David Alan Dedin
My Heart Goes Bang
Seventeen
My Heart Goes Bang
1991
“Move the ceiling tile, and make sure you set it on the wall – not the metal runner,” Patrick instructed, as Alan stood on the breakroom toilet, a Lexan of rolled silverware balanced on his fingertips. Alan pushed the rectangular fiberboard aside to reveal the dark space above the kitchen ceiling – and a precarious stack of eight plastic containers hidden within the rafters, each filled with 75 rolls of customer utensils. He did mental math:
“Patrick – there’s almost seven hundred rolls of silverware up here!”
“That’s what you get for being mean to your staff,” Patrick said coldly, his tone surprisingly curt. “Sharon has no right to make us roll so many. She’s just being a bitch.”
Alan smiled as he carefully positioned his Lexan with the others, returning the ceiling tile to its place. He jumped down from the toilet. “Bitch?” he repeated, surprised. “You must be mad because I never hear you swear.”
Patrick sighed. “Things are difficult enough as it is. Sharon making us roll all that silverware is just mean. And this takes care of that problem.”
“Damn, and here I thought that I was the Phantom!” Alan said.
Patrick shrugged indifferently. “Let’s get back to the floor. I really need to make some money tonight.”
* * * * *
Bonnie Tyler sang from above, as Laurie came up the dining room stairs, open ticket book in hand. She stopped to let Natalie pass – the hostess was seating a party of seven – and the dining room was filling rapidly, the late September sky growing purple in the windows. Even by Checker’s standards, this was unfolding into an astonishingly busy weekend. The restaurant had gone on a wait by five, and Cheryl Bennish had switched to a large oval tray & jack for beverages, in order to meet demand. Half the servers had already broken a sweat.
“Now, here she comes, here she comes…”
“Is that a new shirt?” Alan asked Guinevere, as she rounded the alley corner shouting, “WALKING IN, KID TENDER!” She seemed out of breath when she reached the Coke machine, slamming two glasses into the ice, and then up to the spigots.
“My old ones shrunk,” she told him. “I threw them all away and bought new ones.”
Alan grabbed his own drink glasses, coming up to her side. He tried to glance at the label on her collar, but her hair – another $140 sculpture of spray and highlights – was in the way. She scowled at him though, knowing exactly what he was doing – “And yes, I bought a size up.”
“Schnookums, I wasn’t implying” –
“You didn’t have to.” She grabbed a beverage tray. “I’ve been drinking too much. I’m putting on weight. I can’t even fit into my blue dress anymore.”
“Then buy a new one. Let’s go shopping tomorrow.”
“I’m too depressed to shop.”
“Then let’s get coffee and walk Detweiller Park. We’ll get a little exercise.”
“You mean, tonight’s not enough exercise?” Gwen scoffed, as Laurie scooted her aside.
“We’re too busy to stand and socialize, people!” Laurie told them. “Get your drinks and get out of the way!” Alan watched Gwen walk away in a huff, turning in a ticket.
“WE HAVE A SIX TABLE TURN!” Sharon shouted, rounding the corner in a Barbie-pink blazer. Servers moved to the side like cars letting an ambulance pass when Sharon’s heels came up to Bill at expo, the window filling with food. He was scooping butter onto baked potatoes. She shot him daggers –
“Level scoops!”
“But Sharon, the customer wants extra” –
“LEVEL SCOOPS!” she screamed, silencing the entire alley. Big Tim watched from the cook’s line when she inhaled. “There will be…NO WASTE! We will serve…PROPER PORTIONS! Our food costs are too damn-fucking high, and that starts with YOU PEOPLE!”
Her eyes shot to the bread oven. Rob Vain was skewering two loaves on a board, instead of one. Storming over to him, Sharon snatched one loaf and threw it back into the heater. Rob stepped back – what the fuck?
“Sharon, I have a party of seven! The rule is one loaf for every two people – I should be bringing them three!” She looked like she wanted to slap him.
The saloon doors burst open. Cheryl appeared with an oval tray of dirty plates balanced over her mammaries. “Sharon, I have no silverware for the customers outside. Can you open another case? I’ve got a lady eating her salad with a soup spoon.” Sharon’s face went red, her eyes turning towards the cook’s line –
“AND WHOEVER IS STEALING MY FUCKING SILVERWARE” –
CRASH!
