A Norwood short story by D R Hood
The commotion started, as most of Esther's commotions did, right around the time the lunch trays came out.
It was meatloaf day, which meant the whole cafeteria smelled like onions and nostalgia, and the kitchen staff were moving at double speed trying to get three hundred trays out before the mashed potatoes went gummy. Elise had just sat down with her own tray — meatloaf, green beans cooked to the color of old money, and a roll she had plans for — when she heard it from the hallway.
Marisol the aide's voice, pitched somewhere between scandalized and trying not to laugh: "Ma'am! Ma'am, you cannot — this is a kitchen! This is a working kitchen!"
And Esther's voice, smooth as butter: "Then put me to work, sugar."
Wilma's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "Oh, Lord," she said, clutching her pearls. "Not again."
"Again what?" Gineva asked, already reaching for the salt.
"You know what," Wilma said.
By the time the four of them reached the cafeteria doorway — Elise leading, Wilma muttering prayers, Gineva carrying her roll like a torch — poor Daniel, the young CNA with the kind eyes and no luck whatsoever, was escorting Esther out of the kitchen by the elbow. Esther went willingly, which she always did, one hand trailing along the doorframe like she was sorry to leave a good party. Behind them, old Mr. Abernathy from Gatewood stood by the industrial mixer pretending to inspect it, his ears red as beets and his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
"What did she do now?" Wilma whispered.
Mooney looked up from her card game at the next table. At 101, Mooney missed nothing — she had once identified a stolen pudding cup by smell alone, from across the room. "Caught her kissing Abernathy behind the pantry door," she announced, to no one in particular and everyone in general. "Third time this month. Second pantry."
A ripple went through the nearby tables. Somebody's spoon clattered.
Elise pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. It wouldn't do to encourage her. Somebody had to be the responsible one, and the Lord knew it wasn't going to be Esther.
Daniel deposited Esther in a chair at their table with the care of a man defusing something. "Miss Esther," he said, very formal, drawing himself up to his full height, "you know the kitchen is staff only."
"And yet," Esther said, patting his hand like he was the one in trouble, "you keep finding me in there. Almost like you want to."
Daniel's ears went the color of Abernathy's. He fled toward the drink station, nearly colliding with a tray cart.
"Esther!" Wilma hissed, pearls in a death grip now. "In the kitchen! They make the food in there!"
"And yet the food survived," Esther said, serenely selecting a roll from Elise's tray. "Elise, you weren't going to eat this."
"I was absolutely going to eat that."
"Mm." Esther buttered it. "Besides, a woman has needs."
"What needs?" Gineva asked, genuinely curious, the way she asked about everything — the same tone she'd used last month when she wanted to know why the trash cans had signs about utensils. Elise had not told her. Some mysteries were kinder unsolved.
"Sugar," Esther said. "A woman my age has to get her sugar where she can."
The table went quiet. Wilma made a sound like a teakettle coming to boil. Even Mooney started shaking with that silent laugh of hers, the one that made her shoulders bounce and her cards flutter.
Across the room, Abernathy had migrated to a corner table and was studying his meatloaf like it contained state secrets. Every few seconds his eyes flicked toward their table, then away. Esther caught one of those glances and raised her roll in a little toast. The man's ears somehow got redder.
"That poor man," Wilma said. "Esther, you are going to give him a heart attack."
"He's eighty-one years old, Wilma. If kissing me gives him a heart attack, that's a fine way to go, and he knows it."
"You are shameless."
"I am eighty-three," Esther said, with great dignity. "Shame is for the young. They have time to regret things."
Marisol appeared at Esther's shoulder then, clipboard in hand, wearing the expression of a woman who had done this exact thing at least a dozen times. "Miss Esther," she said, "I'm going to have to write this up."
"Oh, honey, write whatever you like," Esther said, waving a hand. "Just spell my name right. It's E-S-T-H-E-R. The H is silent, like my intentions."
"Your intentions," Marisol said, scribbling, "are the loudest thing in this building."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, but do go on."
Marisol capped her pen and shook her head, but she was smiling as she walked away. They all were. You couldn't stay mad at Esther. It was like staying mad at weather — technically possible, but what was the point?
When the excitement died down and the trays were cleared — Gineva pocketing two forks out of habit, Wilma pretending not to see — Elise walked Esther back to her room. Partly to make sure she got there. Mostly because Esther had that look.
"What look?" Esther asked, when Elise said so.
"The look that says the afternoon is young and so are you."
Esther laughed, unlocking her door. "Elise, honey, I have plans. My room could use a good cleaning, and these cobwebs aren't going to dust themselves."
"Esther."
"What? A woman likes a tidy room." She winked, slow and deliberate. "And Mr. Abernathy did mention the Gatewood day room sits empty after supper. Very private, he said."
Elise stared at her. "You are incorrigible."
"I am eighty-three," Esther said, fluffing a pillow with great dignity. "I have earned the right to be incorrigible. Now shoo. A girl needs her privacy."
Elise left her to it, shaking her head all the way down the hall. Behind her, she heard Esther humming — some old song, something with a swing to it.
Some women collected silverware. Some women collected chocolates. Esther collected moments — and heaven help anyone who got in her way.
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