Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Two
“I’ve only had the job a week,” Emma admitted. She spoke quietly
and glanced over her shoulder at a large man who stood behind the lunch counter
wiping it down with a dingy rag.
I remembered Emma from high school but couldn’t decide where, or
even if, I’d run into her since. She was thinner and much older looking than I
remembered her. Emma had been one of the brightest girls in our class. I
wondered how she’d come to be working as a waitress at Ridley’s.
“How do you like it here?” I asked.
Emma glanced again toward the man behind the lunch counter.
“I hate it! Mr. Ridley works me so hard. He never has enough
waitresses, and he’s always berating me for mistakes.”
“Why don’t you leave?” I asked her. “Couldn’t you find other
work?”
“I doubt I could find anything better. I tried everywhere before I
accepted this position. It seems no one wants to hire anyone without experience
these days.”
I wondered what she’d been doing in the six years since we’d
graduated.
“You’re living with your parents, I suppose?” Flo said.
Emma just looked at us. Flo had said something wrong, but I had no
idea what.
“Didn’t you know?” Emma said. “My parents were killed in an auto
accident just a month after I left Greenville High.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Florence said. “We hadn’t heard.”
“Father always was so careless in his driving. I guess the
accident was his fault. I—I can’t tell you about it now. Mr. Ridley is
watching. Your orders, please?”
“A number three special with hot chocolate,” Florence said.
“Make mine the same.”
Emma nodded and disappeared through the swinging doors to the
kitchen.
“No wonder she seems so changed,” Flo said.
“If the accident was her father’s fault, I suppose not a cent of
compensation was paid,” I said. “Poor Emma!”
“I’ve always heard this was a hard place to work. I don’t think
Emma is strong enough to be a waitress.”
“No, she’s delicate.”
Emma returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray of sandwiches and
two cups of chocolate. She handled her burden awkwardly. I could see Mr. Ridley
watching from behind the coffee urn. While Emma was easing the tray onto a
nearby table, he came from behind the counter and said, “Try to work with more
speed, Miss Brown. Our customers expect quick service.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley,” Emma said and started to place one cup of
chocolate at my elbow. In her nervousness, she set it too close to the edge of
the table. When she reached across the table again to put down the plate of
sandwiches, her arm brushed against it. I saw the cup sliding and tried to
rescue it, but I wasn’t quick enough.
The cup of steaming liquid crashed to the floor, splattering
Emma’s shoes and uniform. She was not burned, but the chinaware smashed into a
dozen pieces. Mr. Ridley descended upon us.
“You’ve broken another dish,” he said. “The second this week.”
“I—I’m terribly sorry—”
“It really was my fault,” I said. “My hand brushed against the
cup.”
“I saw exactly what happened,” Mr. Ridley said. “Miss Brown, clean
up this mess. The cashier will settle with you.”
“You’re discharging me?”
“You are through here,” Mr. Ridley said. “And don’t ask me for a
recommendation.”
Emma went away to the kitchen. When she came back with a cloth to
wipe up the spilled chocolate, her face was very white.
“Don’t you worry, Emma,” Florence whispered. “You’ll find a better
job. Mr. Ridley is an old slave driver anyway!”
Emma didn’t reply. She kept her head bent low as she mopped at the
floor.
“Emma,” I asked, “how long will it take you to change your uniform?”
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