Half the kitchen fought back laughter when Ty dropped another tray in the dining room – applause! Mia appeared immediately, galloping around the corner into the kitchen like a tiny black horse. She ran up to Bill and gave him a ticket dripping with drawn butter. Sharon was furious. The servers in the alley wisely used this opportunity to run…
“I need this on the fly!” Bill told Big Tim, struggling to read the order. “I need a sirloin, no wait – I mean a ribeye – medium well. Annnd” – he squinted at the paper, which was rapidly becoming transparent – “it’s either salmon or halibut, I don’t know. And I think there’s a pasta dish.” He shook his head at Sharon.
“Whose order is it?” she seethed.
“It’s Patrick’s. I think it’s table seven.”
“PATRICK!” Sharon shrieked, her voice loud enough to be heard in Nevada. The tall blonde waiter quickly came around the corner. His face was stressed –
“Ty just dropped my order! I need seven made again, on the fly! Sharon, can you talk to the table?”
“Give me the hard copy!” she yelled.
Patrick’s face went white. “Why?”
“Because I need your fucking ticket!” she repeated, snatching it from his hands when he came up. She glanced at the order, then barked at Tim: “Ribeye! Salmon! Alfredo! Kid tender! NOW!” Sharon handed the ticket to Bill, who then passed it to Big Tim.
“I’m assuming that’s in play?” Alan whispered, coming to Patrick’s side as Sharon vanished behind. Patrick nodded –
“But now I have to ring it into the computer, in case she needs to comp it. Cover me?”
Alan took his place. With other servers circling with trays, the two chanced the Bobcat by expo – where Patrick quickly re-rang the ruined order, converting it into a legitimate transaction. Alan distracted Bill by garnishing a tray, while Patrick – “Sharon needs to see the time on this, Tim” – snatched the fake ticket from the cook’s line, then quickly replaced it with a real one. Alan watched him sigh in relief.
“Feel better?”
“Much.”
“Now here’s a riddle in a rhyme. If she’s the same how come she’s different now…?”
Once finished, the two disappeared through opposite exits, Alan through the saloon doors, and Patrick around the alley’s far corner. They met downstairs in the server’s side station, while Sharon ate crow at the angry table, and Mia cleaned the slippery mess from the floor as though mopping an XXX arcade – slop!
Patrick saw Natalie seat the next booth over. He looked frustrated.
“Dammit! Not only did I lose that table, I can’t make it up with that one either.”
“Too close to home?” Alan asked, using this opportunity to grab fresh cokes for his own section. He noticed Patrick open his ticket book, then nervously thumb through his previous orders – diamond rings sparkling in the soft pink lighting. Stealing is easy, Alan thought.
But not every night goes according to plan.
* * * * *
The most difficult part of skimming restaurant sales was the fact that those sales were coming from the thief, which meant he had to work harder than everyone else. If a server’s total tickets averaged $1000 on a weekend, a waiter who skimmed needed to acquire $1300 in sales – so he could pocket $300 for himself, while turning in a grand at shift’s end, just like his coworkers. Three hundred dollars translated into two additional table turns, the number needed to hide missing money from management. Low sales were a giveaway, so the trio had to be fast and clever, turning tables as quickly as possible – and picking up tables in other sections, when opportunity arose. Like food costs, theft was about percentage.
Easy money was surprisingly hard work.
In addition to volume, a thief never wanted to pocket a table that a manager might remember, in the very-rare case that the order was researched – and its ticket found missing. It was a balancing act for sure, and the stress that it brought caused many anxious moments. The worst came on nights like tonight, when Patrick – who, unlike Alan & Guinevere, depended on theft income – had clearly come to work with an agenda, and the need to make a little more than the normal percentage allowed.
And it would take Alan another few months to finally realize why...
* * * * *
Natalie came up to the two in the side station.
“I just sat your section, Pat – but they don’t have any silverware.”
“There’s no fucking silverware anywhere in this restaurant,” Laurie complained, wedging her butt-cheeks into the narrow space. “I have a three-top that’s sharing a single knife!” She glared at Alan, in her way. “You just gonna’ stand there? The rest of us need drinks, too!”
“Sorry, Laurie.” Alan grabbed his glasses, flattening himself against the wall.
