Chapter 10
Dear July,
The motherfucker (who I will refer to as MF from here on out) has my passport so I couldn’t leave even if I had money for a ticket…
Joe
“You’re sure you can make this place look like Rose described it?”
I’m standing in the kitchenette area with Angus, holding Rose’s sketches.
He had interrupted my busy afternoon of cursing and patching holes, interspersed with flashbacks of the good old days and the painful recognition of my foolishness in thinking July’d still be like that—or that we’d still be like that together—now. I’m a fucking idiot, mourning a girl and a relationship that probably only ever existed in my head. Her name, her smile…she had me believing she was warm all the way through. It’s impossible to reconcile the sweet girl of my memory with the woman who wanted to use me like a blow-up sex doll.
Angus’s voice brings me back. “It’ll look worse before it looks better. Gotta do some demo and the wiring first, then the plumbing. I can start the demo today.” He studies me with bright turquoise eyes. “Kitchen won’t be done for a couple of weeks. That okay?”
Haven’t been eating much, but I know some carryout places now. I’d rather have July’s food, but nope, not going there. “Yeah.” I toss the drawings on the cracked countertop and look for a change of subject. “Rose do design stuff as a side gig?”
He snorts. Opens his toolbox, pulls out a tape measure, and pokes around for something else. “Nah, she’s never done that before. Except for her house. Our house.”
“Seriously?” Hard to believe. “She could. Her ideas are great.”
“Woman’s a wonder.” His voice is gruff with pride. “She can do pretty much anything she sets her mind to.”
“I don’t remember her from high school.” Short, little fireball like that, I think I’d remember. “She younger than us?”
He sets a crowbar on the counter, then goes into the living area and unrolls a big sheet of plastic to cover the floor. “Yeah, but she didn’t move here till last year.”
That surprises me, given her apparent tightness with Angus and July. “You know her from somewhere else?”
He doesn’t look up from his work. “Nope. She just came to town and…here we are.” He smiles down at his hands, a private smile not meant for me.
Huh.
He straightens and turns. “I’m about to make a mess in here, tearing out these walls to get to the brick. Might want to close the bedroom and bathroom doors.”
“Want some help?”
He shakes his big shaggy head. “Nah, thanks. Got a method. Do better on my own.”
Hell, I’m not going to stand around and watch him work. But I’m tired of patching holes, and I’ll be damned if I’m closing myself in that dingy bedroom for the rest of the day. “I think I’ll head to the library, then. Here’s the spare key. You got my number if you need anything?”
He nods and is already fitting a mask over his face and earbuds into his ears by the time I get to the stairs.
***
At the library I show proof of residency and get a card. A librarian helps me look up local organizations working with young people. There’s not much, just the Galway County Youth Home, the foster care system, and a suicide hotline. Gay-Straight Alliance groups at the city and county high schools, and a PFLAG group affiliated with those. A community center near downtown that hosts sports and dance and exercise classes.
I download articles on working with at-risk kids and spend the rest of the afternoon in a snug corner, reading and taking notes. I browse the library shelves and find a few social work–related books I can check out. I don’t know how late Angus is planning to work today, so I stay at the library until closing time and then head back around the town square, a stack of books under my arm.
The lights are still on at July’s, but the dining room is empty. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since a peanut butter sandwich at breakfast. I’m thinking about where to go for dinner—a roadhouse steak sounds good, but the memories are too fresh—when I notice an odd little procession approaching. Five guys, all older than me, walking single file, not talking to each other. Like they’re together but not together. All carrying bags or backpacks. The lead guy has military posture and Albert Einstein hair. He goes straight to July’s door and knocks.
These guys looking to make trouble for her? I move a little closer, trying to see better. Inside the restaurant, the kitchen door swings open and July trots across the dining room. Her voice floats across the green to me as she pushes open the door to let them inside. “Hey, Devon. Evening, guys.” When they’re all in, she flips the bolt to lock the door.
What the hell?
I lean against a storefront, still almost half a block away, and watch, fascinated. The restaurant is lit up like a stage, and I can see everything as the men place their bags on the floor in a row not far from the door.
