Check, Please

There are many ways to turn a breakfast special into several meals, if you only know the tricks. Emma-Jean knew them all. She frequented diners as she flitted up and down the Georgia coast, her three-year-old daughter in tow. With barely enough money to get by, and certainly not enough to pay for rent, she had to make meals stretch.

Their newest diner was a well-loved establishment perched on a street corner. There were wide red booths, big windows, and a kitchen overflowing with the sounds of grills sizzling, pancakes flipping, and the local classic country music station. Emma-Jean knew that here at Keith’s, Monday mornings provided the best special: $3 for a hearty helping of eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes, coffee, and grits or potatoes. This was cheaper than buying the same food at the WinnDixie and finding somewhere to cook it. Emma-Jean knew that for certain. She had done the numbers long ago. The pair had been coming in on Monday mornings and Thursday nights, which offered a similar burger deal. Emma-Jean also knew that on those days, her daughter would get extra attention. Miss Jude worked those shifts.

Miss Jude boasted a bright set of white curls that contrasted sharply with her dark skin. Decades of her big smile had worn deep lines around her eyes, and she always wore a dark green apron around her ample waist. There were no pens in her pockets; she never wrote down orders.

When meeting them, Miss Jude had been immediately taken with Bailey. She praised her gorgeous curls and her chubby fists and her glowing skin; isn’t she just as cute as she can be? “Ooooh!” she had cried, “That baby has skin like none I have evah seen. So soft, smooth, ‘n perfect. And those eyes! Let me kiss you, honey.”

And, just like that, they became Miss Jude’s favorite regulars.

Bailey made messes organically. Her mother simply reaped rewards from these messes: new cartons of milk, slices of toast, a cup of soup with a lid this time. Here at Keith’s, she didn’t need as many tricks. It helped that the staff deemed her perpetually in need of a good meal. They told her, in many vibrant analogies, that she was too skinny and ate too slowly.

That morning, Bailey held a pancake in each small fist, waving them triumphantly as she chattered. Her mother wasn’t paying attention; she was writing. She didn’t notice the flying pancakes nor did she hear Miss Jude approach.

“Oh, no ma’am,” the old woman said, shaking her head, “You better not be fixin’ to dump your food on the floor again, Miss Bailey.”

The little girl grinned and swung her arms up and down with increasing vigor. Before either woman could move, the fluffy discs broke apart, flew onto the table, and stuck to the sides of the booth. All that remained inside her small sticky fingers were mushy crumbles. Bailey stared at her hands, confused at what happened.

“I’ll get you girls another order of pancakes,” Miss Jude winked.

As she walked away, Emma-Jean carefully wrapped up most of the broken pieces. With the mess Bailey made, no one ever noticed that she didn’t throw away all the food that hit the floor. She smiled at her daughter, plucked a piece of pancake out of her hair, and tried to get her to eat some eggs.

When it became clear that Bailey was no longer interested in food, Emma-Jean piled what remained onto her own plate, neatly stacked the remaining dishes, and handed her a crayon from the box stocked with the standard array of condiments, coffee creamer, and napkins. The owner had coloring sheets plastered all over the wall above the windows. Bailey loved the crayons, scribbling on everything she could. Since it was early on Monday, the diner had yet to be resupplied with coloring pages. In the absence of anything to draw on, Emma-Jean slid her book open in front of her daughter.

“You’re always writing. On receipts, on that notepad, or in that lil’ black book of yours,” Miss Jude said as she placed another stack of pancakes on the table.

Emma-Jean smiled, pulling the pancakes out of reach of B’s crayon, “It’s my dreamin’ book. The other ones for money, but this one is full of things we’re gonna do together.”

Miss Jude reached across to refill the almost empty coffee mug in Emma-Jean’s hands.

“Who?”

“Me, Bailey, and her daddy.”

Bailey continued talking cheerily as she drew in the notebook.

“Where's her daddy?”

The young woman drew the steaming cup closer to her chest and pressed it against her shirt, warming her from the inside and out, “On a ship.”

“Military?”

“No, ma’am. Just a ship”

Miss Jude leaned against the side of the booth opposite and looked directly into her eyes, “So how come y’all wanderin’ around all by y’all’s self? You got family?”

Emma-Jean knew this would come. It happened often. With skin tones as different as theirs, the questions always came. Mostly, they were tinged with suspicious curiosity; sometimes, they were judgemental; they always came. She cleared her throat, “Some. We see ‘em every once a while, but we like it down here. When Dean’s back he’s near a port most times.”

People usually accepted this answer. Miss Jude’s mouth thinned, “Since when?”

“Ma’am?”

“Since when y’all been movin’ around with no place constant?”

“ ‘Bout three years,” she glanced down at what Bailey was drawing, “But we like it. I wanna be where he is. It’s a sight better than...” she trailed off.

“Hmmph,” the old woman grunted, “Miss Bailey, darlin,’ how old are you?”

Bailey looked up, proudly displayed all five of her little fingers and said, “Thwee!”

Miss Jude looked at Emma-Jean, and she squirmed a bit in her seat. She wondered if she knew about the pancakes in her purse.

She kept talking, faster and faster, “We don’t have money to stay in one place, but someday we will. And then we’ll settle down. I’ll get to workin’ again. Bailey will go to school-”

“What kinda work you do?”

