Richard Russo - Nobody's Fool

“Okay,” Will agreed, turning away from the task that had occupied him and causing Sully to smile. To keep the boy from getting bored, Sully had taught him how to bus the tables, how to clear the dirty dishes and glasses into plastic tubs, keeping things separate and orderly. In just two days Will had gotten pretty good at it, working proudly and, for the most part, efficiently, despite his natural tendency to become transfixed, hypnotized really, by an interesting egg yolk pattern on a dirty dish or a conversation going on at the next table. Sully’d had to teach him not to stare and eavesdrop.

Peter had been the same way as a kid, Sully remembered. Easily abstracted, prone to daydreaming. Of course, Sully himself had been a younger man then, and he’d found his son’s introspection, his apparent inability to keep any task in focus, more than a little irritating. Just how impatient he’d been with his son he could not now remember. Pretty impatient, probably, though not violently so, like Big Jim Sullivan. And, of course, Sully’d not been around his son enough to do much damage, regardless. And Ralph’s long suit, Sully knew for a fact, was patience. He’d stayed married to Vera, after all. Than which there was no truer litmus test. And it was thanks to their combined efforts that Peter had turned out well, even if at the moment his life happened to be pretty messed up. Maybe, given Vera’s love (never mind its more bizarre manifestations) and Ralph’s steadying influence, they could even keep their grandson from having a nervous breakdown before he reached puberty. Who knew? Maybe even Sully himself might help prevent that, if he could just keep his mind about him and not scare the boy like he’d done yesterday.

“Why don’t you go ahead and take that tub over to the dishwasher?” he suggested to the boy. “Then you’d be done.”

“Okay,” Will said, picking up the big tub full of dirty dishes and glassware, his eyes wide with effort. Cass, down the counter, winced, but Sully shook his head at her — the boy would be all right. Sully grabbed the rubber trash barrel and wheeled it along behind the boy. When Will managed to hoist the tub up onto the drainboard, Cass gave him two one-dollar bills from the silent new cash register. “You’re getting to be a pretty good helper,” she said. “What am I going to do when you go back to West Virginia?”

Will blushed with pride and pleasure. “We’re staying here,” he told her. That, at least, was his understanding from the last adult conversation he’d half overheard.

Cass raised her eyebrows questioningly at Sully.

“News to me,” Sully admitted. “People never talk to me, of course.”

“People talk to you all the time,” Cass grinned. “You just never pay attention.”

“That so?”

“Where are you going to be the day after Christmas?”

This had the feel of a trick question, so instead of announcing that he had no idea, he thought about it. Luckily, that did some good. “Helping you,” he remembered.

“You had to think about it, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” Sully said. “I thought I was allowed to.”

Cass grew serious. “Come here,” she said, and when he took a suspicious step toward her, Cass planted a grateful kiss on his forehead. “Thanks,” she said, and they both glanced over at Hattie’s booth, though from where they were standing, only a puff of the old woman’s gray hair was visible from where she now sat behind the ancient cash register.

“God,” Cass said, glancing back at Sully. “You’re blushing. How old are you?”

“Who’s blushing?”

“You are. Look at your grandfather,” Cass encouraged Will. “Tell him he’s blushing.”

“You are, Grandpa.”

Sully was blushing, and he knew it. “Let’s you and me trade places tomorrow,” he suggested to Cass. “You stand in front of that hot grill for about four hours, and we’ll see if you blush.”

“Go on and bet your triple,” Cass told him, then, to the boy, “Don’t let Grandpa make a gambler out of you.”

“Let’s go,” Sully said, prodding his grandson into motion. “We’ve got just enough time. If we don’t get to the house by eleven, Uncle Rub’ll have kittens.”

Will made a face.

“Don’t worry,” Sully told him. “You’re not really related to Rub.”

They stopped at Hattie’s booth on their way out. “How you doing, old woman?” Sully said loudly. “You feeling better, now you got your register?”

Clearly, the old woman’s spirits were restored. “You sound like that darn Sully,” she grinned.

“That’s who I am,” Sully told her. “I’m the one who gave you the register. Can’t you remember anything?” Actually, it had been his idea. It had required Peter and Rub to lug it over to her booth.

Hattie depressed one of the cash register’s heavy bronze keys, which clanged reassuringly, forcing a small card that read.80 to jump up into the rectangular window. There were already several others of varying amounts nesting there.

“I don’t know if I can afford all that,” Sully told her. “Besides. I work here. You going to charge me to work here?”

Hattie cackled joyfully, depressed two more keys, forced two more cards to jump into the window. “Pay!” she bellowed.

“Pay,” Sully repeated, glancing over his shoulder at Cass, whose expression as she watched all of this was the saddest imaginable. “Okay, here.”

Sully handed the old woman a dollar, which she snatched.

“You see money fine, don’t you?” he said. “How come you don’t see anything else?”

The old woman was fumbling with the register, trying to get the cash drawer to open.

“That doesn’t open anymore, remember?” Sully said. “What are we doing with all the money?”

She handed the bill back to him. “Right,” Sully said. “We give the money to Cass. You ring it up, she takes the money.”

This arrangement apparently satisfied the old woman, who’d been ringing wild amounts on the register all morning. The only problem was that unless she hit the total key by accident, the numbered cards she rang stacked up in the window, forming a thick clump. Sully punched the total key, which resulted in an even louder and more satisfying clanging. “Money!” she whispered.

“I know it,” Sully said. “We’re all getting rich now. I’ll see you in the morning, old girl. Which way will we go?”

“Up!”

“Okay, up,” he sighed. “I’m tired of arguing with you.”

Officer Raymer was standing guard outside the OTB when Sully and Will pulled up in the £1 Camino, ignored a perfectly legal parking space and backed into the striped triangle clearly marked NO PARKING. The policeman sighed visibly. In the past couple weeks he’d written Sully half a dozen parking tickets even though the El Camino wasn’t his car, even though the policeman knew it belonged to Carl Roebuck, who was in tight with the chief of police and could fix any tickets that Officer Raymer wrote. By ignoring the legal parking space, Sully was taunting him. And it was only the beginning.

“Let’s have some fun,” Sully said to Will as they got out of the El Camino. Then, louder, “Say hi to that big ugly fellow in the uniform.” Will smiled weakly, said hello.

The policeman did not look at the boy or acknowledge that he’d been spoken to. Instead he glared at Sully murderously. “Don’t start in,” he warned.

“Hey,” Sully said, holding up his hands, as if in surrender. “I just want you to clarify something for me. There’s one little thing that confuses me.”

“Don’t start.”

“No, really. I just want to understand. Correct me if I get the details wrong, okay, because I wasn’t there.”