Earning Her Keep (Price of Love)

Judith’s reply was always the same, “Tomayto, tomahto. Now, get to work.”

God, she was so awful.

Was.

Am I really far enough away from her right now to be thinking of her in the past tense? I resist the urge to glance back at the door and make sure I wasn’t followed.

Fortunately, a kind waitress with happy eyes and a magnificent sort of Golden Age of Hollywood hair-do, saves me from my anxiety and my memories. Unlike the sign, her name tag is easy for me to read. Nice clear letters, evenly spaced. Susan. “Seat yourself, hun. Here’s a menu.”

“Thank you so much, Susan,” I say, feeling happier than I have in ages.

I take the menu, even though it’s useless to me, and sit down in the far booth, facing away from the window. The waitress places a chipped brown diner mug in front of me and fills it with steaming coffee. I wrap my hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth. I’ve never had coffee before. Judith always said it was for adults only. What she meant, was for her only but the steamy smell is comforting somehow.

“What’ll you have?” she asks after a long moment, with her pen perched on her little notepad, the sizzle and smell of greasy food from the grill somewhere behind the counter makes my mouth water.

Her earrings are as big as glittery stars. Bright red lipstick perfectly applied. Hair up in a swooping bun. So glamorous, even here under the flickering fluorescent lights of the diner.

“Umm,” I swallow hard and glance at the menu. A little cartoon of an egg in a top hat catches my eye. So does a smiling piece of bacon. “Two eggs and bacon, please.”

“Fried? Scrambled? Soft-boiled?”

The question catches me off guard, and I feel a shiver of real joy for the first time in so, so long. Of all the things Judith was particular about, she was most particular of all about her freaking soft-boiled eggs. She had exacting specifications that I’d learned with military precision. Water just brought to a boil; two minutes and twenty-four seconds. Jammy in the middle, whites just cooked through. Six pieces of toast cut in rectangles exactly one inch by four.

I am so freaking sick of soft-boiled eggs and rectangular toast, I could just about scream.

“Scrambled, please. No toast.”

“How about a blueberry muffin? On the house?”

“Oh yes, please.”

“You got it,” she says with a wink and I peel my wet jacket off and hang it on the little hook on the edge of the booth watching the water puddle on the floor where it immediately starts dripping.

But as she walks away, I finally wonder the thing I hadn’t dared let myself think about until this moment.

Now what?

I reach down into the black garbage bag, the wetness of the outside making a pool on the seat next to me and pull out my mom’s copy of Sense and Sensibility. I let my eyes glide over the mostly meaningless letters. I do this all the time, pretend to read, not only because it makes me look busy and occupied, but also because it’s like peering into some unknown, magical world. A world that I can’t enter. A world where the characters in the book live.

The girl in the booth behind me is on her phone. I can hear her chewing gum. She smells nice, like some sort of rosy lotion.

She’s so close that I can’t help but hear her conversation. Now she’s saying, “Yeah, I missed my bus. There’s another one in twenty minutes. But honestly, this whole stupid thing sounds seriously sketchy. Why the hell do I need a fake name? And what kind of job makes me quote-unquote earn my keep?”

I blink at my blueberry muffin and listen, wondering what it would be like to have a job—even one where you need a fake name.

She impatiently snaps one bubble with her gum, then another, as she waits for the person on the other end of the call to say whatever they’re saying.

“Are you even hearing me? I’ve got to clean and cook and take care of some demanding P-I-T-A asshole?”

I have no idea what pitas have to do with anything. But demanding? Oh, please. Unless the guy uses a ruler to measure his toast, he can’t be that bad.

“And I can’t even use my cell for six months? No Tik-Tok? No Eye-Gee?”

I have no idea what a tick-tock is. Something for telling the time, I guess? Nor that other thing. But as for cell phones, all I know is I don’t have one. So that would be no problem at all.

“No way,” the girl says with a sassy snap of her lips. “I’m not even calling them. Yeah, I’ve got the number here, but I’m not doing this. They can keep their mysterious housekeeper job. I’m gonna go apply at Starbucks. At least they’ll give me free Frappuccinos and let me use my real freaking name. Pretending to be some chick named Emily for the next six months is just not for me.”