. “No, Jim. No trouble.” Since kindergarten, when she had shown him her panties during nap time, they had known each other. Then and now, Jim always called her by her full first name.

——-

She pulled a plate from the stack next to the sink and plunged it through the suds and into the water. Floating flecks of food bounced off her arms as she scrubbed. She set the plate on a dishwasher rack and grabbed the next one from the stack. It was Bernie’s least favorite odd job, but it kept her out of the cold.

Lockard’s lunch buffet made it easy for Jim to sneak food to her. When the buffet ended and they pulled items off to throw away, he tucked some back for her. Depending on business, sometimes she didn’t get much.

He brought her a small plate with three fried chicken wings and a few bites of baked beans. Bernie quickly washed and dried her hands, but slowed herself to seem less desperate. She pushed up the dishwasher’s lever and slid out a steaming silverware basket. The fork she grabbed heated her hand, a welcome change from the lukewarm dishwater it had slogged through for the past two hours.

She sat in a small utility room, where wait staff unloaded a dryer full of clean napkins to roll up the silverware Bernie had just washed. A young, soft hand patted hers as she lifted a bite of beans to her mouth. She looked up.

“Why won’t they let us tip you out?” asked a young single mother named Jeannie.

“I don’t technically work here,” Bernie said.

Jeannie reached into the middle front pocket of her apron and pulled out a wad of cash. “Well, I don’t think it’s right. Here.” She set a five-dollar bill on Bernie’s knee.

Another server walked into the room. He stepped over to Jeannie with a disapproving look. Over the noise of the washer and dryer, Bernie could make out only a few words that had become unmistakable. “Mooch,” and “Bum,” were the easiest to read, and she went back to eating after getting an idea what the young man was trying to convey.

Not long ago, she would have turned up her nose at chicken wings. Now, she relished them and considered a leg an indulgent upgrade. She worked her teeth against the bone to nibble and scrape all the meat. The two servers stopped arguing to look at her. Had she growled like some animal? She had heard herself making noises, but didn’t know anyone else could hear. “Sorry,” she said, and went back to eating in silence.

A minute later Bernie glanced back up to see them still arguing. She held the bill out to Jeannie. “Thank you, sweetie, but you have a child to feed at home.”

“No, please, Bernie. To me, it’s only fair to tip you out a little.”

“You sound set on me taking it, so I will,” Bernie said, and slipped it into her pocket.

Back outside, Bernie secured her coat against the wind as well as possible and grabbed her wagon’s handle.

Jim stood in the doorway and pointed down at the wagon. “You know, I could just fill up your water bottles here.”

“No, that costs money. I don’t want you getting into trouble,” Bernie said.

Jim smiled. “As much water as you waste washing dishes, nobody would ever notice a difference on the bill.”

They both laughed.

“No, thanks. I prefer my source.”

“You know, Bernice, drinking the water from those springs can’t really make you better,” Jim said.

“That stuff from your tap sure can’t, either.”

She walked away humming the chorus of “Afternoon Delight.” If she didn’t make music for herself, then she had no music at all.

(Continue to Part Four)