I still sat there, but caught his eye running over my clothes. “I’m dressed for work,” I explained. “I have to get started today.”
“… What kind of work do you do?”
I hated to answer, but felt I had to say something. “Well, as of today,” I said, “I hope to do some. There’s a power mower out there, under the back porch, and a can of gasoline, and up the street a ways, at houses where I’m not known, are lawns that haven’t been cut yet, and I thought I could do a couple, that is if the people will let me-it would bring in a few dollars, and with that I’d buy something to eat and then take a day to think. If I could gain a little time, I might get a job at Woodies, or Hecht’s, or Murphy’s-I mean as a salesperson. I’m not trained for any special work-in high school I took English composition, and in college had barely got started before I withdrew-and then how’d you guess it, got married. Then my little boy came, and-that’s where I’m at, now.”
Why I talked so much I don’t know, but they seemed so concerned I wanted to. And I was nervous, too, I suppose; anyone would be, talking to the police.
After a moment the sergeant asked: “Had you thought of restaurant work?”
“How do you mean, restaurant work?”
“Like waiting on tables.”
A look must have crossed my face, as he went on, very hurriedly, and a little embarrassed: “O.K., O.K., O.K.- just asking, no offense intended. There’s one thing about it, though: Compensation is mainly in tips, and them you bring home every night. You don’t wait till Saturday-or the first of the month, as some jobs make you do.”
“… Keep talking, please,” I said.
“Well, another thing is, that the Garden of Roses down here is just down the street from you. For Woodies you’d need a car, as you would for the Hecht Company, or Murphy’s, or any place at the Plaza. And Mrs. Rossi might need someone. She often does-and you could refer to me.”
“Who’s Mrs. Rossi?”
“Bianca Rossi, the owner. Her husband, who died, was Italian, but she’s not. And, she’s O.K. Kind of a sulky type, but decent and not at all mean.”
“… She sounds like my girl.”
“You being good at names would help, specially on tips.”
“My mother,” I explained, “went to private school, where they specialized in manners, especially the importance of names, and she drilled it into me. They didn’t think to tell her that the essence of manners is kindness.”
“We could ride you down.”
“If you’ll wait till I put something on.”
“What you have on is fine-you look like a working girl, and a working girl is what’s wanted-that is, if anyone is. If Bianca takes you on, she’ll give you a uniform.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
It was that quick and that unexpected, the most important decision of my life. Until then, I’d never thought of waiting on tables-and I didn’t have time to question if I was too proud to take tips, or to think about it at all. The main thing was: It meant money, quick. So in ten seconds there we were rolling, in Sergeant Young’s car, down the hill to the restaurant.
3
The Garden of Roses is on Upshur Street in Hyattsville, across from the County Building, which is on Highway No. 1 at the south of town, “The Boulevard,” as it’s called. It’s one story, of brick painted white, and with its parking lot sprawls half a block. It’s in two wings, with a center section connecting: one wing the restaurant, the other the cocktail bar. The center section is half reception foyer, really a vestibule as you go in, with a hatcheck booth facing, a half-door in its middle. Sergeant Young handed me down and walked me to the front door while Private Church waited in the car.
“This is very kind of you, helping me when you didn’t need to and had no reason-”
“I didn’t need to, but I had reason.”
I caught his eye running over my clothes once more, and I thought perhaps over what was beneath my clothes as well, and I stiffened slightly, which he must have seen because when he next spoke it was with a greater formality. “Mrs. Medford, I have an idea what you have been through. I saw the records from when you brought your son to the hospital to have his arm seen to. I can see the marks on you, and in your home. If you’ll forgive me saying so on the day you buried him, your husband was a brute, and you’re well rid of him- provided that it doesn’t cost you your child as well.”
I nodded my thanks. We stood a moment longer, and it appeared to me that Sergeant Young would have wanted to say more, but not with his partner looking on. He returned my nod and walked back to his car.
When he and Private Church had driven off I went inside to the foyer. No light was on and for a moment, after the sun, I couldn’t see. But then a girl, a waitress, popped out of the dining room, and said: “We’re closed till five o’clock-try the Abbey at College Park.”
“I’m calling on Mrs. Rossi.”
“What about?”
“That I’ll tell her, if you don’t mind.”
“I got to know what you want with her.”
Now my temper, as perhaps you’ve guessed, is one of my life problems, and I stood there for a moment or two, trying to get myself under control, when suddenly a woman was there, middle-aged, no taller than I was, but big and thick and blocky. The girl said: “Mrs. Rossi, this girl wants to talk to you, but won’t say what about. I tried to get out of her what she wants of you but she won’t-”
“Sue!”
Mrs. Rossi’s voice was sharp and Sue cut off pretty quick. “… Sue, curiosity killed the cat, and what’s it to you what she wants of me?”
Sue vanished, and Mrs. Rossi turned to me. “What do you want of me?” she asked.
“Job,” I told her.
“… What kind of job?”
“Waiting on table.”
She studied me, then said: “I need a girl, but I’m afraid you won’t do-I don’t take inexperienced help.”
“… Well-since I’ve barely said three words, I don’t see how you know if I’m inexperienced or not.”
“The three words you said, ‘Waiting on table,’ were enough. If you’d ever done this kind of work, you’d have said ‘on the floor.’ …Are you experienced or not?”
“No, I’m not, but-”
“Then, I don’t take inexperienced help. Have you had lunch?”
“… I wasn’t hungry for lunch.”
“Breakfast?”
“Mrs. Rossi, you make me want to cry-I’ll tell Sergeant Young, who suggested I come to you, that at least you have a heart.”
“… You know Sergeant Young?”
“I do. I think I can call him a friend.”
“And he sent you to me?”
“He said you might need someone.”
“What made him think I could use you?”
Well, what had made him think she could use me? I tried to think of something, and suddenly remembered. I told her: “He was struck by my sureness on names. He thought in this work it might help.”
“What’s my name?”
“Mrs. Rossi, Mrs. Bianca Rossi.”
“What’s the girl’s name that was here?”
“Sue.”