Emma-Jean set the coffee down and spread her hands wide, “Anythin’, really. I used to teach, but I couldn’t do that with Bailey. My school let me go because we didn’t have anybody to watch her. I can type, I cook, I clean, I wash, but I can’t often find anyone who will let me have her with me. We live on what Dean sends, mostly. I make it last.”

Miss Jude kept staring at her. Emma-Jean looked everywhere else. She took another sip of coffee and then tucked her hands underneath her legs. Miss Jude stood silent for another heartbeat and said, “Why don’t you take a shift here?”

“Ma’am?”

“You take my Thursday night shift. Noon to close. Lord knows I should stay off my feet. I’ll watch Bailey. We’ll come get ourselves some burgers.”

Emma-Jean looked down at herself in the steaming black coffee. Quietly, she said to her pale reflection, “I can’t pay you for watchin’ her.”

“Lord have mercy! Emma-Jean, you will not pay me. As much as I miss my grandbabies I should pay you. You know how it works here. I’m sure you’ll pick it up right quick.”

Emma-Jean looked up, “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

Miss Jude nodded, apparently satisfied, and walked towards the kitchen, stopping to refill coffee cups as she went.

___

On Thursday, the pair showed up ten minutes early. Miss Jude whisked Bailey away at once, hollering about how they would be back for dinner. Before Emma-Jean realized what was happening, she was waiting tables, a faded yellow apron tied around her waist. The orders were fairly simple- lots of the specials, no substitutions. Everyone knew her name. Apparently, Miss Jude didn’t keep her compliments to herself.

When Miss Jude sat down with Bailey, the sun was just starting to set. Emma-Jean leaned against their booth, “Did she give you any trouble?”

Miss Jude grinned, “We had the best time! You didn’t tell me how fast that girl is! I was runnin’ around like I was half my age, which is still older than you.”

Emma-Jean laughed and looked at Bailey. Her shirt was dirty, and the tear that she had sown last week had ripped again. She kissed Bailey’s head, “Let me get y’all some dinner. What will you have Miss Jude?”

“Oh, just tell the kitchen it’s me, they’ll know.”

“Yes ma’am.”

During their meal, Miss Jude made sure that no food hit the floor. Stealing glimpses, Emma-Jean noticed that Bailey had the black book out. She must have left it inside the backpack of clothes and toys she gave Miss Jude. Bailey was pointing inside. She cringed. The book did show just how destitute they really were. She watched Miss Jude give Bailey a coloring sheet and tuck the book into the worn backpack.

Soon, her shift was almost over. The remaining patrons were slowly filing out, waving goodbyes. Miss Jude stood and stretched, grumbling like grandmothers do, “Why, I think it’s about time for y’all to go home, Emma-Jean. I’ll finish out the shift and hear how you did.”

“Oh, no, I can stay.”

“No ma’am. I won’t have my Keith fussin’ at me for not doin’ work.”

“I took your shift, ma’am. I’ll stay. Bailey can entertain herself ‘til I’m done.”

Miss Jude wouldn’t hear of it, practically shoving them out the door as she thrust a bag of food into Emma-Jean’s hands. When they were halfway across the parking lot, she called out, “And, you're hired! Paperwork is in the bag. Come back Monday morning with Bailey. Don’t you be late, Emma-Jean!”

Emma-Jean turned and smiled warily, unsure of how she would do paperwork without a permanent address, “Yes ma’am. Thank you!”

“Give your husband a call. Tell him you’ve found a nice place to rent here. Your table 4 has a house that needin’ a tenant. I put the address in there,” Waving, she closed and locked the door.

Emma-Jean stood there, frozen in the humid evening, those words echoing in her head. A house? She dreamed about, budgeted for, and scoured rental ads for a house. The deal was that once they saved up enough, Dean would find a permanent, stay-in-one-place job instead of taking another contract.

The cicadas' song swelled, and Bailey started worming around in her arms. Emma-Jean jerked out of her daze and walked to secure Bailey in her carseat. Then she looked inside the bag. The promised paperwork and an envelope sat on top of the to-go boxes. The envelope's outside read in loopy cursive handwriting, “Take this to the bank tomorrow to open an account. They’re expecting you.”

She opened it. The envelope held a thin stack of cash from her tips, the promised name and phone number, and a small rectangular paper.

Didn’t Miss Jude know she would need more cash than this to open a bank account? She looked at the small paper. It was a check addressed to her, in that same handwriting, from Keith and Jude Boone for $20,000. All air left her lungs; she dropped everything.

The papers slid everywhere. Emma-Jean whirled around to look at the silent diner, scarcely breathing. She tugged the check from where it had landed underneath their pillows in the backseat.

She couldn’t take this; they couldn’t give this. How did they get this amount of money? She ran back across the parking lot, her heart in her throat. The front door was locked. She knocked loudly- no answer.

She pressed her forehead against the door and stood there, thinking. Bailey began to cry from the car. A truck turned the corner; its headlights swung across Emma-Jean for a brief instant. She squinted against the light, shook her head, and blinked rapidly. Stars dotted the corners of her vision as she walked back to her daughter, the check clutched in her sweaty hand.