casually passing over Sunny's mental state. "Or that you don't have a card. In fact it wouldn't matter if you were a schizophrenic gorilla as long as you do what he tells you, but I have to tell you, the man you would be working for is a prize pig. He'll work you till you drop."
"I don't mind hard work," Sunny said, her eyes beginning to glow with excitement. Then suddenly the glow dimmed somewhat. "He wouldn't ask me to do anything . . . disgusting, would he?"
"Depends on what you call disgusting," the woman-child said, shrugging. "If you mean would there be any funny business, then no. That's what we're trying to get you away from."
"That's what you're trying to get me away from," Sunny murmured wryly under her breath, then, "And you realty think he'll hire me?"
"Sure. I'll take you there tomorrow and get it fixed up," she promised, moving back toward the window. She paused in her exit to straddle the sill as she looked back at Sunny. "Are you going to tell Ben?"
Sunny hadn't thought of that. Somehow she didn't think Ben would care for the idea. "I think maybe I'll Just leave him a note tomorrow. There'll he enough time to discuss it with him when I know for sure that I have the job."
But, as it turned out, Sunny had badly miscalculated. There hadn't been time. There had scarcely been time for breathing and none at all for resting, much less discussing her plan with him. She had barely entered the little cafe before she had been put to work. And now, ten hours later, she felt she would be lucky if she made it home. She hadn't the strength to worry about the coming confrontation.
On her one brief break, she called the apartment to let him know she was all right and the resulting conversation had effectively warned her what was to store for her when she got home.
As soon as she had identified herself, Ben had begun to question her with a fury that made her pull the phone away from her ear. Oddly enough, his first question, after assuring himself of her safety, was to ask in a strange, stiff voice if she had remembered who she was.
The information that she had found a job, but refused to tell him where, provoked another storm and she was almost grateful when the cook indicated to her that her break was over.
Now as she breathed deeply of the heavy, evening air, she decided to deal with Ben's anger when she got home—if she got home. She kept a steady pace, knowing that if she ever slowed down, she would probably drop. Her back ached in places she hadn't known existed and her feet seemed to be made of thousands of tiny, burning muscles, making every step torture.
"Now I know how the little mermaid felt," she murmured as she walked. "This is the price I pay for giving up my tail."
She felt somehow that Hans Christian Anderson's heroine had gotten the better deal. She at least had suffered the pain for the love of a prince. Sunny had done it for an amount of money that wouldn't have kept a vegetarian alive.
Leaning against a lamp post, she raised each foot in turn to flex the aching insteps.
So that was work. At least now she knew she wasn't a slow study. It hadn't taken her long to find out beyond a doubt that she wasn't fond of the backbreaking labor that went with her new job as waitress-busboy-dishwasher. And she had been equally unfond of the dirt that seemed to be the cafe's only claim to atmosphere. And most of all she had detested the large blond man who had hired her. She shuddered now, remembering the way he had grinned slyly when she had lied about losing her Social Security card.
After what seemed like eons, she reached the house that contained the dearest things in the world—a bath, a bed, and Ben. Her steps quickened as she opened the front door, then she gave a groan of pain and weariness when she stared up the three, long flights of stairs.
There was no help for it. The stairs would not go away no matter how long she stood and stared at them. So, leaning heavily on the banister, she began the
"I don't mind hard work," Sunny said, her eyes beginning to glow with excitement. Then suddenly the glow dimmed somewhat. "He wouldn't ask me to do anything . . . disgusting, would he?"
"Depends on what you call disgusting," the woman-child said, shrugging. "If you mean would there be any funny business, then no. That's what we're trying to get you away from."
"That's what you're trying to get me away from," Sunny murmured wryly under her breath, then, "And you realty think he'll hire me?"
"Sure. I'll take you there tomorrow and get it fixed up," she promised, moving back toward the window. She paused in her exit to straddle the sill as she looked back at Sunny. "Are you going to tell Ben?"
Sunny hadn't thought of that. Somehow she didn't think Ben would care for the idea. "I think maybe I'll Just leave him a note tomorrow. There'll he enough time to discuss it with him when I know for sure that I have the job."
But, as it turned out, Sunny had badly miscalculated. There hadn't been time. There had scarcely been time for breathing and none at all for resting, much less discussing her plan with him. She had barely entered the little cafe before she had been put to work. And now, ten hours later, she felt she would be lucky if she made it home. She hadn't the strength to worry about the coming confrontation.
On her one brief break, she called the apartment to let him know she was all right and the resulting conversation had effectively warned her what was to store for her when she got home.
As soon as she had identified herself, Ben had begun to question her with a fury that made her pull the phone away from her ear. Oddly enough, his first question, after assuring himself of her safety, was to ask in a strange, stiff voice if she had remembered who she was.
The information that she had found a job, but refused to tell him where, provoked another storm and she was almost grateful when the cook indicated to her that her break was over.
Now as she breathed deeply of the heavy, evening air, she decided to deal with Ben's anger when she got home—if she got home. She kept a steady pace, knowing that if she ever slowed down, she would probably drop. Her back ached in places she hadn't known existed and her feet seemed to be made of thousands of tiny, burning muscles, making every step torture.
"Now I know how the little mermaid felt," she murmured as she walked. "This is the price I pay for giving up my tail."
She felt somehow that Hans Christian Anderson's heroine had gotten the better deal. She at least had suffered the pain for the love of a prince. Sunny had done it for an amount of money that wouldn't have kept a vegetarian alive.
Leaning against a lamp post, she raised each foot in turn to flex the aching insteps.
So that was work. At least now she knew she wasn't a slow study. It hadn't taken her long to find out beyond a doubt that she wasn't fond of the backbreaking labor that went with her new job as waitress-busboy-dishwasher. And she had been equally unfond of the dirt that seemed to be the cafe's only claim to atmosphere. And most of all she had detested the large blond man who had hired her. She shuddered now, remembering the way he had grinned slyly when she had lied about losing her Social Security card.
After what seemed like eons, she reached the house that contained the dearest things in the world—a bath, a bed, and Ben. Her steps quickened as she opened the front door, then she gave a groan of pain and weariness when she stared up the three, long flights of stairs.
There was no help for it. The stairs would not go away no matter how long she stood and stared at them. So, leaning heavily on the banister, she began the
Similar Books
