him, like he was a national treasure or some damn thing."
"Well, not exactly." Dr. Lack was choosing his words carefully now, working up to a hatchet job on his rival. "Dr. DeMille is a troubled, highly dissociative personality, who needs to be watched constantly. I don't like to use terms like 'suicidal,' so let's just say that they're watching him for his own good."
"Son of a gun, an' I thought it was 'cause he was so important,"
she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Well, lemme get this order in 'fore y'all faint from hunger." She moved away, and as she passed the table full of soldiers, they whistled at her, pawing out as she swept past.
"Need another round of beer, Stace," one of them shouted.
"It's comin', sugar," she chirped, and darted past them. "And hold it down. This ain't the rodeo." She gathered some dirty plates off a sideboard and backed through the swinging doors into an over-hot kitchen where Barney, the harassed owner-chef, was flipping burgers, stirring chili, and falling behind on the orders. He patted his damp forehead with the towel he always had around his neck.
"One Bud Light and another round of long-necks for the table from hell," she said to Barney. "Dr. Lack wants a CB, full-house, and a side bowl of red. And the two 'bos are almost through with the raccoon cleanup, so you better decide what ya want to pay 'em and throw their steak an' eggs on."
"I'm goin' inta the trees here, Stace," Barney said. "I'll get to the hobos when I can."
He put the beers on her tray with an opener, then shoved two fruit salads through the pass-through. "Here's yer two number fours with yogurt sides for table nine."
"Right," she said, scooping them both up, balancing them on one hand. Then she picked up the tray of beers and backed through the swinging doors, into the restaurant. She set the salads on a side bar and took the long-necks over to the rowdies.
"Here's the rescue lady," one of the soldiers yelled as she snapped the tops off with a church key and passed the beer around. The one closest to her tried to slip a hand around her waist as she leaned in to distribute the last beer to the soldier by the window.
"Easy there, babe," Stacy said, playfully slapping his hand away. "Don't be messin' with the wagonmaster."
The others hooted their appreciation.
After her parents died, she had waitressed all during her teens to save up enough to put herself through college. The first thing she had learned was how to serve a meal without getting tackled.
She finished distributing the beer and scooped the salads up off the back console and moved with them to a nearby table occupied by a mid-sixties couple named Sid and Mary Saunders.
Sid was a retired dentist, with a full supply of old jokes. Mary was gray-haired and always pleasant. They told her they had just had their silver wedding anniversary and had moved to Vanishing Lake to live out their golden years. Mary was glaring at the table full of rowdy soldiers.
"How do you ever put up with it?" she asked angrily.
"Sorry, Mrs. Saunders. I just got through asking them to hold it down. Here's yer two low-cal pineapple boat salads, each with a side a' peach yogurt," she said, sliding the plates in front of them. "I'll get yer two iced teas."
Mary went on, "When it was a prison we were so worried somebody would escape and kill us in our beds. We thought it would be so much better when the University took it over, but now we have all these soldiers."
"Oh, why don't you quit yer damn complaining," Sid growled uncharacteristically, startling both Mary and Stacy.
"All morning you've been sullen and mean," Mary said. "What on earth is the matter with you, Sid?"
"I'll be right back," Stacy said, wanting to avoid this strange domestic quarrel. As she turned away to get their iced tea, she heard Mary say, "Don't glare at me like that!" Then Stacy heard a commotion behind her at the Saunders table. She turned and saw Sid scramble unexpectedly to his feet. He was glaring
"Well, not exactly." Dr. Lack was choosing his words carefully now, working up to a hatchet job on his rival. "Dr. DeMille is a troubled, highly dissociative personality, who needs to be watched constantly. I don't like to use terms like 'suicidal,' so let's just say that they're watching him for his own good."
"Son of a gun, an' I thought it was 'cause he was so important,"
she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Well, lemme get this order in 'fore y'all faint from hunger." She moved away, and as she passed the table full of soldiers, they whistled at her, pawing out as she swept past.
"Need another round of beer, Stace," one of them shouted.
"It's comin', sugar," she chirped, and darted past them. "And hold it down. This ain't the rodeo." She gathered some dirty plates off a sideboard and backed through the swinging doors into an over-hot kitchen where Barney, the harassed owner-chef, was flipping burgers, stirring chili, and falling behind on the orders. He patted his damp forehead with the towel he always had around his neck.
"One Bud Light and another round of long-necks for the table from hell," she said to Barney. "Dr. Lack wants a CB, full-house, and a side bowl of red. And the two 'bos are almost through with the raccoon cleanup, so you better decide what ya want to pay 'em and throw their steak an' eggs on."
"I'm goin' inta the trees here, Stace," Barney said. "I'll get to the hobos when I can."
He put the beers on her tray with an opener, then shoved two fruit salads through the pass-through. "Here's yer two number fours with yogurt sides for table nine."
"Right," she said, scooping them both up, balancing them on one hand. Then she picked up the tray of beers and backed through the swinging doors, into the restaurant. She set the salads on a side bar and took the long-necks over to the rowdies.
"Here's the rescue lady," one of the soldiers yelled as she snapped the tops off with a church key and passed the beer around. The one closest to her tried to slip a hand around her waist as she leaned in to distribute the last beer to the soldier by the window.
"Easy there, babe," Stacy said, playfully slapping his hand away. "Don't be messin' with the wagonmaster."
The others hooted their appreciation.
After her parents died, she had waitressed all during her teens to save up enough to put herself through college. The first thing she had learned was how to serve a meal without getting tackled.
She finished distributing the beer and scooped the salads up off the back console and moved with them to a nearby table occupied by a mid-sixties couple named Sid and Mary Saunders.
Sid was a retired dentist, with a full supply of old jokes. Mary was gray-haired and always pleasant. They told her they had just had their silver wedding anniversary and had moved to Vanishing Lake to live out their golden years. Mary was glaring at the table full of rowdy soldiers.
"How do you ever put up with it?" she asked angrily.
"Sorry, Mrs. Saunders. I just got through asking them to hold it down. Here's yer two low-cal pineapple boat salads, each with a side a' peach yogurt," she said, sliding the plates in front of them. "I'll get yer two iced teas."
Mary went on, "When it was a prison we were so worried somebody would escape and kill us in our beds. We thought it would be so much better when the University took it over, but now we have all these soldiers."
"Oh, why don't you quit yer damn complaining," Sid growled uncharacteristically, startling both Mary and Stacy.
"All morning you've been sullen and mean," Mary said. "What on earth is the matter with you, Sid?"
"I'll be right back," Stacy said, wanting to avoid this strange domestic quarrel. As she turned away to get their iced tea, she heard Mary say, "Don't glare at me like that!" Then Stacy heard a commotion behind her at the Saunders table. She turned and saw Sid scramble unexpectedly to his feet. He was glaring
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