Free Sweeping Up Glass by Carolyn Wall

laughed and patted his leg with her menu. “It’s my birthday, and my husband was bringing me here as a treat—but it seems he’s been detained. I think, dear Mr. Ruse, that we’ll go ahead and order.”
    “No problem, Miz Harker,” Big Ruse said. “If Tate don’t make it, he can settle up later. And I’ll include a slice of pie for each of you as my birthday gift.”
    “Why, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” she said, smiling.
    If Ida kept this up, her face would crack, or I was going to throw up on the table, one.
    “Well, what do you recommend?”
    “Turkey pie’s done to a turn, Miz Harker. Fix you up with two a them.”
    “I want beefsteak,” I said, because that’s what Pap would have ordered. “Cooked lightly, please. Red inside.”
    Ida waved her menu. “The girl doesn’t know what’s good for her. We’ll have two helpings of turkey pie.”
    I watched through the window, praying Pap would come. But he did not, so I looked around, although I knew the place like the back of my hand. On hot summer days, Big Ruse often had set a glass of cold water in front of me on the counter. He was also famous for his biscuits and honey, which Pap had sometimes treated me to on Saturday mornings. I knew his son, a few years older than me and homely as dish soap. His first name was actually Cornelius—no wonder he never used it. We called him Little Ruse.
    Just now, Little Ruse was scuttling around, wiping off tables, filling salt shakers, and unable to take his eyes off Ida.
    Wedges of turkey pie came, with thick gravy and a biscuit on the side and pats of butter. And so did Mr. French, and Mr. Andrews who had just closed his barbershop. They sat together, ate slabs of chocolate cake and drank coffee, looking in our direction and talking in low voices. I hunched over my plate. Ida sent them smiles that were both brilliant and quivery. I spread butter on my biscuit and stuffed half in my mouth.
    Little Ruse wiped the table next to ours. “Hey, Olivia,” he said.
    I could hear his mama in the kitchen, banging pans and spoons. “Hey,” I said around the bread.
    He grinned at me, and Ida saw it. She put down her fork. “Olivia Harker,” she said, “I won’t have this boy makin’ eyes at you. If you are doin’ anything a-moral with him …”
    I was mortally embarrassed. Little Ruse, with his flapping-big ears and his quarter-of-an-inch haircut, darted away to the kitchen. I did not see him again that night.
    “Oh, Mr.
Ru
-use,” Ida called, and he came with the coffee pot and refilled her cup.
    I wished with all my heart that Pap would show up. Then I could have a bite or two of his steak, and he would tell me about the Nailhows’ cat, and the news from the settlement. I hoped there was somebody out there to give him a ride. Otherwise, Pap might not be home for a long time.
    Ida had her hand on Big Ruse’s leg. “Goodness, I admire a man who runs his own business. It takes such courage.” To my astonishment—and probably Ruse’s—she hooked his leg with her hand and pulled him close so that she was talking directly into his belt buckle.
    Ruse kept looking off to the kitchen. I wondered what he thought about Pap’s wife playing up to him. But Ruse obviously was not thinking at all. His own flopping ears had turned red as Christmas bulbs, and his eyes were coming out of his head. I couldn’t wait to tell Love Alice that I’d seen Big Ruse nearly breathing smoke with his need to stick his business into Ida. If Love Alice was right, he’d blow up into a toad any minute. I wanted to crawl under the table.
    Ida looked up at him. “Here I am talking on and on. If you’re ready to bring our pie, Mr. Ruse, I’d love it if you’d join us.”
    I never heard his reply. I jerked my coat from the rack and ran out of the cafe as if wildcats were after me. I had witnessed Ida whoring with Big Ruse, and I would never come back.
    I was no more than two steps into the road when a shiny new truck came