Here - Short Story

African American Review, Spring, 2001 by Audrey Petty

There's no way to not pass The Pita Hut and the men who come early to wait. Today, it makes me laugh, the way they lose language at the sight of live women. From thirty feet, they begin preparing. Shifting like ants, their circle opens in formation. They slouch at attention--narrowed eyes, mouths panted open. But Deanna says what she knows and hates is that they'd never look at one of their own women like that. And she's right. And I'm mad before I know it, fumbling to do something I mean: stop and stare, spit and curse, scream the world out of place. They are still looking when I turn back for their eyes. Aproned fools. I can live without their fucking hummus. Deanna catches me before I keep going. "Slow down, girl. We're here."

The air in the cooler dries the sweat to my face. I watch my biceps settle under the weight of trays of poached salmon, going up and up and up the bruised stairs to the narrow kitchen in the back of the store. Deanna sighs over coffee, eyes closed and rubbing her brows like she's reading her mind, thumb and forefinger meeting, parting at the bridge of her nose. She leans into the steam before closing the cambro. "That's all I need," she says.

We'll let Howard be the man and heave all this coffee up and out. He'll be running late and have some Howard stories to make laughter, even once the mosquitoes hum hungry into us, and folks start getting wine-rowdy. I gather my braids m a knot and change into white shirt and apron.

We are traying asparagus when Ben walks in without footsteps, complaining that the cake won't be ours. "This is a corner man and wife have chosen to cut." He smirks and winks at no one in particular. Sometimes, I get tired of puns. "It's coming from Leona's," he adds. Leona uses mix and bright, heavy frosting. With a cake like that, these won't be big tippers. Ben sets down the folder with a half-smile and heads out, grabbing the van keys and mumbling about booze and ice.

And so we wait. The food's unpacked. Howard's stocked the bar. Deanna's folded napkins, set out china and candles on all the tables, inside and outside. She twists in a stuffed chair in the sitting room, reading Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. If she leaves it visible, it will make someone nervous. Deanna acts like she doesn't know this. Howard and Allison lean and bend, uncorking fat bottles of vino verde. The harpist is carting around, looking for the spot to play without an amp. Summer heat has filled this big old house. The ice will not last the night. The florist came too soon.

The bride's sister introduces herself as the bride's sister. Tracy. I see the resemblance. Severe cheekbones. Orphan Annie hair. She asks me if I am who I am. It happens like this. "Yes, I'm in charge," I tell her. "Yes, we're ready for the guests." I glance sideways to remind Deanna not to set any tablecloths on fire. Tracy should be going by now, but she remains in place, smiling a sniffing smile. I turn back to the house to make myself useful.

We eat while we can, while the house creaks, while the tent is full of quiet people, all except the man up front, talking with his hands. Bride and groom kiss, and the applause sounds like rain from this distance. I roll up my sleeves and straighten my collar. It's time go outside and disappear.

"Scallops wrapped in bacon...

Scallops wrapped in bacon."

"Scallops wrapped in bacon?"

"Scallops wrapped in bacon."

Some say "here" for me to stop. Others "please." Most wait silently, glancing to be understood.

I cut more lemons for ice water and look forward to the scent they will leave on my palms. Deanna edges past, her tray full with toothpicks, balled napkins, the shards of a plate. She dumps them and handiwipes her hands and neck. There's not much left to size up in the fridge. Deanna moves in closer, bending and humming. She smiles at the last tray of stuffed mushrooms.

"Notice the brother out there?"

"Hard to miss." I saw him on my way past the bar. Howard was opening his bottle of beer. Pale green linen suit. Looked a little like my cousin Ray. Broad-chested and peacefully serious.

"Tell you now, he's the kind that looks away. We remind him."

"Black bean spirals? . . . Black bean spirals? . . . Black bean spirals. ... Black bean spirals?"

Guests are spread across the lawn. They buzz in polite circles, happy with their beverages. Some open as I approach. Reaching for a spiral, a man with a handlebar moustache talks about the films of Kieslowski. "Genius of our lifetime," he declares. The circle waits for him to chew. I look ahead to the next, waiting for the silence of full hands.

It is time to relieve Howard and Allison at the bar. They're grateful and a bit sluggish. Howard is hung-over today, quieter than he really is. "Take fifteen," I tell them. "Rest. Standing in one place can make a person tired." Finally still, I realize the day is almost over. I will serve women impatient for wine. I will serve children who rattle their cups for Coca-Cola. I will serve beer to men who really want eye contact. But for now, I am alone in this corner of the porch, my face cupped in my lemoned palms, my elbows cooling where ice has melted. I watch the horizon dusking ripe and remember the darkness of that one Kieslowski film-the scene, that scene, when Veronika collapses.