matriarch, à la Rose Kennedy. The music piped into the lot sounded like a jukebox version of Bill Haley & His Comets’
“Rock Around the Clock.”
Nick and Werner would love the cars. I read each logo, models familiar to the real carhop of the past but not to Madeira Cutler: Nash, Packard, Studebaker, and a Pontiac Chieftain that could be the forerunner of the hatchback. New car names were Kaiser and Crosley Hotshot; the latter a convertible, two-seater.
“Yo, Lizzie,” called a girl who stopped in front of me, and whose blouse had Pattie embroidered on it.
I looked down at my own blouse. Yep. Lizzie. I looked back at the drive-in. A diner quilted in silver and polished to a mirror shine: Rudy’s Red Hots in flashing red and yellow neon up top. Probably famous for hot dogs, not teeny red candies.
“Got a guy in that salmon and black Chevrolet,” Pattie said, “who wants to see you, specific like.” She popped her bubble gum.
“Coming right up.” On the way, I gave the guy in the Crosley Hotshot his check for a dollar thirty-two, then I let him count his nickels while I zoomed on over to the black and salmon number. Barf. Ugliest colors I ever saw on a car.
Mitch Miller belted out an enthusiastic round of “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and both of me loved it.
“Hey, good lookin’,” the driver said, slicking back his DA.
“What can I do you for?” I asked.
“The name’s Perry,” said the Jimmy Dean type. “Seven o’clock, Four Square Motel on the pike. Here’s your tip, and I’ll have fries with my catsup.”
“Sure thing.” I saluted and zoomed away, glanced at my tip and . . . hel-lo—
I ran smack into a frumpy black Mercury coupe and didn’t know what surprised me more: the bruise on my leg, the ticked nun behind the wheel, or Perry’s tip: a brass motel key wrapped in a hundred dollar bill.
Still, I got a wash of Liz’s satisfaction in providing for a young family. Her husband, the bum, spent his time at the Dew Drop Inn or playing the ponies. Never home. Never a paycheck.
He knew nothing about this money she earned, but she kept her boys fed and invested for the future.
She was a good mom.
I couldn’t fault her for her cause.
Somebody slapped me. I thought it was the nun.
“Ouch. That hurts. Werner? What are you, some kind of Neanderthal? I never took you for the brutal type.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, a little pale.
“I feel a lot better,” I said. “Thought I was gonna be sick. Guess not.”
“Guess again. Damn straight you were sick. As a dog. That was me holding your hair back and cleaning you up, except that you were out cold.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair while in his other he held a damp washcloth to the back of my neck. Isobel rolled into the doorway. “You okay, boss?”
“I am now. Guess I wasn’t for a while.”
“If you call humming fifties tunes with your eyes closed and calling Werner, Sister, I guess you weren’t. You were a little bit funny,” she admitted. “What group sang ‘Earth Angel’?”
“The Penguins,” Werner and I answered together.
He shook his head, rinsed the cloth, and wiped my brow, my neck, and down toward my cleavage.
“Hey, my uniform’s unbuttoned.”
He dropped the cloth and went to work on that. “I’m buttoning it, now that you’re not such an armful. Not my fault you passed out half-dressed.”
Someone growled, and Werner and I both looked up.
“Nick? You okay?”
He growled louder and pointed to the lower half of his face. “Wired shut!” he had already printed on the notebook he pulled from his navy T-shirt pocket.
“I’m so sorry,” I groaned while Werner finished buttoning my uniform, and that’s when I looked down at his hands and noticed my name tag.
“Isobel,” I called as I exited the bathroom before the injured men in my life. “What was your grandmother’s name?”
“Elizabeth, but you can call her Beth, Betsy, Betty, Lizbeth, Eliza, Lizzie. Why?”
“Rock Around the Clock.”
Nick and Werner would love the cars. I read each logo, models familiar to the real carhop of the past but not to Madeira Cutler: Nash, Packard, Studebaker, and a Pontiac Chieftain that could be the forerunner of the hatchback. New car names were Kaiser and Crosley Hotshot; the latter a convertible, two-seater.
“Yo, Lizzie,” called a girl who stopped in front of me, and whose blouse had Pattie embroidered on it.
I looked down at my own blouse. Yep. Lizzie. I looked back at the drive-in. A diner quilted in silver and polished to a mirror shine: Rudy’s Red Hots in flashing red and yellow neon up top. Probably famous for hot dogs, not teeny red candies.
“Got a guy in that salmon and black Chevrolet,” Pattie said, “who wants to see you, specific like.” She popped her bubble gum.
“Coming right up.” On the way, I gave the guy in the Crosley Hotshot his check for a dollar thirty-two, then I let him count his nickels while I zoomed on over to the black and salmon number. Barf. Ugliest colors I ever saw on a car.
Mitch Miller belted out an enthusiastic round of “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and both of me loved it.
“Hey, good lookin’,” the driver said, slicking back his DA.
“What can I do you for?” I asked.
“The name’s Perry,” said the Jimmy Dean type. “Seven o’clock, Four Square Motel on the pike. Here’s your tip, and I’ll have fries with my catsup.”
“Sure thing.” I saluted and zoomed away, glanced at my tip and . . . hel-lo—
I ran smack into a frumpy black Mercury coupe and didn’t know what surprised me more: the bruise on my leg, the ticked nun behind the wheel, or Perry’s tip: a brass motel key wrapped in a hundred dollar bill.
Still, I got a wash of Liz’s satisfaction in providing for a young family. Her husband, the bum, spent his time at the Dew Drop Inn or playing the ponies. Never home. Never a paycheck.
He knew nothing about this money she earned, but she kept her boys fed and invested for the future.
She was a good mom.
I couldn’t fault her for her cause.
Somebody slapped me. I thought it was the nun.
“Ouch. That hurts. Werner? What are you, some kind of Neanderthal? I never took you for the brutal type.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, a little pale.
“I feel a lot better,” I said. “Thought I was gonna be sick. Guess not.”
“Guess again. Damn straight you were sick. As a dog. That was me holding your hair back and cleaning you up, except that you were out cold.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair while in his other he held a damp washcloth to the back of my neck. Isobel rolled into the doorway. “You okay, boss?”
“I am now. Guess I wasn’t for a while.”
“If you call humming fifties tunes with your eyes closed and calling Werner, Sister, I guess you weren’t. You were a little bit funny,” she admitted. “What group sang ‘Earth Angel’?”
“The Penguins,” Werner and I answered together.
He shook his head, rinsed the cloth, and wiped my brow, my neck, and down toward my cleavage.
“Hey, my uniform’s unbuttoned.”
He dropped the cloth and went to work on that. “I’m buttoning it, now that you’re not such an armful. Not my fault you passed out half-dressed.”
Someone growled, and Werner and I both looked up.
“Nick? You okay?”
He growled louder and pointed to the lower half of his face. “Wired shut!” he had already printed on the notebook he pulled from his navy T-shirt pocket.
“I’m so sorry,” I groaned while Werner finished buttoning my uniform, and that’s when I looked down at his hands and noticed my name tag.
“Isobel,” I called as I exited the bathroom before the injured men in my life. “What was your grandmother’s name?”
“Elizabeth, but you can call her Beth, Betsy, Betty, Lizbeth, Eliza, Lizzie. Why?”
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