July seats them in the booth and table nearest the kitchen. She talks to them for a second—they don’t seem to say much—and then ducks back into the kitchen, coming back out a moment later with a fistful of mugs and a coffeepot. Pours for everybody, and then leaves and comes back with water glasses and a pitcher. She pours a round of water and then talks some more. Looks like she’s listing things on her fingers. Each guy in turn says a word or two, except one guy who seems to speak for himself and the man beside him. July listens, nods, and goes back to the kitchen.
Nothing much happens for a few minutes, but no way am I leaving without knowing she’s okay in there. The guys take turns getting up to go to the restroom. By the time they’re done with that, July is back with a tray that’s got to weigh fifty pounds. It’s loaded down with filled plates and bowls. Sandwiches, pasta, soup, bread… I watch her lay a feast across their two tables. Then she refills their coffee, touches the Einstein guy—Devon—on the shoulder, and disappears again. Five minutes later she’s back with a tray of desserts. Pie and cake. They demolish it all and then climb to their feet, stretching and making their way slowly back over to where they’d laid down their bags.
July’s back with a tray for the dirty dishes and a big plastic bag of her own. She sets down the tray on a nearby table, reaches into the bag, and pulls out a fistful of narrow packages. Toothbrushes, maybe? She holds them up for the guys to see, and one guy raises a hand. She passes him a package and reaches back into the bag again, this time coming out with small, dark, soft-looking bundles. Socks? Two of the men nod and she hands them each one.
Then they all move over to the door, scooping up their bags. July lets them out, and they leave the way they came, single file, not speaking, with Devon in the lead.
Not a penny exchanged. No coins, no paper, no cards.
Whatever that was about, it turned out okay. July clearly didn’t need me to stick around. How many more ways do I need to get that message?
But I stand and watch as she relocks the door and begins to gather up their dirty dishes. Two trips, it takes her. Then she comes back out with a cloth, wipes the two tables down, and finishes stacking the dining room chairs.
Another woman, as dark as July is fair, comes out of the kitchen with a mop bucket and begins to mop the floor, but July stops her. Takes the mop, hugs the woman, and waves her away. I watch her finish the floor, there in the dining room alone, her movements steady and smooth and economical, her hair gleaming gold under the lights. Finally she wheels the bucket away, flipping off the lights as she goes.
It’s chilly and my library-book arm is stiff. Still, it takes me a minute to pull myself together enough to go on my way.
Who were those guys? What was that about?
I do not know the first thing about this July stranger.
***
July
“Here, taste this.” I spear a chunk of potato from my newest vegetarian experiment and hold it out for Donna.
She reaches for the fork and takes a bite. “Oh, that’s better. Joe?”
I nod. “Took the first version to him last night. This morning’s note said, Hit it with some smoked paprika .”
“Boy’s got a good tongue.” She shoots a stern look at Tina, whose eyes are laughing as she carries a tray of sourdough baguettes to the walk-in, the words “’Bout time July found herself a man with a good tongue” floating behind. Donna closes her eyes and shakes her head.
“Woman’s gonna be the death of us,” I mutter, and Donna laughs.
“Really though, July, keep getting his input. We don’t want to get stale.”
“Donna, your cooking’s never going to get stale. But I will keep asking him.”
I’m trying a new way of involving Joe in Galway. Two nights ago, I packed carryout boxes with two new dishes I’ve been experimenting with. I took them down to his building, hung the bag on the knob, and pounded on the door. When he appeared in the hallway, I pointed to the bag and took off. Inside the bag with the hot food, I’d placed a note that read: Remember how you promised to help me taste test stuff for the restaurant? Your thoughts on flavor, texture, and serving suggestions appreciated. Yeah, I’m not above holding him to past promises to get him to engage.
The next morning, we found he’d pushed the note under our front door. No personal message, but he’d written on the back:
Spinach dish: Good flavor. Maybe add water chestnuts or slivered almonds for texture.
Chicken: Perfect. Wouldn’t change a thing.
