Chapter 2 - The Sound of Debt
The breakroom of the Golden Oak smelled of stale coffee, lemon-scented floor cleaner, and the heavy, anxious sweat of people who worked fourteen-hour shifts.
I stood in front of the small metal sink, letting the cold water run over my wrists. My hands were shaking now. The artificial calm that had protected me in the dining room was evaporating, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of my life.
I pulled the eviction notice out of my pocket. The red ink of the stamp—PAST DUE / IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED—seemed to glow under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Are you insane?"
The door slammed open, and Julian marched in, his tie slightly askew. He looked like a man who had just watched his retirement fund go up in smoke.
"Do you have any idea who that is, Mary? That is Christopher Hale! He is the primary investor in the development group that owns this entire block! He could have this restaurant shut down by tomorrow morning if he felt like his soup was too salty!"
"He was humiliating his son, Julian," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "In front of a dozen people. He was treating him like an animal."
"And that is his business!" Julian hissed, leaning over the table, his eyes bulging. "Rich people get to be monsters, Mary. That is the first rule of this city. Our job is to facilitate their monstrosity and take their tips. You... you stood there and lectured him with your hands!"
"I didn't lecture—"
"I don't care!" Julian threw his hands up. "The only reason you aren't fired right this second is because Hale explicitly demanded you finish serving his table. If I fire you now, it looks like I'm hiding you. You will go back out there. You will smile. You will apologize. And when they leave, you will clean their table and hope to God he leaves enough money to cover your rent before I officially let you go tomorrow morning."
My heart squeezed. "Julian, please. I have the eviction—"
"Then you should have thought about that before you played the hero," he snapped, turning on his heel and walking out, leaving the door swinging behind him.
I leaned my head against the cold metal of the vending machine.
Three days.
That was all I had left. If I lost this job tonight, I wouldn't even have the $340 in my account by next week; it would all go toward storage fees for the few belongings I had left from my childhood. The small oak table where my brother, Leo, used to sit and trace his fingers over the sign language flashcards. The old, half-broken radio we kept on even though he couldn't hear it, just because he liked the vibration of the bass against the floorboards.
Leo had been ten when the car struck him on his way home from school. He survived, but the head trauma had taken his hearing and, for a long time, his voice. The world had moved on without him, loud and uncaring, until I forced myself to learn the language of his silence. I had spent years being his voice, his protector, his shield against the whispers of the neighborhood kids.
Leo was gone now, living with our aunt in Ohio where the specialized schools were cheaper, but the instinct to protect the silent had never left me.
I dried my hands on a paper towel, smoothed down my apron, and checked my reflection in the small, cracked mirror near the door. My eyes were red-rimmed, but my chin was up.
May you like
"For Leo," I whispered to myself.
I picked up the fresh bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and pushed through the double doors back into the dining room.
