Lovesick by James Driggers Page A

outside the door to Virginia’s room. But hadn’t he known it would come to this—that he had to trust her? What else was there?
    When he returned to the kitchen, he got a reprimand from Roland for taking too long with the order. “I bet you snuck off to take a smoke break, didn’t you? We got orders here that need to go out. So learn to move your sorry black ass faster, or you will find you won’t have a job here.” Butcher pushed his anger, his hurt deeper. He delivered half a dozen more trays before the end of his shift without complaint.
    When he had changed out of the hotel uniform into his own clothes, as he came out from the dressing room, he saw Mona standing by the back stairs, near the service elevator. She wore a pale yellow sweater that glowed golden in the light from the milk-glass shade on the stairs. She was waiting on him. She had come for their walk.
    â€œDid she change her mind?” he asked.
    â€œWho knows what her mind is? She’s gone to sleep. I just picked up the key and walked out the door.”
    â€œSnuck out the door, I betcha.”
    â€œI wanted to thank you for the cake.”
    â€œWould you like to go take a walk with me?” he asked. He wanted to walk with her, maybe put his arm around her, tried to imagine if she would let him kiss her.
    â€œI can’t go far. Maybe we can walk to the corner and back,” she suggested.
    Outside, the air was thick with warmth.
    â€œHumid night,” he said.
    â€œI hate it down here,” she said.
    â€œIt’s no worse than Fayetteville. I bet it’s hot there now, too.”
    â€œI hate it there, too.”
    â€œWhere is it, then, you want to be that’s not one of them places?” he asked.
    â€œAway from her,” she said.
    â€œYou can just leave her. You’re old enough. I bet a great many women would be happy to have someone like you in their employ. Does she treat you bad?”
    â€œGood enough for a servant girl—fetch this, make me this, clean up my mess. She don’t hit me as much as she used to. But she don’t like me much. That I know.”
    â€œSad to say, it’s going to be that way anywhere you work for a white woman. It just is.”
    They walked the rest of the way to the corner in silence, looked at the empty intersection, and turned to walk back. “But it shouldn’t be,” she said. Butcher looked down into her eyes and he knew what she was going to tell him was something he already knew, something he had known all along. “I think she’s my mother.”
    They didn’t go back to the hotel. Instead, they walked in silence until they came to a coffee shop he knew that served late in the evening, catching trade from the hotels and restaurants when workers finished a shift. They found a booth near the back. They ordered only coffee.
    As she raised her eyes toward him, he was reminded of the afternoon he first met her. He could not help himself, but reached across the table and took her hands in his. He thought of his own mam, how she would stroke his shoulder as he stood on a box at the table in the kitchen, watching her cook, sometimes helping her with small tasks—stirring a bowl of batter, whipping eggs. He thought, too, of Maude, how she told him her family had left her with Helaine and Laurent, traded her for food, supplies. Mona did not pull away, but left her hands in his, quivering like a rabbit or small bird trapped and too frightened to fight.
    â€œI have never been courted, Mr. Butcher,” she said. “I don’t really know what to do.”
    â€œBut you know I care for you.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I know.”
    â€œI would watch out for you,” he said. “I would never force you.”
    She pulled her hands away and placed them in her lap.
    â€œThen we will give it time. To be honest, I haven’t courted much myself. Let’s just give it some time. About the