“Would you folks like some silverware, or would you rather eat soup with fingers?” Guinevere asked cheerfully, walking through her section in the fifties – More coffee? Alan looked up to find his Schnookums had obtained a quarter-Lexan of silverware, and was now passing rolls out to tables, like trick-or-treaters’ candy.
“We’re comping table seven,” Sharon informed Patrick as she joined the crowded side station. Her eyes were fuming but softened when they saw her apple-polisher. “You busy?” she asked Laurie.
“I always have time for you,” Laurie told her, forgetting her drinks completely. “What do you need?” Sharon tossed her the keys to the manager’s office.
“Break out another case of silverware. Give it to the dishwasher. Tell them we need it washed, stat.”
“I’m on it, boss!”
The big-assed kiss-ass followed Sharon up the stairs, then ducked into the alley while her boss headed for the noisy lobby. Alan disappeared into the dining room, as Derek and Jackie came down from the kitchen, steaming trays in hand. Patrick slapped his ticket book closed, then touched base with the angry table before greeting his new one. In the windows behind, the parking lot’s lights popped on with a buzz, illuminating arriving diners who walked towards the restaurant slowly, hungrily, like a herd of rotting zombies.
The restaurant throttled up.
Sly Fox was singing Let’s Go All the Way.
And a short while later, unbeknownst to everyone, Guinevere would pick the worst possible moment for a prank that almost cost the trio their jobs.
* * * * *
“WALKING IN, TWO FRIES, TWO KID TENDERS ON THE FLY!” Alan yelled as he came around the corner, sweat rolling off his face. The alley resembled a mosh pit tonight, with oval trays hoisted high above heads, like crowd-surfers riding an audience. The music was blasting. The cook’s line smoldered with sizzle, smoke, and steam. The entire Checker’s kitchen stunk of hot food, mealy dishwater, wilting hairspray, and humid perspiration when Guinevere nonchalantly rounded the dining room corner, a full Lexan of rolled silverware tucked under her arm…
No one gave her a second thought as she headed for the employee restroom.
* * * * *
“I NEED FOOD RUNNERS, PEOPLE!” Bill shouted from expo, seconds before the kitchen went dark. As Patrick gulped water from a cone cup by the Coke machine, he looked up in time to witness the circuit breakers trip, throwing the entire restaurant into –
BLACK.
It took a few moments for the emergency lights to respond, and in that brief time – in a world lit solely by Roger’s orange broiler flames – the alley descended into the chaos of crashing trays, falling dishware, and startled servers slamming against each other, as their eyes struggled to adjust from fluorescent to flickering light.
One beat, two beats, the emergency lights snapped on.
* * * * *
The kitchen now looked like the aftermath of an earthquake, with shattered dishes, servers holding counters, and a thickening haze of harsh, white smoke as the cooks’ line ventilation system stopped working. It took a moment for everyone to get their bearings.
“The power’s out!” Zevon shouted from the fry station.
“No shit, Sherlock!” Jackie said, pulling herself up.
“It’s just the restaurant!” Marty yelled from the bar. “I can see lights across the street…it looks like we’re the only ones affected!”
“Everyone okay?” Bill called down the alley.
“Jesus – my fucking order!” someone said, broken plates rattling as they stood up.
“Same here. Sharon’s going to love this!”
“Well, I suppose she can just tell my table that we’ll have this all rinsed off, re-plated, and back out to them shortly…”
“Hey, Bill – do we have any flashlights?”
“Here!” Rodney’s voice called from the manager’s office, a beam of yellow-white appearing by the Hobart. Flashlights were distributed while waitstaff regrouped, and food and ceramic shards were scraped into bus tubs. More beams of light popped on in the kitchen, their narrow glows revealing white swirls of smoke in the air. A flash of hot pink shot passed the corner’s emergency light, and Sharon’s heels approached in the darkness – her face illuminated by flashlight, as though telling a ghost story –
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED?”
“Something tripped the breakers,” Rodney told her, heading for the kitchen’s rear, where the electrical boxes were located.
“The entire restaurant?” Sharon asked, not buying it, following him into the darkness. “That seems hard to believe.”
“But still, here it is,” Rodney said flatly, entering the cave-like prep line. He stopped when something moved in the shadows. With Sharon behind, he aimed his flashlight at the post mix closet, causing him to jump backwards – “JESUS!”
