Free Stay With Me by Garret Freymann-Weyr Page A

silver are so intricately arranged that you think
pretty
but also,
how is that possible.
    My sister stops her forbidden glasses-tapping and says to me,
    "You get a job first, a fun job, and then we'll tell Da."
    Tell him after the fact. He can't worry or object. Pretty clever.
    "A fun job," I repeat and then, not very seriously, ask, "Can I go to work for a construction crew?"
    "No, union rules are a nightmare in the city," says my ever practical sister, the lawyer. "Why don't you call your boss from last summer? The restaurant manager. Rebecca said they loved you there."
    I got my job at Gaveston's last summer because Rebecca knew the owner. My sister made me work for her at the store before she would vouch for me. She wanted to make sure I could take an order, be polite to strangers, and handle a cash flow.
    "She told you that I worked at Gaveston's?" I ask.
    "She talked about you," Clare says. "It's only me who was the bad sister."
    "That's not true," I say, finally contradicting this belief of hers. "I never thought of it like that."
    "The famous big heart," Clare says, smiling. "Make your call, and if that doesn't pan out, I'll see what I can turn up."
    I call my old boss, who says there's no room on the schedule for part-time help, but that a friend of his at Caffe Acca ("Downtown, on one of those tiny streets, do you know it?") is looking for someone to cover split shifts.
    "It's what he gets for hiring actors," Greg says. "Professionals and students, I told him. It's the only way to go. Have him call me and I'll sing you to the heavens."
    "Thanks," I say, in a fog of disbelief and shock.
    Here's a big red flag that even I can see. If I get this job, I could find T. Maybe he lives nearby. Maybe he always has coffee at Acca. Maybe if I worked there, I'd see him when he comes in. Bring his order
and
ask him who he was to my sister.
    I arrange for an interview.
     
    Hal Kranem, who is the kind of skinny that makes you think of a chain smoker, has three questions mostly relating to my schedule. Yes, I could do the four-to-seven split, three days a week. Yes, if I had to I could stay later. Yes, if he needs me, I could come in an hour late on the two days I get tutored. Rebecca once said that working in a restaurant is like joining a religion: total submission goes far toward gaining glory. Yes, I tell Hal, I do know Caffe Acca will lose its liquor license if a minor is caught serving drinks.
    "I can take the order," I say. "But I can't bring it to the table."
    "Or clear it," he says.
    That's new, I think, hoping I'll be able to keep a regular coffee cup straight from an Irish coffee one.
    "Or clear it," I say.
    "Greg loved you," Hal says. "When can you start?"
    I leave his small office almost convinced that my sister is still alive and working to shape my life. It's silly, I know, because I clearly owe this job to Greg, but I owed working for him to Rebecca. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk about feeling a hand touch them from beyond the grave.
     
    Ben's not too happy with my sudden departure from the tech crew. He wants to know if it's because of him. More specifically, some other him.
    "Are you dating somebody?"
    I can't believe he's serious, but he is. The amount of time we spend together, which seems like a lot to me, seems like
hardly ever
to Ben.
    "No, of course not," I say. "No."
    My inability to work on this play feels private. While Ben used to be the first person who heard what was important and/or private, he isn't anymore. No matter how much I might wish otherwise. My living with Clare and Raphael, who are also consumed with Rebecca's memory, has made it impossible to even pretend that things are the same.
    I miss Ben the way I miss my parents—as if I am the one who has gone on a trip. Not to an actual place, obviously, but to my version of what Clare calls
the new now.
She says it started for her when she landed at JFK, seventeen hours after Da's call to Budapest. She thinks it's the place you