glass sugar holder to the floor where it shattered. Nat and the girls stared at the sparkling, shard-pierced mound on the black-and-white tile.
“My
gosh
!” cried the waitress, roused from her stupor. She flung her hands in the air. “Would you watch what you’re doing?”
“I’m so sorry.” Nat grabbed a napkin, squatted, and pushed the sugar into a jagged pyramid. “She didn’t mean to. Sam, apologize.”
Sam stared at the expectant waitress and, in a fit of defiant self-loathing, stuck out her tongue.
The waitress and Nat both gasped. The spill was easily forgivable on its own but now, with Sam’s awful little flourish, it seemed to have been almost intentional.
“Sam!”
Nat shouted, standing up. The little girl, gripped by contrition, whirled and buried her face in Nat’s skirt.
“Don’t touch that,” the waitress said to Nat, meaning the glass. “You’ll cut yourself. I’ll get the broom.” She stalked into the kitchen. Nat stood flushed, her heart racing, patting Sam’s shoulders. Her one consolation was that Paul was not there. He would have been mortified. She could imagine the silent car ride home while he stewed over how he’d raised such an ill-mannered child. She could almost hear his brain turning itself inside out on such occasions, the way he’d strain to make meaning out of what she’d insist was just some small thing.
The waitress returned with a broom. “Y’all were acting just crazy, flailing around like that. Of course something’s gonna get broken.”
“We weren’t
flailing,
” Nat said. “She was just dancing.”
“People
allow
their children to be rude these days. It’s backwards. Adults are wrong and kids are right.” She swept the sugar into the dustpan with short jabs.
Nat’s face burned. Normally she would have remained silent, but she’d been having such a good day, and she did not want this crabby woman to brush away all the hours she’d just spent building something happy. “I’m sorry you have such an ax to grind,” she began, “but it’s only taken you a minute to sweep that up, and we
said
we were sorry.”
The waitress opened her mouth to retort—
I cannot believe this,
Nat thought,
I cannot believe I am about to get into an argument with a waitress, I should stop myself, I should just leave
—when she heard a footfall behind her and turned. It was the young cowboy from the back of the diner. He had sandy hair and blue eyes and was no taller than Nat, and he wore a faded flannel shirt and dull boots. For a moment Nat feared he had come over to upbraid her, too, that she was about to be ganged up on by affronted townies, but his eyes were kind, and instead of speaking to the women he squatted near Sam. “You want to know what I did one time?” he quietly asked her. “I knocked over a whole crate of eggs.” He leaned with his elbows on his knees, watching Sam for her reaction, as if he took her distress seriously and was not cutesily performing for adults.
Sam peeked one eye out from Nat’s skirt. Nat, realizing her daughter was not going to respond, spoke up in the candy-coated voice of someone talking on behalf of a child. “How did you knock over a crate of eggs?”
“I was working at a friend’s ranch a few years back,” he said, to Sam, as if she and Nat were a ventriloquist act. “I wasn’t old enough to drive, but I got bored and hopped into the truck, backed right into a pallet of eggs stacked against the wall. Can you imagine? Eggs and shells and goo everywhere, and the farmer came out and yelled at me and hit me with his hat.”
Sam listened intently, her eyebrows lifted in friendly, quizzical half moons. “Did it hurt to get hit with a hat?”
“Not really. Just my pride.”
“What’s your pride?”
“Pride? It means your feelings. Not wanting to be embarrassed.”
“Oh.” Sam seemed to ponder this. “Does it go away?”
He chuckled. “Hopefully not. The pride part is a good thing. It’s the getting
“My
gosh
!” cried the waitress, roused from her stupor. She flung her hands in the air. “Would you watch what you’re doing?”
“I’m so sorry.” Nat grabbed a napkin, squatted, and pushed the sugar into a jagged pyramid. “She didn’t mean to. Sam, apologize.”
Sam stared at the expectant waitress and, in a fit of defiant self-loathing, stuck out her tongue.
The waitress and Nat both gasped. The spill was easily forgivable on its own but now, with Sam’s awful little flourish, it seemed to have been almost intentional.
“Sam!”
Nat shouted, standing up. The little girl, gripped by contrition, whirled and buried her face in Nat’s skirt.
“Don’t touch that,” the waitress said to Nat, meaning the glass. “You’ll cut yourself. I’ll get the broom.” She stalked into the kitchen. Nat stood flushed, her heart racing, patting Sam’s shoulders. Her one consolation was that Paul was not there. He would have been mortified. She could imagine the silent car ride home while he stewed over how he’d raised such an ill-mannered child. She could almost hear his brain turning itself inside out on such occasions, the way he’d strain to make meaning out of what she’d insist was just some small thing.
The waitress returned with a broom. “Y’all were acting just crazy, flailing around like that. Of course something’s gonna get broken.”
“We weren’t
flailing,
” Nat said. “She was just dancing.”
“People
allow
their children to be rude these days. It’s backwards. Adults are wrong and kids are right.” She swept the sugar into the dustpan with short jabs.
Nat’s face burned. Normally she would have remained silent, but she’d been having such a good day, and she did not want this crabby woman to brush away all the hours she’d just spent building something happy. “I’m sorry you have such an ax to grind,” she began, “but it’s only taken you a minute to sweep that up, and we
said
we were sorry.”
The waitress opened her mouth to retort—
I cannot believe this,
Nat thought,
I cannot believe I am about to get into an argument with a waitress, I should stop myself, I should just leave
—when she heard a footfall behind her and turned. It was the young cowboy from the back of the diner. He had sandy hair and blue eyes and was no taller than Nat, and he wore a faded flannel shirt and dull boots. For a moment Nat feared he had come over to upbraid her, too, that she was about to be ganged up on by affronted townies, but his eyes were kind, and instead of speaking to the women he squatted near Sam. “You want to know what I did one time?” he quietly asked her. “I knocked over a whole crate of eggs.” He leaned with his elbows on his knees, watching Sam for her reaction, as if he took her distress seriously and was not cutesily performing for adults.
Sam peeked one eye out from Nat’s skirt. Nat, realizing her daughter was not going to respond, spoke up in the candy-coated voice of someone talking on behalf of a child. “How did you knock over a crate of eggs?”
“I was working at a friend’s ranch a few years back,” he said, to Sam, as if she and Nat were a ventriloquist act. “I wasn’t old enough to drive, but I got bored and hopped into the truck, backed right into a pallet of eggs stacked against the wall. Can you imagine? Eggs and shells and goo everywhere, and the farmer came out and yelled at me and hit me with his hat.”
Sam listened intently, her eyebrows lifted in friendly, quizzical half moons. “Did it hurt to get hit with a hat?”
“Not really. Just my pride.”
“What’s your pride?”
“Pride? It means your feelings. Not wanting to be embarrassed.”
“Oh.” Sam seemed to ponder this. “Does it go away?”
He chuckled. “Hopefully not. The pride part is a good thing. It’s the getting
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