Her white eyes wide and her mouth open with teeth, Mia’s face was momentarily caught within the light beam, hissing like an opossum; she bolted for the dining room. Rodney winced as Sharon’s nails dug deep into his shoulder before noticing a fallen ceiling tile on the floor by the employee restroom.
He aimed the flashlight UP.
The entire drop-ceiling looked buckled, above the bathroom door.
* * * * *
CLICK!
Somewhere up ahead, a switch was thrown in the dark; the power snapped on, though the prep-line fluorescents didn’t seem to work anymore. The two managers heard movement behind the restroom door. Rodney tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.
Big Tim approached from the stockroom, shutting his flashlight as he noticed the fallen tile. “Did something hit the roof?”
“Listen!” Rodney said, putting his ear to the door. “Someone’s inside, but the door won’t open.” He jiggled the knob, and though it turned freely, the passage was stuck – and blocked by something big. “I think I can hear” –
“Quiet!” Tim snapped, raising his finger. The three listened carefully as a soft voice cried, “Help! It’s so dark…I’m trapped in here! Please help me!”
“STAND BACK!” Big Tim yelled, holding out his arms while taking a breath. With all of his might, he kicked the restroom door hard – SLAM! The door tumbled inward, revealing a massive pile of debris. Rodney helped him clear a path, then aimed his flashlight into the ruined bathroom – where Guinevere was half buried beneath fallen insulation and metal, surrounded by hundreds of pieces of twinkling silverware.
Her ankle had been injured.
It was bleeding badly…
* * * * *
The server’s alley had been cleared of its own debris when Rodney helped Guinevere up to the Coke machine, her ankle now wrapped in red towels. “I’ll take her to the hospital,” he told Sharon, while wetting a fresh rag with cold soda water; he then used it to dab Gwen’s hands, before wiping her blood from his fingers.
The injured waitress looked shell-shocked, and her eyes fought to focus as coworkers watched from a distance, afraid to approach. Gwen’s hands shook noticeably when she reached for her ticket book, still in her apron. Patrick had gone to check his tables, but Alan appeared at her side in a heartbeat. She passed him the book while whispering, “Table forty-four is in play!”
Alan went to take it, but an angry fuchsia flash snatched it from his grip –
“Take over Guinevere’s tables,” Sharon instructed Laurie, placing Gwen’s ticket book firmly into Laurie’s hands. The nosy waitress nodded in subordination, and Alan watched in abject horror as Laurie – and Gwen’s fake ticket – disappeared into the dining room, while Sharon’s eyes now settled on him, knowing Gwen and he were friends.
All sound drained from his ears.
The livid manager went to speak, but then remembered other matters that required her attention – You can wait. She vanished around the corner, leaving Alan alone and standing by the Bobcat. The kitchen returned to as normal as it could, while servers refocused on tables and Bill plated food for running. But Alan’s whole world had gone to static in his head, and his feet were frozen, too heavy to move.
Patrick rounded the corner – “WALKING IN, ONE ARTICHOKE!” – then tapped Alan’s shoulder, to cover him at the register. But Alan didn’t budge, which made Patrick look up – “What’s wrong?”
Alan’s response was thick with anxiety: “W-w-w-we have to act fast.”
* * * * *
Dead or Alive’s “My Heart Goes Bang” rained from above as Alan and Patrick ran into the dining room together, Batman & Robin. Alan’s head shot one direction while Patrick’s shot another; the restaurant had become a mob of moving bodies, as customers ate, drank, talked, smoked, and chewed with their mouths open…like ravenous orphans, slurping gruel in a Dickens novel.
Servers watched their sections like prison guards. Sharon circled the great room like a sniper, waiting for her kill shot. Patrick’s eyes narrowed when he recognized two big blobs of blubber straining against their Dickies, just below where Laurie tied her apron like a corset –
“She’s in the sixties!” he said. “I’ll go right, you go left.”
The two thieves separated, coming at her from both directions.
* * * * *
“The other night a good friend told me, never let my heart fall into careless hands…”
“I said thanks, that’s very nice, appreciate the good advice, but things don’t always go the way that I planned…”
The ticket book was front and center, on the tray, on the jack, on the floor, in the aisle in front of Laurie’s table. It was just sitting there waiting, as though bait for a trap, but Alan grabbed it anyway as he skittered passed Laurie’s table – Got it. The waitress saw him do it of course, and once her food was delivered she grabbed the tray, snapped the jack closed loudly, then bee-lined for the side station – where Patrick and Alan were rummaging through its contents.