So last night I took him another dish, and tonight I’ll take another. And tomorrow and the next night and the next…
Rose said she and Angus think Joe forgets to eat. That hit me square in the heart. Me taking him food doesn’t make up for what I did, but if I work really hard every day and make sure Joe’s got dinner every night, I can help him and sometimes rest okay myself for a few hours.
Maisie pushes through the swinging door with another tray of dirty dishes, two other servers right behind her with three new orders, and all of a sudden, we don’t have time to joke or experiment anymore. This week’s been brutal. We opened patio seating and the weather has figured out it’s spring, and we’ve been slammed. All hands on deck every day, and still we’re not able to catch up for more than five minutes at a time. Finally yesterday, quiet Maisie spoke up to say she had a friend who was looking for work and would I consider hiring him to wash dishes?
I was just tired and desperate enough to agree to talk to him.
“Sam’s here, July. Should I bring him back?” She’s filling tea pitchers as she talks. Girl learns fast.
“Got any place for him to sit out there?” I plate a sandwich, two salads, and the pasta of the day.
Tina swings by with baskets of hot rolls and a pitcher of ice water.
Maisie shakes her head. “All the tables are full. Inside and out.”
I blow out a breath. “Bring him back. Have him pull my desk chair into the office doorway so he can see what goes on here in the kitchen. I’ll interview him when I can.”
I’m vaguely aware when Maisie leads a large young man with a baby face past me, but then I forget everything but the work. Two servers come in with new orders, and a third with more dirty dishes. We’re running out of places to stack them.
“We’re getting low on glasses.” Tina sets down the emptied water pitcher and dashes over to the dishwashing area. Fills a rack with dirty glasses, sprays them off, and sends them into the dish machine. Then she fills another rack with glasses and a third with plates she’s scraped into the trash at lightning speed. Sprays those down and sends them into the machine too. Donna plates three desserts and an hors d’oeuvre, and then spins around to catch the rack coming out of the clean side of the dish machine. She shakes off the excess water and transfers the clean, hot glasses to trays, carrying them to the drinks station.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the boy—Sam—craning his neck to watch them. He sits tapping his foot, observing this ballet of people seamlessly shifting from task to task, from food prep to dining room to dish station and back, and then the next time I look over, he’s scraping dishes himself, loading them onto trays, spraying them down, and sending them into the machine, seeming not a bit intimidated by its hiss and steam. Sends in three trays, then goes around to the other side to unload the clean ones coming out of the machine. He must have seen the silverware caddies and figured out how to do those himself, because the next thing he sends through is a rack of forks and knives and spoons.
Donna meets my eye, her brows raised and mouth pursed. She’s impressed.
Three hours later the dinner rush is finally over, and we’ve made a dent in catching up. Tina has gone home, and the closers have started their stocking and cleaning duties. Sam is soaked, head to toe. It’s a wet, dirty job anyway, and we didn’t think to give him an apron.
I lean back against the counter and look him over. He’s tall and heavyset with round cheeks, pretty blue eyes, and hair that’s well trimmed if not stylish. “Well, Sam, you’ve earned yourself dinner and a half day of pay today anyway, whether you take the job or not. If you want it, it’s yours. You did well. Thanks.”
Maisie comes in just in time to hear me, and she gives Sam that big, glowing smile I haven’t seen since the day she was here with her mom.
Sam smiles at her and then at me. “I’ll take it. Thanks.”
I fix us both a sandwich and sit down with him to fill out the necessary paperwork while we eat. I give him the same spiel I gave Maisie when I hired her, about how we treat people, how to dress, and so forth. I don’t think there will be a problem with Sam. Donna and the others will probably adopt him just like they did Maisie. Spoil him and tease him and train him right.
I chug my water and stretch as Sam completes the last form. God, I’m so tired. Achy. I’ve been fighting a cold. And I’ve been here fourteen hours today so far. But it’s been a satisfying day. A good day.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anyone any harm today.
Now I just have to pack up the leftovers for Andi’s shelter, leaving out enough for Devon and however many guys he brings tonight. Get them taken care of. Figure out what to make for Joe. Deliver that. Check on the closers to see whether they need help. And when that’s all done, maybe I’ll actually be able to sleep.