Chapter 2 - Soup
Margaret Whitmore opened the menu and held it at arm’s length, the way people do when their eyes have started to fail them.
“Oh,” she said. “These prices are much higher than I expected.”
“Take your time.”
“Is there anything inexpensive enough for someone like me?”
Emily did not look at the room. She knew that if she looked at the room she would see Vanessa watching her, and if she saw Vanessa watching her she would start thinking about the report Richard had asked for.
“Our vegetable soup is wonderful,” she said. “It’s one of our least expensive dishes. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
Margaret closed the menu. “Then I’ll have the soup.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Water, please. Tap.”
Emily wrote it down and walked to the kitchen, and the kitchen was where she let herself breathe.
“Table six,” she said. “Vegetable soup.”
The chef, a broad man named Tomás, looked up from the stove. “Table six is the window.”
“I know.”
“Richard’s going to have a stroke.”
“Probably.”
Tomás ladled the soup into a white bowl and set it on a tray, and then he added a second, smaller bowl of bread and a dish of butter that had not been ordered.
“For the old lady,” he said.
Emily carried the tray out herself.
Behind the bar, Vanessa caught her sleeve.
“Emily. What are you doing?”
“Feeding a guest.”
“Richard is in his office writing you up.”
“Then he’s in his office writing me up.”
Vanessa’s face twisted. “He’s not going to stop at a write-up. You know that. He’ll call the owner.”
Emily looked at her. Vanessa had been kind to her once, in her first month, when Emily had spilled a tray of glasses and Richard had made her stand in the walk-in for twenty minutes. Vanessa had brought her a cup of coffee afterward and told her it happened to everyone.
That was three years ago.
“Vanessa,” Emily said. “Look at her.”
Vanessa looked.
Margaret was sitting by the window with her hands folded on the table, her broken purse in the chair beside her, her worn shoes flat on the marble floor.
“She’s somebody’s mother,” Emily said.
Vanessa let go of her sleeve.
Richard came out of his office at six-forty. The dining room had begun to fill by then—the early reservations, the men in dark jackets, the couples who ordered cocktails and left the menus unopened. He walked straight to table six.
“I gave you a direct order,” he said. “Why is this woman still occupying one of our tables?”
“She’s ordered dinner, Mr. Collins. She’s a paying guest and our job is to make her feel welcome.”
“Before we serve anything,” Richard said, turning to Margaret, “I’d like proof that you can actually afford to eat in this establishment.”
Emily felt the room turn its head.
Margaret reached into her purse without a word. She brought out a twenty-dollar bill, folded in half, and set it on the table.
“I brought twenty dollars,” she said. “I thought that might cover some soup. I’m sorry if I’ve misunderstood your prices.”
Richard looked at the bill. Then at Emily.
“Twenty dollars won’t cover your dinner here,” he said. “Please collect your belongings and leave before this becomes embarrassing.”
“Then I’ll cover the difference myself.”
Richard went very still.
“She’s hungry, Mr. Collins,” Emily said. “And I’m not turning her away over money.”
“You’re embarrassing this restaurant.”
“I’m serving soup.”
Richard took a step closer. He was not much taller than her, but he had a way of leaning in that made the room feel smaller.
“One more act of defiance,” he said, “and I’ll terminate your employment before closing tonight.”
Emily did not step back.
“Respect isn’t something guests should have to purchase,” she said. “And I won’t apologize for treating that woman like a human being.”
Somewhere behind them, a fork touched a plate.
Richard straightened. He adjusted his glasses. When he spoke again, his voice had gone flat and administrative.
“Vanessa,” he said. “Document Emily’s insubordination. I want a formal report on my desk before the end of her shift.”
Vanessa’s jaw tightened.
“Emily is one of our best servers, Richard.”
“Document it.”
Vanessa picked up her clipboard. “But if you insist,” she said, “I’ll prepare the report exactly as requested.”
Emily carried the soup to the table.
“Here you are, ma’am,” she said. “It’s fresh and warm. Please enjoy it, and don’t worry about anything else tonight.”
Margaret looked up at her.
“That manager looked furious with you, sweetheart. Please tell me you aren’t going to lose your job because of me.”
May you like
Emily set the tray down.
“I need this job,” she said. “But I won’t let fear decide how I treat people.”
