Mockingbird by Sean Stewart Page A

knew, that when he found his woman, he would treat her well, because it would dishonor him to do less.
    And maybe a man like Bill Jr. needed a mate like me to see around a corner or two for him. Well, that was probably a fantasy. “Men don’t change,” Momma used to say. “They grow, but they don’t change.”
    Bill’s Peachy Keen arrived and he set to, sucking down great streams of dirty orange alcoholic Slurpee. Whether he changed or not, I was pretty sure Bill Jr. was going to grow, all right.
    â€œAre you ready to order?” Susan the waitress asked. (Are you sick with nausea behind your bright smile? I wondered. Do you lie awake at night wondering how you’re going to cover daycare on your waitress’s salary?)
    I forced my eyes to focus on the menu, wondering how little I could order without Bill noticing. I decided to go for a salad. Eat a couple of pieces of lettuce and a lot of the bulk goes away, making it look as if you’ve really tucked in. “Grilled chicken Caesar, please. And could I have lots of cracked pepper on that?”
    â€œSure!”
    â€œLots,” I said.
    â€œI think I’ll try the Cobb Spindle,” Bill said. According to the menu, this was a delicious combination of romaine lettuce, smoked turkey breast, Gorgonzola cheese, provolone, egg, tomato, olives, white beans, roasted pepper and red wine vinaigrette. I nearly passed out from reading the list of ingredients.
    â€œIs there something peculiar about that pepper shaker?” Bill said. “You seem very taken with it.”
    â€œWhat? No! No, no. It looks like one we have at home,” I babbled. “Maybe Momma stole a pair from here. She would do stuff like that. I used to think you could buy Hilton brand hand soaps at the store.”
    Bill closed his menu. “Your mother was quite a character.”
    â€œSeveral of them. Um, would you excuse me?” I said, easing out of my chair and walking as steadily as I could to the ladies’ room.
    There is something extremely soothing about a really clean bathroom. Bright, clear light, clean fixtures, mirrors if you want them, cool tiles, and silence. And unlike the restaurant proper, the bathroom, being in the central hub, wasn’t careening gaily around the Greater Houston Metropolitan Area. I wet my face with cold water and stood for a couple of minutes with my head hanging over the washbasin. At home, when the nausea was really bad, I had taken to lying on the floor. There was something quite perfect about the hard, cool tiles pressing against my back. I couldn’t bring myself to lie flat in the bathroom of the Hyatt Regency, not in my silk jacket and nice blouse, but I was sorely tempted.
    The nausea receded and I made it back to the table much refreshed. I even took out a disused smile, polished it up, and gave it to Bill.
    His answering smile looked, to my eyes, a little unfelt. I was beginning to lose some patience with Bill Jr. A good fellow, basically, but here I was, having accepted his date, doing my level best to make sparkling conversation. He could at least try to be a little more entertaining himself. In the long run, I suppose, it’s not terribly important that your husband be a great romancer, but, like being handsome or rich, it’s one of those little attributes that a man really ought to cultivate if he possibly can.
    I sat down, and he gave me a long look. “Ms. Beauchamp—”
    â€œToni, please.”
    â€œâ€”Ms. Beauchamp, you are no doubt wondering why I asked you here today,” Bill said. He took a breath and met my eyes. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”
    Once again I felt the sensation of the elevator starting up; the dizzy earth falling out from under me.
    â€œIn recognition of the good work you’ve done for the company, my father and I have agreed to give you twelve weeks’ severance pay. We won’t be filling your