Théodora Armstrong - Clear Skies, No Wind, 100% Visibility

What really gets him, though, are these old ladies. They come for their dinner alone around four o’clock, when no one is around to greet them at the door because all the staff have loped off to eat in the back or smoke in the alley. The ladies either seat themselves or they come over to him and peer up over the pass-bar, always saying something he can’t hear. They all order the same three things on the menu: the crab cakes or the clam chowder or the shrimp salad sandwich. They sit at a window with a view. He can’t watch them gaze at the ocean and then absent-mindedly turn back to their food, select another bite, chew, gaze, chew, gaze. They demand a senior’s discount and pull out their bags of loose change. Rose is always nice to them, stooping to chat, bringing them free coffee, never letting their magenta-lipstick-marked cups find their bottom. There’s always a neat row of dimes, nickels, and pennies left for a tip that clang around in Rose’s apron the rest of the night.

The ladies remind him of his mother. A sharp tickle of bile rises in his throat again. He makes sure to never visit the care centre at mealtime, but there are always remnants: lunch carts of half-eaten gelatinous tapioca, smells (culinary and bodily) lingering in the hallways, splatters across Maman’s shirt. He finds it hard to go often. When his father was ill and in the hospital his mother would go dutifully every day to visit him for exactly forty-five minutes, not a minute more. It was only after his father’s death that his mother started complaining about the drinking, about the long hours he worked, complaining about the fact that she never had a holiday, about the things he broke in the house. Only after his death did she start missing the china bowl from her mother and the ceramic dog with the wet-looking eyes that her godmother had given to her on the day of her birth. A month after his father’s death, she took a week-long vacation in Havana. Those were the pictures she had on the wall beside her bed in the care centre. Not pictures of her husband or son, but pictures of her sipping a Cuba Libra in the shade of an umbrella.

The last time he was at the care centre, he decided to mention the baby. She seemed lucid enough to give it a try. He set a takeout container in front of her and planted a plastic fork in the middle of the dish, waiting for the aromas of basil and cream to reach her nose before he told her the news. She fumbled for the fork and ate hurriedly like a person starved. He waited patiently, letting her enjoy the food in peace. The nurses had mentioned that she no longer ate her meals. They’d been giving her supplement shakes a shade of pink that reminded him of Pepto-Bismol or death. He pushed the takeout container closer to her. “C’est bon, Maman?”

“Oui.” It was a dish his father used to make for them at home, something simple he could whip up with very few ingredients at his disposal.

“It’s me, Charlie,” he said loudly into her ear.

“I know. I know,” she said, laughing and patting his hand, her once-perfect English thickened with the French accent from her childhood.

“That’s right, Maman,” he said, “it’s Charlie.”

“I know.” She laughed again. She was meticulously scraping the sides of the container to make sure she got every last scrap.

“Aisha is having a baby.” The way he said it made it sound as though he wasn’t part of the equation. His mother didn’t even know who Aisha was. “Maman, can you hear me?” He leaned in close, letting his lips graze her ear. “A baby.” She looked down at her comforter with an absent smile, her eyes losing their focus in the garden print, a world of gardenias and roses and beautiful coloured birds.

CHARLIE THROWS OPEN THE back door and finds Rose holding a newspaper over her head while smoking furiously, fat raindrops falling from the sky. “It’s fucking raining,” she says, stating the obvious. A raindrop hits Charlie on the forehead and trickles down the bridge of his nose. He ducks under the newspaper. “Would you believe there is a hundred-year-old lady in there sitting at a dirty table looking around for something? I imagine she’s looking for food. I know that’s hard to believe, this being a restaurant and all.” The tip of his nose is no more than an inch away from the tip of hers, his eyes bulging, warning her that if his head does explode, he will make sure it explodes all over her. “Why do I often find myself out here, reminding you of your job?”

Rose smiles sweetly and takes a last drag on her cigarette. She turns her head politely so the smoke doesn’t hit his face. “All this nervous tension, Charlie.” She pulls her bleached hair into a tight ponytail that reveals the acne along her hairline. “You’ll give yourself an incurable disease.” She carefully butts her cigarette and then gives his shoulder an irritating rub before sauntering inside. She pains him. Oh God, she pains him.

“There are other restaurants in this neighbourhood,” Charlie shouts at the back of her head as he follows her down the hall. Her tattoos wrap around her bony arms like octopus tentacles. She is so skinny Charlie can’t imagine how all of her organs fit into her torso. He wants to pick her up and plunk her headfirst into one of the garbage cans. “Topher’s here,” he yells. “I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a job.” His voice carries out across the mostly empty dining room. The elderly woman looks up, startled. Topher and Martin are drinking martinis at the bar. Charlie storms into the office and slams the door behind him. “I’d like that insolent little girl fired.”

“Who?” Susan says, glancing up briefly before going back to her work on the computer. There’s an ugly bruise around her left eye, the lid swollen and red.

“What happened to your face?” He knows the answer to the question; she’s been fighting with her wife for weeks.

“Oh,” Susan waves his words away while scanning her computer screen. She types the way she eats — efficient as a robot. If he lingers in the office long enough, Charlie knows he’ll get the full story. There’s a curiosity nagging at him, but he’s not sure he cares enough to go through what has the potential to be an hour-long introspection. The staff have been getting regular updates on the abuse Susan suffers at the hands of her wife. She’ll come to work visibly upset, tight-lipped, begging everyone to leave her alone, but by the end of the night the entire story will have trickled out and suddenly you’re standing in a puddle of her gloom. Charlie saw Susan’s wife at the coffee shop last week, her arm in a sling. He’s guessing the punches are thrown from both sides. He’s expecting a divorce announcement any day now. “Sorry,” she says, turning in her swivel chair to face him, “who do you want fired?”

“Rose. Rose, once again. I wanted her fired last week and last month and last year.” The phone rings and Susan answers, “Marinacove, Susan speaking.” After a string of pleasantries she hands the phone to Charlie. “It’s Aisha.” Charlie grabs the phone, his foot already tapping impatiently. He doesn’t like calls at work. “What’s up?”

“Oh, not much.” Aisha’s voice floats through the line, high and soft, like a balloon disappearing in a blue sky. “Just called to say hi.”

“Aisha.” Charlie’s voice is a pin poised to deflate. “I’m in the middle of dinner prep.”

“Well, I was just feeling, oh, I don’t know…” She lists off a string of aches and pains, to which Charlie makes all the appropriate hums and grunts. “You’re pregnant,” he says finally, “you’re not supposed to feel well.”

“She okay?” Susan says, after he’s hung up the phone.

“She’s fickle right now. She’s all over the place. She’s driving me nuts.” Charlie leans back in his chair and rubs his temples. “I’m fucking tired.”