And these two were none of her business. They looked to Marge like a couple that just had a fight in the car and needed to stop somewhere to decompress. She sees it all the time.
Concern didn’t truly set in until she took the surly-looking man’s order.
“What’s your blue-plate special?”
Marge was watching the girl when he said it, thinking about how she looked like a hostage and how much that fact worried her. Then the girl went to the pay phone and he followed her out, like some kind of stalker, afraid that his prey was going to run away. Yet another reason for concern.
After that, Marge knew she absolutely had to do something, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She couldn’t help herself. Standing back and doing nothing just isn’t in her nature.
So she grabbed a fresh pot of coffee, flexing her elbow in the process. They were pointy, her elbows. Marge knew it because she’d been told so her entire marriage. Howard, bless his dearly departed heart, always complained that she elbowed him in her sleep. “Damn, Marge,” he used to say, “do you use a pencil sharpener on those things before you go to bed?”
She can only imagine what he’d say now that the cancer has whittled her down to nothing but skin and bones.
Pot in hand, Marge went back to that corner booth and put one of those pointy elbows to use. She hated to do it, knocking over the cup of tea like that. Especially on that pretty red coat. But the way Marge sees it, she didn’t have a choice. She needed to get the girl alone. And so she did.
Now the girl is in the bathroom and Marge is grabbing a clean washcloth from the kitchen, which is stacked with dirty plates because she told the high school boy who usually washes the dishes not to come in. It’s a Tuesday night in November. There’s no crowd beating down the door. Which is a good thing, Marge thinks as she grabs a bottle of club soda from the mini fridge under the fountain drinks.
It means she won’t be bothered by other customers.
She and the girl in the red coat will have plenty of time for a long talk.
INT. DINER BATHROOM—NIGHT
The bathroom is small and windowless. A prison cell with pink walls that make Charlie think of Pepto Bismol. There’s a single stall, also pink, and a sink that’s white but stained with rust around the drain. On the wall next to the soap dispenser is a sign.
EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS.
Charlie yanks off her coat and holds it up to examine the damage in the wan light coming from a UFO-shaped fixture in the ceiling.
The stain is both big and noticeable. A dark splotch roughly the same shape as the state of Texas. Tears burn in Charlie’s eyes as she sees how deeply the tea has seeped into the fabric. And even though she sees the irony that this, of all things, is what’s going to make her lose it tonight, she also understands why.
This coat, so not her style in any way, is the only reminder of Maddy she has left. Now it’s, if not completely ruined, at least damaged. She can wear it again—and there’s no doubt she will—but it will be just like her memories of Maddy.
Irrevocably marred.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, followed quickly by the smoke-scarred voice of Marge the waitress.
“You okay in there, hon?”
“I’m fine,” Charlie says, not knowing why, because no, everything isn’t fine. Everything is about as far from fine as it can get.
“I brought you a washcloth and some club soda,” Marge says. “In case you need it.”
Charlie opens the bathroom door, and Marge slinks in with an apologetic look on her face. She takes the coat from Charlie, goes to the sink, and, tut-tutting at her own handiwork, pours club soda over the stain and starts to dab.
“I feel awful,” she says. “Just awful. Give me your address before you go. I’ll mail you a check and you can buy yourself a nice new coat.”
Charlie doesn’t have the heart to tell Marge that the coat is almost as old as she is and therefore can’t be easily replaced. Nor does she tell the waitress that she doesn’t even particularly like the coat, that she only wears it because it reminds her of Maddy.
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” she says. “But it’s not necessary. Accidents happen.”
“Not on my watch. Been doing this for decades and I can count on one hand the number of times I spilled something on a customer. Such a pretty coat, too.” Marge flips it open and checks the label. “Pierre Balmain. Fancy.”
“It was given to me by a friend,” Charlie says.
“That’s some generous friend.”
“She was,” Charlie says. “I just didn’t appreciate it enough at the time.”
Charlie wills herself not to cry. Not here. Not in a crappy diner bathroom in front of a stranger. But she can’t stop thinking about how much Maddy would have loved this place. So unironically retro. She would have gabbed with Marge and played Peggy Lee on the jukebox and laughed like mad when she saw the dolls sign on the ladies’ room door. Imagining herself here with Maddy instead of with Josh makes the tears pooling in Charlie’s eyes keep coming. When one escapes down her cheek, she quickly wipes it away.
At the sink, Marge dribbles some more seltzer on the coat and resumes dabbing at it. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie?” Marge says, not even trying to hide her surprise. “I’ve met a lot of Charlies in my day, but none of them looked like you. Family name?”
“Kind of,” Charlie says.
“That’s nice. Family’s important. It’s everything, if you ask me.”
Marge pauses, seemingly reluctant to say what else is on her mind, which Charlie assumes to be a first. The waitress doesn’t strike her as someone who holds back or minces words.
“Listen, Charlie, I know I should mind my own damn business, but is everything okay? I saw you out there with your friend, and you seemed, well, a little distressed.”
“Little” is the only part of the sentence that surprises Charlie. She’s a lot distressed, especially in her current state of being perched on the razor’s edge between fear and anger. That’s another surprise—how mad she got at the table. It was a new feeling for her. Since Maddy died, she’d only been mad at herself.
But Josh has certainly earned her ire, even though she’s also scared shitless in his presence, terrified by what he’s done and what he still might do. Charlie never knew one could be both furious and frightened at the same time. Now she does, and the result is what Marge saw back at the table.
Distress.