Howling sat up on his knees, pouring pepper onto the surface of the table before drawing in it with his index finger. Vern wanted to shout at them, Be good, but he didn’t know a jar of pepper wasn’t an art medium. “That’s for eating, not for playing,” she said. He dipped his finger into it, put it into his mouth, then coughed.
Vern scooped the pepper into her hands, then into a napkin, cleaning the table. “Just try not to do anything unless I tell you it’s okay. Please.”
The children looked forlorn, but they’d lived lives that required patience. Hunting and fishing weren’t for those seeking a quick thrill. They could spend hours sharpening slate into an arrowhead. They could sit still and wait to be served breakfast.
“What can I get you?” asked the waiter brusquely, eyes on her pad of paper. She was in her fifties or sixties and dressed in a pair of overalls. Her long hair, braided in two, was the swirling gray color of a pre-storm sky. “I can come back if you want.”
“No, sorry, we’ll just have some toast and water, please. Thank you,” said Vern, figuring she could afford that.
“Actually,” said Feral, either innocently or defiantly—Vern couldn’t tell—“I’d like some fried rabbit to go with my toast, please, and also some rabbit stew, some roasted chestnuts, and, oh, also acorn grits, and fried acorn cakes.”
Howling, not to be left starving while his sibling feasted, joined in. “And I’ll have deer with gooseberry sauce. And for dessert, roasted pecans drizzled with maple syrup.”
“And crab apple compote,” added Feral. “And some electricity food, too, but I don’t know the names of those. Can you bring it all?”
“And blackened fish!”
The children’s foolishness made the waiter look up from her pad. “Hmm,” she said, examining them. “You boys are awfully big. Are you sure that’s going to be enough food?” she asked, revealing a tenderheartedness that otherwise was not immediately apparent in her manner.
“Boys?” asked Feral.
“I’m sorry. Girls,” the waiter corrected.
“They’re children,” Vern said, nervous that she would have to explain what she meant by that. She’d never had to before.
“Ah. Are you sure? They look awfully big to only be children. Surely they are grown-ups,” the waiter said without fuss over Vern’s correction. Howling and Feral laughed at the teasing. “Why don’t I bring you back some of my favorites, then see what you think, huh?”
Vern shook her head. “What can we get for under three dollars?”
“Everything here’s on the house, but you can donate over there if you want.” The waiter pointed to an area over at the bar counter.
“Really?” asked Vern.
For the first time, the waiter paused her gaze on Vern’s face, taking her in. Her head tilted, she stared with eyes too big for her face.
The woman slid her pad into the pocket of her canvas apron. “Vern?”
The plastic saltshaker Vern had been worrying with her right hand slipped from her grasp, landing with a hollow thunk on the table. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it until her palm felt all-at-once bereft, sweaty and desperate for distraction.
Panic-stricken, Vern took hold of a fork, ready to stab the waiter if it came to it. “How do you know my name?” she asked.
The waiter left the table and shouted over to one of her coworkers. “Hey, Buckeye. I got to go. Personal matters. I can count on you to hold the fort?”
“I always do anyway,” said Buckeye, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah,” said the waiter, then went back to Vern. “Follow me.” The woman flung on a coat and pushed through the double doors of the entryway without checking to see if Vern was behind.
The children looked at Vern for direction, and she nodded. “Come on. Let’s go.” Howling and Feral bounced up from their seats, each of them slotting the sample-sized jars of jam and honey on the table into their pockets. Vern couldn’t move as spryly as they and had to shout at them to stop so they didn’t get too far ahead. When she did manage to push herself up onto her legs, it was with much swearing.
“Mam? You all right?” asked Feral.
“Shh,” Vern said. Walking demanded potent focus. She grabbed the children’s hands and caught up to the waiter outside. There she was, leaning against a light blue hooptie pickup truck.
“Get in,” she said.
Vern tightened her grip around Feral and Howling’s hands. “The last person to bark orders at me aint around anymore,” she threatened.