Chapter 2 - I Chose Silence With The Tray On The Floor
I didn't answer him. I couldn't make my voice do anything except breathe.
My knees were burning against the rug and the side table was wobbling just enough that I could hear one of the crystal glasses tick against the silver tray. I locked my eyes on that sound. If I looked up at Mr. Romano again I was going to cry harder, and Mr. Hale hated crying in the dining room more than he hated a spill.
I pressed my palm flat to the edge of the table and pushed myself up. My right ankle gave a hot pull under the bandage and I had to catch the table with my other hand. The tears were still wet on my cheeks. I wiped them fast with the back of my wrist and bent to pick up the tray.
"Emma." Mr. Hale's voice cut across the table. Not loud. Just sharp enough to make me straighten. "We have guests waiting. Finish the service."
He didn't look at my ankle. He looked at the tray in my hands like he could will it steady. "You're fine. Walk it off and pour."
I nodded because nodding was safer than talking. "Yes, sir."
From the other end of the table, Mr. Romano didn't move. He was still leaned forward, his hands flat on either side of his plate. I could feel him watching my feet when I took my first step. I tried to keep my weight on my left leg, to make the limp smaller, but the rug caught the edge of my shoe and I stumbled half a step. The glasses chimed again.
I forced myself to keep walking toward him. That was my job. Two glasses. I'd already missed him once. I wasn't going to miss him twice.
When I got to his chair I held the tray low on his right, the way I'd been taught, steady with both hands. He didn't reach for a glass. Most men just took it. He just looked at the tray, then down at my shoe, then back up at my face.
"You don't have to carry that right now," he said quietly.
I shook my head before he finished. "It's my job, sir. Please."
My voice came out thin. I hated how it sounded. I wanted to sound normal, like the other girls who worked these dinners and laughed in the kitchen after. I shifted the tray a half inch closer to him, hoping he'd just take the glass so Mr. Hale would stop staring at us.
Mr. Hale cleared his throat. "Mr. Romano, she's had a long night on her feet. Nothing she can't handle."
Romano didn't look away from me. He finally lifted one of the crystal glasses off the tray, but he didn't drink. He just held it in his hand and turned it slow, watching the candlelight move through it. "Long night," he repeated, like he was checking the words.
"Yes, sir," I said, because I had to say something. The weight on my right foot was building into a throb. I kept my face still and stared at a spot just past his shoulder, at the white flowers in the center of the table. If I focused on those petals I didn't have to decide what my eyes were saying.
Inside my chest I was doing the math I always did. Rent was due Friday. My shift ended at eleven if I didn't get sent home early. If I said the wrong thing now, I wouldn't finish the night. So I made the choice and I made it all the way. I wouldn't name anyone. I wouldn't explain the bandage. I would pour and carry and limp if I had to, and I would keep my mouth shut until I was back in the kitchen.
I lifted my chin a little and tightened my grip on the empty space where his glass had been. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"
For a second something changed in his face. Not softer, exactly. Just more careful. He set the glass down in front of him without tasting it and nodded once. That scared me more than if he'd pushed.
May you like
Mr. Hale exhaled behind me, and I could hear the relief in it. Service was moving again. That was all he wanted.
I stepped back from the table with the tray balanced against my forearm, my ankle screaming with every shift of weight, and I kept standing.