“Gwen’s tickets aren’t here!” Alan realized, slamming it closed just in time.
“That’s because you grabbed Laurie’s book, you idiot!” Patrick told him. The two looked up when the server stormed up, glaring at Alan –
“WHY did you steal my ticket book?” she demanded, snatching it from his hands.
His answer was ready: “Because the jackass at sixty-one was reaching for it when you weren’t looking. I’ll bet he thought it had money in it!”
Laurie looked astonished. “Seriously?”
As Patrick rolled his eyes and left, Alan and Laurie peered cautiously around the corner, towards the thwarted thief. “Why is he dressed like a priest?” she asked.
One beat, two beats…
“Priests are the worst,” Alan told her. “I hear they skim from the collection plate.”
“Well, err…thanks, I guess.”
As Alan stayed behind, the large-loin’d waitress carried her tray and jack up to the kitchen, rounding the corner – “CORNER!” – where Patrick waited like a speed trap.
* * * * *
“You! You! You! Take my heart and shake it up” –
“You! You! You! Take my heart and break it up” –
“Laurie, can I see Gwen’s ticket book?” Patrick asked bluntly, following her through the kitchen. Servers zipped by while the huge-hammed waitress looked at him suspiciously – “Why?”
“Because I should call Guinevere’s parents and tell them she’s in the hospital,” Patrick explained. “I think she keeps numbers in her book.”
“Instead of her purse?”
“Her purse is in her car.”
“Well, get it then. She never locks that convertible.”
“But she locks the trunk. That’s where she keeps her purse.”
“Ask Sharon for the number.”
“Sharon’s got her hands full – you know that, Laurie.”
The waitress sighed, relenting. She reached for Gwen’s ticket book. “Well, I suppose it’s all right to” –
“LAURIE!” Sharon shouted, snatching her by the arm, taking her. “Do you still have my office keys?” Laurie nodded, and the two zipped around the Hobart, heading for the back.
But the women screamed in unison when Alan threw a refrigerator at them.
* * * * *
“My heart goes Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
“My heart goes Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”
“OH MY GOD, WATCH OUT!” Alan shrieked, as the refrigerator-sized stack of hot, steaming glass-racks rolled into Laurie and Sharon’s path, tottering dangerously when he stopped it. He didn’t grab it in time however, and the top-heavy pile tumbled forward, into the wall – slam! It blocked their passing like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, preventing them from going anywhere.
“What the HELL, Alan?” Laurie yelled.
“Be CAREFUL with my FUCKING GLASSWARE!” Sharon shouted.
“I’m so sorry,” Alan pleaded, attempting – but failing – to right the angled cart. “All the glasses had to be washed again…there was broken glass on them from the blackout!”
“GET IT OUT OF MY WAY!” Sharon told him.
“I can’t…it’s too precarious! And I don’t want to break any more glasses than we already have!” Stooping, he beckoned through the space at the bottom. “I think you can make it through if you crawl. Laurie – why don’t you come first?”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Laurie scoffed.
“Do it!” Sharon told her. “We need to get into the office!”
Begrudgingly complying, the whopping-reared waitress got down on all fours; she pushed herself through the tiny triangular passage, catching her apron on the floor’s wet, no-slip mat. Alan was kind enough to untie it and remove it for her. He reached for Gwen’s ticket book…
“Here you go, ladies!” Zevon announced, emerging from the fry station and lifting the pile with liquid strength – rattle! The glass-racks were righted which allowed Sharon to pass, and Laurie grabbed her apron before opening the office door with keys – which Sharon immediately confiscated. Ticket books now snugly over her crotch, Laurie retied her apron.
Rodney appeared by the Coke machine –
“Laurie, Gwen’s table is ready to pay. I need you to drop the check now!”
“I’m on it!” she yelled back, pulling out the table in play and heading for the Bobcat.
Alan’s heart went bang in his chest…
* * * * *
CREESH!
Nanoseconds before inserting Gwen’s ticket into the Bobcat, a flying bottle of ketchup exploded on the wall, inches from Laurie’s face. The big-assed waitress whirled around in shock, half her head now covered in thick, gooey red, making her resemble Gotham City’s villain Two Face. Her eyes went wide in rage as a customer’s stray child – a little fat fuck, with a face full of freckles – ran through the alley like a squealing pig, flipping Laurie off before disappearing around the corner, into the dining room.
