Chapter 2: The Envelope in the Locker
The employee locker room smelled of cheap disinfectant and damp coats. The metal door of locker forty-two rattled in its frame every time the subway rumbled beneath the foundations of Tenth Avenue. I eased Leo down onto the narrow wooden bench, propping him gently against my duffel bag so he wouldn't slide off in his sleep. His breathing stayed soft and even, his chest rising and falling beneath the cream knit sweater.
My fingers shook as I unpinned my black apron and tossed it onto the bench.
The heavy glass door of the locker room swung open without a sound. Marcus, the floor manager with the slicked-back gray hair and the permanent scowl, stepped inside. He didn't look at Leo. He didn't ask why I had brought my toddler to a high-end Manhattan steakhouse during a rush. He simply reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a manila envelope, thick and unsealed.
"Table twelve wants you to have this," Marcus said, his voice flat, stripped of any professional pretense.
"I finished my shift, Marcus. I don't take tips from patrons," I said, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't wake the boy.
"It's not a tip." Marcus tossed the envelope onto the wooden bench beside my bag. It landed with a dull, heavy thud that told me it wasn't just paper inside. "And it's not optional. The man in the corner doesn't like loose ends, and he certainly doesn't like his staff walking out into the rain with a crying kid and empty pockets."
"I have my wages," I said, though I knew as well as he did that my wages wouldn't cover rent for the next three weeks after daycare shorted me.
"Count it or leave it," Marcus muttered, turning on his heel and letting the door swing shut behind him.
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I stared at the manila envelope for a long minute. The harsh fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting a sickly greenish tint over the narrow room. Slowly, I reached out and lifted the flap. Inside sat two thick blocks of banded hundred-dollar bills, identical to the stacks resting on the white tablecloth earlier that evening, alongside a small white card with a single address written in sharp, heavy fountain pen ink.
Leo stirred on the bench, letting out a soft sigh, his small hand curling into a fist. The rent was due tomorrow. The grocery store down the street had already cut off my credit. I folded the card, slipped it into my pocket, and picked up my sleeping son.
