and tied tight, Abby tried to smile as she passed the second floor.
Abby was used to doing things by herself. A shoelace around her neck held a house key. It was nice and cool to touch, and Abby wore it every day. She cooked her own dinner too. Jiffy Pop hurt her teeth, though she popped it without burning a single kernel. Peanut butter and lettuce sandwiches would be easier to eat. Her mom grinned for broccoli and mushy peas with vinegar. Beans on toast and poached eggs. Abby knew just how much vinegar to put in the water. ‘More than a teaspoon, less than a tablespoon, makes those eggs swoon,’ Abby said. Abby was hungry.
Up the flight of stairs to the third floor, Abby grabbed the banister with both hands. A large woman in a chartreuse dress flew past her, throwing a pink plastic hair flower to the ground. Mascara ran down her face in streaks. She was oblivious to Abby, who picked up the flower and stretched to her tiptoes, peering over the railing down to the lobby. ‘Lady, lady! You dropped your flower! Lady! Wait!’
The lady and her beautifully flowing dress of yellowish green disappeared. Abby held the flower. A pink gerbera. It smelled of hairspray. Like perfume. It had a green stem, bendy as a pipe cleaner. Abby put it in her hair and found the third floor. She turned left, three doors down. ‘Excuse me, do you know where the dentist’s is?’ asked Abby.
A man was wiping his teeth with the back of his tie. He checked his breath in his hand and smirked. ‘Why, yes I do, young lady.’ He fixed his tie, adjusting the knot flat to his chest.
‘Is it here?’
‘It is here, and the dentist is me.’
‘Oh.’ Abby stood up straight and pursed her lips.
‘Where’s your mother, young lady? You didn’t come up all these stairs by yourself, did you?’ He seemed concerned.
Abby felt for the flower in her hair. ‘Yes. My mom is out getting money for my teeth.’
‘Teeth, eh? Well. You’ve come to the right place, I’m afraid.’ Abby didn’t smile.
‘Delano’s the name. Low Rates. Satisfaction Guaranteed. No Questions Asked. What’s your name then, young lady?’
‘Abby Lamp.’
‘That’s a nice name, isn’t it? Sounds shiny. Nice to meet you.’ He stuck out his hand.
‘I’m not supposed to shake hands with a stranger, sir.’
Delano sauntered back, ruefully aghast. ‘“Sir”? I’m not a stranger. I’m your dentist. A dentist is never a stranger. Ha.’
Abby sniffed at her vinegar shoes.
‘Well, I suppose we should have a gander at your teeth, young lady. Come on in. Right this way. It’s good and sunny in here today.’
Abby stepped into his office with a squint.
‘Step right this way to the big old chair for a million-dollar smile.’
‘A million dollars?’ Abby gulped. ‘My mom sure doesn’t have a million dollars.’
‘Oh no, young lady. Ha! That’s only a figure of speech. It shouldn’t cost all that much. Special rates for you, my young friend.’
Abby hopped in the big old chair.
‘Sure is a nice flower you have in your hair, Abby Lamp. Pink is a wonderful colour for a girl.’
Abby smiled a little.
§
The Pickle.
The Cook rings the kitchen bell, so Room Service Boy gets off his chair. He presses wrinkles from his lap and swings through the kitchen door with his two straight cuffs. Mindful of the wet kitchen floor, he eyes The Cook.
‘Is this it?’
The steam from lightly browned bread and old cheddar cheese whets Room Service Boy’s appetite. The soup suspends flecks of parsley and black peppercorns. Freshly cracked. The pink hue in the blue bowl means the soup contains at least one part milk. Two thin slices of cantaloupe dignify the matching plate. Last week’s honeydew melon balls would certainly have clashed.
‘Where’s the pickle? It needs a pickle. It’s a grilled cheese. The lady in Room 32 wants a pickle with her grilled cheese.’ Room Service Boy pays attention to detail.
A gravelly sigh brings the impressive jar of Bick’s Polski Ogorki dill pickles down from the top shelf and onto the wooden cutting board. The Cook’s stubby little fingers twist away the lid, dive into the brine and flick about for a keeper. His stubby little fingers find a shiny, well-textured specimen of deepest green. He holds it under the heat lamp, dripping shiny brine from his stubby thumb and forefinger, seeking approval from Room Service Boy.
With hands clasped together and a nod of chin to chest, Room Service Boy admires The Cook’s dirt-free nails. The garlic in the brine keeps them clean. The Cook cleans a thin knife on his apron, eyeing the moist pickle on the cutting board.
Chop chop. Chop.
He places four symmetrical, aromatic pickle quarters on the blue plate, employing great care not to disturb the garnish of cantaloupe. Under the lava glow of the heat lamp, the pickle lets out a sizzle.
‘Yeah. I bet she does,’ says The Cook.
Room Service Boy straightens his cuffs again, noticing the shine of the heat lamp on the wet kitchen floor. He should mop it up for safety. ‘Does what?’
‘Wants a pickle.’
‘A what?’
‘A pi-ckle.’
The Cook unties his apron as Room Service Boy removes a plastic tray from the stack, examining it for cleanliness. He folds a clean yellow linen napkin in the shape of a triangle and places a large soup spoon in the middle of it. He pulls enough cuff to grasp blue plate, saucer and bowl away from the gnaw of the heat lamp. The food for Room 32 appears on the tray without a spilled drop or shaken crumb. Three seconds. Room Service Boy takes pride in his efficiency.
The Cook folds his greasy apron over his arm. ‘Get it?’ he says.
‘Get what?’
With a strange gesticulation of hips, The Cook hovers those stubby little fingers around his fat white T-shirt belly and his belt. These two articles of clothing don’t quite meet up over the bounty of coarse black curls hiding his belly button. In a circular motion of hands, with pelvic thrusts for emphasis, he says, ‘The pickle. The pickle. The pi-ckle.’ A bead of sweat runs down his forehead, right through a fence of hairnet.
‘Oh,’ Room Service Boy replies, placing the tray on the cutlery table beside the juice fridge. Quickly. One small carton of Tropicana Orange-Peach. One bendy straw, and a single plastic daisy in a single plastic daisy holder. The modest card reads FOR OUR VALUED GUEST. He never knew The Cook could dance so well.
Past the swing of the kitchen door, Room