Laurie was aghast.
Leaving her ticket books behind, she ran to the handwashing sink and frantically washed her face. Before Alan could reach it himself, Patrick appeared at the Bobcat briefly, then absconded into the bar with Guinevere’s fake ticket. Passing his tray to a nearby server, Derek ran up to see if Laurie was hurt – “My god, are you okay?”
“Just leave me alone!” she sobbed, her hair now wet and flat. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
Derek stepped back as Bill quickly approached.
Laurie’s polo was covered in splattered ketchup and bits of glass. Alan could tell she was humiliated but dared not say a word. As servers attempted to keep the restaurant running, Cheryl and Patrick entered the kitchen together, with the waiter using the commotion to cover his tracks:
“Bill, do you want me to drop the check at Gwen’s table?”
“Yes, please…thanks, Pat.”
“No problem.”
Alan covered his eyes for a moment while Bill escorted Laurie from the floor. The manager paused when they passed – “Alan, would you mind keeping an eye on Laurie’s tables for a bit?” The waiter felt shame when he nodded, of course.
The hellish shift still had four hours to go…
* * * * *
Later, after the rush, Alan and Patrick sat alone in the sixties – a massive pile of rolled silverware between them. Patrick looked up when he saw Cheryl Bennish approach. He nodded, she nodded, and he passed her $100 – more than he made tonight – which she casually inserted into her cleavage. She looked at the two suspiciously –
“So, I don’t know why – and I don’t want to know why – you had me find that kid to throw ketchup at Laurie. I know she’s a bitch, I’ll be the first to admit it…but what you did tonight wasn’t very nice, and Laurie could have been hurt.”
Patrick nodded. “Cheryl, listen…we’re really sorry about” –
She raised a fingernail – wait. “Listen…I like you two, I really do. You make the restaurant fun to work at, and I really enjoy when we’re all scheduled together.”
“BUT,” Cheryl went on, “I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what it is, and before you say anything I don’t want to know what it is…but please be careful. You two could have gotten fired tonight.”
Alan and Patrick nodded in understanding.
“Be safe, guys. I’ve got a meeting at midnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As the red-haired waitress walked away, Alan covered his eyes again while Patrick settled into his chair. “She’s right,” Alan admitted. “We’re starting to get complacent. I hate to say this, but I think we should lay low for a while.”
“For a couple days maybe,” Patrick said. “But if we stop right now, that’s just as bad. If the managers notice that the food costs suddenly improve, after tonight, they’ll know we’re stealing for sure.”
“But they’re watching us, Patrick!” Alan gestured towards the dining room’s stairs, where Sharon stood silently, smoking, looking at the two with suspicion. “Sharon’s not stupid.”
“No, she’s not,” Patrick told him. “Which means we have to make her start looking in a smart place.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have an idea.”
“Tell me.”
“I will, but” –
The two looked up when Rodney approached their table. “Alan, will you follow me please?”
The waiter’s back arched. “What’s up, Rodney?”
“I need to talk to you. I need you to come with me into the office.”
Shooting Patrick a nervous glance, Alan did as he was told.
* * * * *
“You have a phone call,” Rodney explained in the kitchen. “It’s Guinevere. You can take it in the office.”
He led Alan to the manager’s office, then let him inside with a key. Once inside, Rodney left him alone for privacy. Alan sat in Sharon’s chair, then reached for the phone where a line was on hold. Pressing the button, he brought the receiver to his cheek – “Hello? Gwen? Are you home yet?”
Guinevere’s tears were so loud, her voice filled the office from just the tiny speaker.
“My ankle’s okay, but they wouldn’t let me go after they stitched it,” she sobbed. “I’m still at the hospital…they said they wanted to run some additional tests.”
“Because of the ankle?” Alan asked.
“No! It’s much worse than that!”
“Gwen, what’s wrong? Do you want me to come over? No – scratch that. I’m coming over right now. Are you still in the ER? You’re at Saint Francis, right?”
Her tears kept her from answering.
“Schnookums…what’s WRONG?”
Guinevere gulped for air –
“Alan…I’m pregnant.”