Writers & Lovers - Lily King Page 0,77

I bring the drinks down and take their order. On my way to the computer upstairs, I see my two sixes have been seated.

I approach the closest one, and the man at the head of the table grips my waist. ‘Listen, sweetness.’ He squeezes. ‘Men of a certain age need cocktails of a certain proof within a certain amount of time.’

The three men give me very specific drink orders with the importance of doctors giving pre-op instruction. The women order glasses of house white. The man lets go of my waist.

The six beside them is a family that is ready to order everything and put a rush on it because they have to get to their daughter’s performance. She’s a flautist. At Harvard. The two younger daughters, not yet in college, roll their eyes. The mother sees them. ‘There are a lot of schools in this area,’ she says. ‘I just wanted to clarify.’

I’m interrupted three more times before I can get to the computer: another Coke, a cleaner fork, Worcestershire sauce. I punch in the drinks and the rush order and hear the kitchen calling my name for entrées on my deuce, two Radcliffe ladies who tell me they are celebrating fifty years of their Boston marriage.

In the kitchen, Clark is sucking down the beers and the swordfish steaks come back overcooked and the chicken bloody and he’s lashing out at every waiter who pushes through the door. By eight he’s lit into management, calling Marcus a cunt and Gory a sexless cow, and he’s scalded his right hand on the handle of pan that had been under a broiler. He’s like a bull at the end of a fight. Everything is flashing red. I stay far away.

And something’s wrong with the Kroks. They’re early and they’re not in their usual tuxes and they do things in reverse, start in the middle of the room and fan around it, singing a few songs I’ve never heard before, their voices loud and sloppy. But the diners don’t know the difference. They eat it up. At the end of their last song the singers take blue Yale caps out of their pockets and fix them on their heads. ‘Thank you,’ they shout. ‘We’re the Whiffenpoofs!’ The crowd loves the caper. They boo and clap at the same time. The Whiffenpoofs blow kisses. In the doorway are the stunned Kroks in tuxes, the wind finally out of their annoying sails.

I’m dropping desserts at the first six-top—the second has already left for the concert—when Clark comes tearing out into the dining room, hand packed with ice and bandaged with rags and duct tape. He grabs my arm and a small cylinder of hazelnut mousse goes flying to the carpet.

‘Marcus says there’s a five in the club bar that’s been here two hours. I have no dupe.’

At first my table thinks it’s another Yale prank and watch with amusement. When they understand his blood and rage are real, they bend their heads toward their plates. The man at the head reaches out for my hip again. ‘That’s no way to speak to this sweet young lady.’

I sidestep his grab, and I shove Clark’s arm off me. It smashes into his other, bandaged hand. He howls.

‘Get your fucking hands off me.’ My voice is very loud, much louder than I expect, louder than any Krok or Whiffenpoof. I move quickly through the silent dining room out to the fire escape.

My throat has seized up, and I’m sipping small bits of air. I have a lot of crying in me, but not a tear comes out. I’m just trying to breathe. It’s starting again, that need to somehow get out of my body. My heart is hammering so fast it feels like one long beat on the verge of bursting. Death, or something bigger and much less peaceful, feels so close, just over my shoulder.

‘Casey.’

It’s Marcus.

‘I know. I’m leaving,’ I manage.

‘Good,’ he says and goes back in.

I change in the bathroom and leave my filthy uniform on the floor of the stall. In the other stall are two little girls. I can see their white tights and black patent leather shoes. I wash my hands and do not look in the mirror, do not want to see who is in there. The girls are whispering, waiting for me to leave before they come out. I shut the door loudly when I go, so they know the coast is clear.

I go down the narrow stairs then the