"I don't think so," said Minnie. "I think you got the same tone of voice I heard in my daughter when she had no intention of doing what I said, but promised to do it just to get me off her back."
"Well I'm not your daughter. I thought I was your friend."
Minnie looked at her, steady and cold, then shook her head. "Ida Johnson, I can't figure you out. I never thought you'd last a week, and I sure never figured you for the type who'd try to hold onto a lousy job like this one after the tongue-lashing I just gave you."
"To tell you the truth, Mrs. Wilcox, I never figured myself that way either. But I don't want to leave."
"Is it Douglas Spaulding? Are you in love?"
"I used up love a dozen years ago, Mrs. Wilcox, and I haven't looked to recharge the batteries since then."
"You mean to tell me you been without a man for twelve years?"
"I thought we were talking about whether I was in love."
"No such thing." Minnie looked her up and down. "I'll bet you didn't wear a bra during the bra-burning days, did you?"
"What?"
"Your chest has dropped so low you could almost tuck 'em into your belt. I don't know what a man would find attractive about you anyway."
It was such an insulting, outrageous thing to say that Rainie was speechless.
"You can stay, as long as you don't call me Mrs. Wilcox, that just drives me crazy, call me Minnie."
Things went right back to normal, mostly because Douglas Spaulding didn't come in again for more than a week, and when he did come back, he wasn't alone. He was part of a group of men -- most of them in suits, but not all -- who came into the cafe walking on the balls of their feet like dancers, like running backs. "You're all full of sass," said Minnie to one of the men.
"Time to feed the baby!" he answered.
Minnie rolled her eyes. "I know. Jaynanne Spaulding's gone out of town again."
"Dougie's Christmas present to her -- a week with her folks up in Racine."
"Present to himself," said Minnie.
"Taking care of the kids for a solid week, you think that's a picnic?"
"Those kids take care of themselves," said Minnie. "Douglas Spaulding's just a big old kid himself. And so are you, Tom Reuther, if you want my opinion."
"Minnie, honey, nobody ever has time to want your opinion. You give it to us before we even have a chance to wish for it."
Minnie held up a ladle of her Cincinnati chili. "You planning to eat your lunch or wear it, Tom?"
One of the other men -- a mechanic, from the black stains on his overalls -- piped up from the two tables they had pushed together in the middle of the room. "He's already wearing every bit of food you ever served him. Can't you see it hanging over his belt?"
"Under my belt or over it, Minnie, I wear your food with pride," said Tom. Then he blew her a kiss and joined the others.
Douglas was already sitting at the table, laughing at nothing and everything, just like the others. He really did seem to be just a big old kid right then -- there was nothing of the father about him now. Just noise and laughing and moving around in his chair, as if it might just kill him if he ever sat still for more than ten seconds at a time. Rainie half expected to look down and see him wearing too-short or too-long jeans with holes in the knees, showing one knee skinned up and scabbed over, and maybe raggedy sneakers on his feet. She was almost disappointed to see those shiny sensible oxfords and suitpants with the hems just right. He didn't not look at her, but he didn't particularly look at her, either. He was just generally cheerful, being with his friends, and he had plenty of good cheer to share with anybody who happened to come along.
"You going to order separate checks and make my life miserable?" asked Rainie of the group at large.
"Just give the bill to Doug," said Tom.
"You can make one total and we'll divvy it up ourselves," said Douglas. "It'll be easy, because we're all having exactly the same thing."
"Is that right?"
"Beans!" cried Tom.
"Beans! Beans! Beans!" chanted several of the others.
"We gots to have our daily beans, ma'am," Tom explained, "cause we gots to feed the baby of love!"
"I got a double batch of chili with extra cinnamon!" called Minnie from the behind the counter. "This time somebody had the brains to call ahead and warn me!"
Tom immediately pointed an accusing finger at Douglas. "What is this, Spaulding! A sudden attack of maturity and consideration for others? Malicious foresight? For shame!"
Douglas shrugged. "Last time she ran out."
"Chili for everybody," said Rainie. "Is that all? Nothing to drink?"
"What is the drink of the day?" asked one of the men.
"Whose turn is it anyway?" asked another.
"Tom's turn," said Douglas.
They turned toward him expectantly. He spread his hands out on the table, and looked them in the eye, as if he was about to deliver the state of the union address. Or a funeral prayer. "Seven-Up," said Tom. "A large seven-up for everybody."
"Are you serious?" asked Douglas. "And what's for dessert, toothpaste?"
"The rule is no alcohol at lunch," said Tom, "and beyond that we're free to be as creative as we like."
"You're giving creativity a bad name," said Douglas.
"Trust me," said Tom.
"If all we get today is Seven-Up," said the mechanic, "you are going to spend the entire evening as primordial slime."
"No, he's going to spend the night in hell," said another.
At the soda machine, spurting the Seven-Up into the glasses, Rainie had to ask. "What in the world are they talking about?"
"It's a game they play," said Minnie. "It's notorious all over town. More satanic than Dungeons and Dragons. If these boys weren't so nice they'd probably be burnt at the stake or something."
"Satanic?"