Operation Mail-Order Bride (7 page)

“Now, I’m too broke to leave town, but I’ve been working too hard to have a social life, so I’m still alone here. He, on the other hand, had a new old girlfriend waiting in the wings.”

“Well …,” she sounded sympathetic, but relieved, “I can tell you’re angry, but I was afraid you’d be depressed, and you don’t sound down at all.”

After Rose’s call, I was wondering whether or not I wanted to go to the effort of cooking an evening meal when a knock sounded on the cottage door.

It was Larry and Debra Stone, a couple I was getting to know at church, bearing a large cardboard box.

“You didn’t come to the service last night,” Debra explained as I invited them in from the bitter wind. “Then we ran into that Pat lady you brought to the Thanksgiving dinner and she told us you called in sick for the past two days.”

“We wanted to make sure you were okay, and bring you some leftovers.” Larry held out the box.

“How sweet of you!” I took it and peeked inside. It held a complete traditional holiday dinner on paper plates, wrapped in plastic. My mouth began to water. Larry and Debra exchanged a look when they heard my voice, which betrayed severe congestion.

“You’ve been sick, all right,” Debra ventured. “Do you need anything?”

I assured them that their visit and their gift of the meal was more than enough, and that my health was improving rapidly.

“I’m planning to go to work
Monday. I feel much better than I did yesterday, and light-years better than the day before.”

Larry chuckled. “I’m sorry for laughing, Cassie, but you sound like a cartoon character. Isn’t it part of your job to answer the phone?”

“Yes.”

“They may have to have you do something different
for a day or two,” Debra remarked.

They stayed for a time and visited until the light outside grew dim.

“Do you think that ice storm will get here?” I asked.

“Last report I heard said it was going to pass north of us,” Larry stated. “It’s just as well. The last bad one shut the town down for three days.”

This was one more surprising fact about my new home. In the northeast, we couldn’t afford to let winter storms shut businesses down. They came so often, commerce would have ground to a halt.

“But we walked, so we’d better be on our way,” Debra told me, and gave me a hug. “I’m glad you’re better. See you at the New Year’s Day service?”

I assured them that I planned to be there, and after watching them out of sight I fell on the box supper and ate every bite.

Midmorning of
my first day back at work after Christmas, I received an unpleasant surprise.

Ms. Gardner called me to her office and closed the door. In a voice still nasal from the cold she had shared with me and
several others, she announced that she had to lay me off.

“As busy as we’ve been? I don’t understand, Ms. Gardner. How can business be so bad?”

“Advertising revenues are down seventeen percent from last year, and they’ll probably drop even more, since we were so late mailing the January issue.” She turned the leaves of a ledger as if hoping the numbers in it would change. “I’m sorry, Cassie, but I have to try to salvage what I can.

“Now,” she closed the ledger and tucked a strand of fading blonde hair behind her ear, “you can stay on for two weeks at your usual salary, or you can take the two weeks’ pay and leave today.”

I took the severance pay, thinking I could use the two weeks to job-hunt.

I was right: I needed that two weeks and then some before I was employed again. There were simply no job openings in my field. I put in applications at every business in town that could possibly use someone with my skills, and in the three nearest towns. I even answered several help wanted ads in the city, though the prospect of commuting
such a long distance every day was daunting. After three weeks I was still unemployed. I alerted everyone I knew that I was on the job market again, to no avail.

When I had to withdraw money from my meager savings account to pay my rent, I left the bank and sat in my car under the weak January sun, looking at the few entries in my account passbook. The transfer I
had just made left less in the account than would pay next month’s rent, and I hadn’t factored in utilities and groceries. It was time for desperate measures.

Since there were no job openings in my field, I would have to find a job in a different field. I would have to make the rounds of the restaurants. I waited tables during summers in high school, so I knew what to expect. I didn’t care for the work, but the income would stave off homelessness until something in printing or publishing opened up. It wasn’t long before my applications were on file in every restaurant in four towns. Less than a week after I set my sights on food service, my phone rang. One of the doughnut shops needed help: counter girl and doughnut finisher, nine p.m. to five a.m. Minimum wage to start.

I accepted the offer. The shop was walking distance from the cottage, so I would save on gas. If I avoided eating out and buying clothes for awhile, I would manage.

Times like this is why there are public libraries,
I told myself as I locked the cottage and headed off for my first night at my new job.

It was a Wednesday night and the young woman I was replacing was there to train me. As I expected, the job was easy to learn and I knew the stress would be minimal. No sixty-hour weeks and, if I continued to meet the limited requirements, no fear of being laid off or fired. This job would end when I wanted it to end.

The next two days were a struggle to readjust my sleep cycle so I would be fresh and alert for third shift. I was trudging to the shop on Friday evening when Larry and Debra pulled alongside in their wheezing old car.

“Need a ride, Cassie?” called Larry.

I pointed to the bright windows of the doughnut shop, a block away. “I’m only going there, but thanks.”

“Want some company?” asked Debra.

“If you don’t mind watching me work,” I said, opening my coat to reveal the pink smock of my new profession.

“You’re employed!” they cried happily. “
Congratulations,” Debra went on. She turned to her husband. “Want to stop in? We can help increase business on Cassie’s shift and make her look good.”

“I don’t know, Deb.” He was pensive. “I usually don’t like to drink coffee this late at night.”

“We sell milk,” I suggested.

“Okay,” Larry decided. “Maybe we’ll see David.”

“Who?” I asked as I climbed into the car.

“David Armstrong. He comes to church
sometimes—or he did,” Larry explained as we traveled the short distance to the shop’s parking lot. “He’s just back from serving in the Air Force, and he’s working as a baker here until he figures out what he wants to do.”

