Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
The two young prep cooks joined in, their clapping loud and steady against the wood-paneled walls of the vestibule.
Henry stood frozen for a second, his face turning a deep shade of red under the fluorescent lights.
“Me?” Henry whispered, looking at Carter as if he had misunderstood the words.
“You,” Carter said. “The night manager gets a salary, Henry. And the small apartment above the hardware store down the street is owned by the company.”
“The apartment,” Henry said, his voice barely a breath. “The one with the green shutters?”
“The very one,” Carter said. “It has steam heat and a working shower.”
Henry looked down at the green bank draft in his hand, then back at the clapping staff who were all smiling at him.
The weight of the last six weeks seemed to leave his shoulders all at once, his back relaxing as he stood there in the center of the room.
Henry presses his hand to his eyes as the tears finally slip past his fingers.
By seven o’clock the next morning, the yellow neon sign of the diner had flickered off, and the sky over the gravel lot was the color of a wet slate shingle.
