I’d better hurry then. My meager earnings needed to be counted before I entered the house. You see, Daddy always wanted to “borrey” a few bucks from me when I got home. Mostly I didn’t mind because if it was a Sunday, he’d up and run off, leaving us kids in peace for a while usually with a litany of extra chores to keep us occupied and “out of trouble.” While he was on sabbatical, we’d skim our way through the work and enjoy a little extra TV. When Daddy came home, he’d slyly feel the “idiot-box” for warmth. But we stayed two steps ahead of him by setting an ice tray on top of the TV while we were watching it. When he drove up, we’d put it back in the freezer and change the channel back.
And I didn’t feel more than just a twinge of guilt for deceiving him, because it was something we learned from Mama . . . and she was the best person in the world. A smile curved my lips as I thought of all the ways she helped us get one over on Daddy. She knew he wasn’t the easiest person to live with, and managed him, much like our money problems and fledgling ranch. I suspected she always felt guilty about the way we lived so smothered us in compensation love.
I dumped the heavy contents of my apron onto my lap—heavy was a bad sign for a waitress. Generally I made one to two dollars off of every table (no matter what the bill said), and one of the two dollars was usually left in change. Folks here thought that was a good tip and felt really good leaving it, walking away smiling benevolently at me like they’d just made my day. Truckers were usually a little better. And you could tell when they got paid, because you might even find yourself with a fiver in your hands (usually folded carefully with a phone number).
I quickly tallied tonight’s haul: one five, fourteen ones, twelve quarters, five dimes, and two nickels. I breathed in deeply through my nose, inhaling all the way down into my diaphragm. Not enough. After Daddy’s “tip-out” and buying necessary groceries, I wouldn’t have anything left over at all to go towards new school clothes. I thought remorsefully of the ten bucks I’d let slip through my fingers tonight. How could I have been so stupid? Tears pricked my eyes again, but I couldn’t succumb to them now; I had to get inside.
Grabbing my apron, I was fixing to cram all the contents back in when I felt some kind of lump stuck inside. Huh? Probably just an old wadded up receipt or someone’s business card I politely tucked into my apron and forgot to discard later. I haphazardly dug it out, feeling a definite shape to it. Intrigued, I turned on the interior light and opened my palm to reveal an origami heart-shaped bill.
That’s a new one. After running through the night’s customers in my mind, I came up blank. I couldn’t remember anyone leaving that on the table. The only one I thought it could possibly be was Mr. Tatum, although I doubted he was capable of folding a dollar bill into such an intricate work of art.
And how did it get into my apron?
A diagonal flash of yellow infiltrated the darkness—Daddy pulling the curtain back, a clear signal. I stuffed the origami heart into the bottom of my bag, along with two more dollars I didn’t think he’d miss to add to my puny stockpile. I would claim it was a slow night, which was true enough every night for Norma’s. After slamming my shoulder against the door, I grabbed the steaming dish from the back, holding it away from my face as I trudged into the house to face Daddy. Like my night hadn’t been bad enough.
Jumping for joy, yelping, and announcers talking sports like it was world-changing news greeted me with the standard cacophony of welcome-home noise. “Hi, Daddy,” I greeted, dropping my bag to receive enthusiastic licks from Blue. At least someone’s happy to see me.
Daddy acknowledged my presence with a vague grunting noise.
“Did the boys get down alright?” I tried again.
A few seconds of popcorn crunching ensued. “I’d say so,” he replied laconically, clearly too immersed in baseball highlights to bother turning around.
“Okay, great. Thanks.” What am I thanking him for? Answering me?
I paused to see if I could just go on to bed. I was whipped and ready to settle in for the night so I could commence to licking my wounds. All I could hear were the sounds of a double play recap. Couldn’t believe I got off that easy.
I cleared my throat. “I’m really tired so . . . think I’m just gonna call it a night.” I began tiptoeing away, lamely holding my breath.
“Katie,” Daddy’s gruff voice halted my progress, “them dishes need to be done before you head in.”
Of course. That was one of the conditions to my employment outside the home: that it wouldn’t interfere with my chores. God forbid he should lift a finger to do “women’s work” while I was slaving away to help put food on the table.
“Okay, Daddy. I was goin’ in there anyway to put this meatloaf in the fridge.” I held my breath again.
“Whatdidyasay?” Daddy rubbernecked out of his comfort zone, missing a great catch by a burly fan in the stands wearing head-to-toe red. I watched long enough to see him hand it over to his mini-me kid and then hold her up for the cameras like she was the real prize.
I cleared my throat again; this time a frog was jammed in there. “I said that Ms. Norma pressed leftover meatloaf into everyone’s hands tonight.”
“She gave it to everyone?” he emphasized.
“Yes, sir, we were all accosted on the way out on account of it bein’ a real slow night.”
His eyes narrowed. “How slow?”
Charity meatloaf forgotten.
“Real.” Daddy’s face began to contort, so I hurriedly explained, “Ms. Norma says it’s on account of folks not spendin’ money goin’ out to eat because school’s comin’ up and they have to pay for new school supplies and clothes and what not.”
Daddy harrumphed. “Don’t know why people pay all that money for supplies. I thought we attended public school, and that’s what all them tax dollars we pay out is for.”
A silence stretched out. I decided I’d better agree with him, because once he got started, he’d go all night before dropping the mike. “Yes, sir,” I said, shrugging my bag back on and headed to the kitchen with my re-loaded apron.
Daddy trailed behind me. “You still manage to make anything?”
Opening the fridge, I hid my face inside with the meatloaf. “Um,” I hesitated. If I said no, then he was going to point out that my time would be better spent at home working. On the other hand, if I said yes, then he would help himself to the lion’s share of my earnings. Lose-lose. “About fair,” I came up with.
Daddy shuffled forward to add his glass and bowl to my burgeoning load. While I ran water over the dried-on glue that was their former dinner, he hovered over me, humming under his breath. I tried willing him away, but he only hesitated briefly before proceeding on with what we both knew he was going to do.
He coughed into his hand. “Well Katie, since you had a good night tonight, I think I’ll just borrey a few bucks to tide us over till my check comes in.”
How did my night suddenly go from fair to good? There was an awkward pause while I inwardly seethed, and Daddy waited for me to capitulate gracefully.
“I haven’t had time to go to the bank,” he added, which wasn’t true because he was in town just this morning, picking up feed from Tillman Mills. He managed to stay gone all day, not that I was complaining.