I thought about the only baker I had met so far at the shop—a Middle-Eastern engineering student with a dense accent.

“I haven’t met him yet.”

“He told me he only works the heavy shifts and a couple of other nights. I guess he earns more and gets more free time that way.”

“Larry! Debra!” called an unfamiliar voice as we entered the doughnut shop. The Stones walked up to the counter and took a couple of stools. I veered around the display case where the cash register sat to get back to the kitchen.

“Cassie,” Larry began as I approached on the opposite side of the counter, “this is our old friend David Armstrong. David, this is your new co-worker, Cassie Jacobs.”

I nodded at him and we shook hands. His felt dusty. I realized it was flour. He went back to fixing his coffee the way he liked it.

“Sue mentioned that you started Wednesday. How are you doing so far?”

“I’m okay. I haven’t worked a weekend shift yet. Does it get really busy?”

“Sometimes, but it never gets as busy as the early mornings after we leave. You’re lucky to get this shift. They just expect you to keep the place clean while you finish doughnuts and fill the cases for the morning crew. A child could handle the trickle of customers.”

“That’s pretty much what Laura told me. What nights do you work?”

“Friday, Saturday, Monday and Tuesday. You?”

“Not sure. This is only my third night.”

I could see Sue frowning at me from the rear of the kitchen, so I excused myself and joined her. She was in a hurry to leave, so I clocked in and listened as she gave me instructions for the night. I was nonplussed when I saw the length of the finishing list for that night: not dozens, but hundreds upon hundreds of doughnuts, in every variety we sold. I mentally squared my shoulders as I wished her goodnight. It was naïve to assume this job would present no challenges.

I returned to the front so I could wait on Larry and Debra, to find that David had already served them.

“That was very nice of you,” I told him. “Thank you.”

“Just helping out ’til you get your footing,” he replied. “Did Sue give you the list?”

“Yes,” I said. “It seems … quite long.”

“It is. Friday and Saturday night productions are the biggest of the week. I suggest you get your big cleaning chores out of the way early. In about two hours, doughnuts will start pouring out of that fryer.” Upon serving up that visual image, he took his coffee and returned to the kitchen.

I turned to the Stones. “He’s very businesslike, isn’t he?”

“I think you’ll find,” said Larry, “that David takes all his responsibilities seriously.”

I took his advice and was as ready as I could be when the freshly fried doughnuts were ready. Armored in hairnet and apron, I frosted, filled, and dusted them. Occasionally, I trotted out front to sell some doughnuts or make a fresh pot of coffee. My night slowly passed in a blizzard of sugar and a mist of hot shortening. At four, David drained his coffee cup and shrugged into his coat.

“You appear to have everything under control,” he told me, digging out his keys. “You’re doing well, for a newbie.” He flashed me a friendly, crooked smile. Surprised, I returned it. He was so silent and preoccupied I was beginning to think he was surly.

“I’ll see you tonight. It’s been nice meeting you and working with you.”

“You, too.” He left.

Saturday night was a copy of Friday night, except that David began to talk to me whenever I was in the kitchen. It wasn’t a conversation as much as it was a narrative. He told stories about other doughnut shops—he learned his skills in high school—other bosses, and the Air Force. He had served as a communications specialist—which meant, he explained, a switchboard operator with a high security clearance—and had been discharged with the rank of Sergeant. By the time he finished his production and was ready to go home, I knew that he was not only good at working with dough, he was comfortable working with electronic equipment, wiring and almost any kind of machinery.

“Do you think you might want a career as a technician or mechanic?” I asked him as he was getting ready to leave. “You seem to be good at that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed without a trace of arrogance. “I’m thinking about those areas, and I’ll make up my mind sooner or later. I know I don’t want to make doughnuts for the rest of my life.” He looked around the kitchen for a moment, then turned his attention to me. “You working Monday night?” I answered that I was. “See you then,” he said, then he was gone.

In contrast to the huge weekend production, the tiny quantity of doughnuts that Akmed made Sunday night was ridiculously easy to deal with. I finished so early that I found myself wiping the counter for the fifth time, gazing out at each passing car and wishing it would pull in so I would have something different to do. I pulled out the bus pans, tableware caddies and dish trays and cleaned the deep shelves where they sat. After the entire place was spotless, including the floor, it was only four. I took up a position near the cash register and began sketching the curved counter and the waitress’s aisle behind it on paper napkins. By the time my relief arrived at four-fifty there was a thick wad of small drawings in the rear pocket of my jeans.

I’ll have to remember to bring a sketchpad and some drawing pencils,
I thought as I walked home. I worked the fingers of my hand to ease the cramps caused by drawing with a ballpoint pen. If I was to be stuck in a deserted restaurant for long periods with nothing to do on some mornings, I should put the time to good use.
At least I’ll be working with David tonight. I wonder when I’m going to have a day off.
I continued to ponder these and other disconnected thoughts as I let myself into the cottage and prepared for bed.

My workdays continued through Wednesday, when the manager stopped in and told me I would be off Thursday.

“I’m sorry you had such a long first week, Cassie, but the other third-shift counter girl quit without notice two days after you started. I would have asked Laura to stay and relieve you until I could hire someone else, but she’d already left town. What a business!”

“Will Thursday be my night off normally?”

“For the time being.” She studied the staff schedule tacked to the corkboard above her minuscule desk. Her office wasn’t much bigger than the closet in my cottage bedroom. “I’d like to be able to give you two nights off in a row, but I can’t just now. The new girl has to have Wednesday off so she can babysit overnight for her sister, and I’ve got to have you here on Friday and Saturday. David said you took on the workload like a veteran. He’s very impressed and, believe me, that’s not easy to do.”