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“Do you think we’ll have many
people today?” she asked. Evelina tied her apron around her waist, tight
around her round hips and she pulled it down over them often. Her face was very
pretty and her mouth was very pretty and she never complained about the men in
the grill that spoke to her about her mouth and how they would like to kiss it
and take her out. She’d smile when they’d laugh and it was never
serious, her finger would absently touch her throat.
Her hands were
calloused and hard and she kept them hidden under a tray or moving quickly.
That was the consequence of a pretty woman working hard with her hands. I knew
these things. She told me sometimes that I worked hard and one day I would move
on to something bigger and better. I deserved it. But knowing a place made it
hard to leave. There was a process that happened that made the new place the
one that you had always known. I hardly thought of the south anymore.
It
was something to be a mother with two children without a husband. I knew from
hearing her speak on the phone about her children or how she was to them when
they were with her at the grill. There were other mothers and fathers at the
grill that didn’t pay so much attention to their children. Some fathers w
ere absent or abusive and made it difficult for a mother and her children.
Evelina was beautiful. I was in love with her and had always been.
“Maybe. Yes.”
“I think so. It is cold outside. They’ll
come today,” Evelina said, as she worked quickly with her hands. She
talked and worked all the time even if things didn’t need touching, she
was always getting dishes ready, or rearranging the napkins on the table or
doing paperwork. She spoke with the employees too and she always did something
at the same time to save time. I admired her for that very much and she smiled
and laughed, and maybe she believed she was happy.
“The conference of
bowlers left yesterday. It will be slower. I like it though when there are a
lot of people. You meet so many interesting people, don’t you
think?”
Evelina operated well with many things happening at the same
time. I shrugged and became busy, looking for something to do. She smiled and
flicked her hair away, but a stubborn black wisp of hair settled over one eye.
“You’re a good person, Gary. I never have to worry about
you.”
My name was Garcia, but in America, it was Gary. She didn’t
know I killed a man, that I had desired to kill that man inside all the time,
but I didn’t know it. I was afraid if anyone found out that I might not
say what I really meant about it.