Chương 5
“Management will contact you tomorrow,” he said.
“Will they tell me who took my money?”
He moved aside.
In the dining room, a guest called Elena’s name.
She stopped.
The man who had been holding his fork during the confrontation approached from a table near the windows. He was in his sixties, silver-haired, with the grave expression of someone accustomed to being listened to.
“I’m the person who posted the video,” he said.
Vanessa started toward them. Marcus shifted once, and she stopped.
The man handed Elena a business card. “You did the right thing.”
Elena read the card. Bernard Holt, Founder and Chief Executive Officer, Holt Civic Media.
“You filmed me on the floor,” she said.
His expression faltered.
“I filmed her.”
“I was there too.”
“I can blur your face.”
“It’s already been shared.”
“I thought people should see what happened.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“Then you thought people should see what you recorded.”
He looked wounded by the distinction.
“I’m trying to help.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
She returned the card.
Outside, camera crews had begun gathering beneath the restaurant awning.
The first reporter recognized Marcus. The second recognized Elena.
Microphones appeared before she reached the curb.
“Are you the waitress from the video?”
“Did Vanessa Laurent assault you?”
“Is Damian Vale paying your medical expenses?”
“Was the dog inside the restaurant before Mr. Vale arrived?”
“Are you filing charges?”
Marcus moved between Elena and the cameras.
She hated how quickly his body erased her from view.
“Let her through,” he said.
A reporter called, “Elena, did you know the dog belonged to Damian Vale?”
She stopped.
Marcus looked back. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.”
The cameras waited.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t know who he belonged to.”
“Would you have acted differently if it had been someone else’s dog?”
The question made something inside her go still.
“No.”
Then she got into the car.
By the time Elena reached her apartment in Jackson Heights, the video had been viewed more than four million times.
Her father stood in the doorway wearing a faded Mets shirt and one orthopedic slipper. His hair had gone almost entirely white during the two years since the scaffolding accident, though he continued to dye his mustache with a product that left it faintly purple in strong light.
“You did not bring bread,” he said.
Elena stepped inside.
“No.”
“You brought television people.”
A news van idled across the street.
She leaned her forehead against his shoulder.
His hand came up slowly and rested against the back of her head.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m tired.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
He locked the door behind her.
The apartment smelled of coffee and menthol cream. A plate covered with foil waited on the kitchen table. Her father had saved rice, beans, and a piece of chicken for her, although he always claimed leftovers were an insult to refrigeration.
She sat.
He took the chair across from her and placed her phone between them.
It had not stopped vibrating.
“You’re famous,” he said.
“I’m unemployed.”
“Famous people are often unemployed.”
“Papi.”
“I’m trying to find the good side.”
“There isn’t one yet.”
He peeled back the foil. “Eat before you decide that.”
She managed three bites.
On television, a morning anchor who had not yet gone to bed narrated the incident over slowed footage. The heel descended again and again. Elena’s body curled over Atlas in an endless loop. Damian entered through the doors with the two guards behind him, timing so perfect that viewers online were already accusing someone of staging it.
Her father muted the television.
“Did she hit you?”
“She grabbed my arm.”
“And the shoe?”
“Beside the dog.”
“That was not my question.”
“No. The shoe didn’t touch me.”
He nodded once.
“What kind of dog?”
“Bullmastiff.”
“Big.”
“Very.”
“Alive?”
“He made it through surgery.”
Her father looked at the muted screen. Vanessa’s face filled it, frozen at the moment she recognized Damian.
“That woman is frightened,” he said.
“She should be.”
“Yes.” He folded the foil into a smaller and smaller square. “Frightened people do stupid things.”
“She did the stupid thing before she got frightened.”
“Then she is talented.”
Elena smiled despite herself.
Her father pointed at her plate. “More.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You’re just distracted.”
She ate another bite.
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of them froze.
“Ms. Ruiz?” a voice called from the hall. “Channel Eight News. We’d like to hear your side.”
Her father raised his eyebrows.
Elena stood, crossed the room, and turned off the lights.
They sat in darkness while someone knocked twice more.
At two forty-seven in the morning, Damian sent a message.
ATLAS IS AWAKE.
A photograph followed.
The dog lay beneath a gray blanket with monitoring wires across his chest. His eyes were heavy, but open. Damian’s hand rested near one paw, not touching it.
Elena stared at the image until the screen dimmed.
She typed, Good.
Then erased it.
She typed, Dr. Cho will watch for arrhythmias.
Erased that too.
Finally she sent, Tell him he still owes the restaurant two tablecloths.
The reply came a minute later.
HE HAS NO REMORSE.
Elena slept for three hours on top of her comforter with her clothes still on.
At eight, the restaurant’s human resources director called.
Her name was Simone Beck, and she spoke with the measured sympathy of someone reading from a document approved by counsel.
“Elena, first, we want to make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m safe.”
“Good. We’ve seen the video circulating online, and I want you to know Laurent takes employee well-being extremely seriously.”
“You didn’t call me when my supervisor threw a plate at the dishwasher.”
A pause.
“I’m not aware of that incident.”
“I sent you the email.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“You replied to it.”
Another pause.
“Today’s conversation concerns last night.”
May you like
“Of course.”
Simone inhaled quietly. “Vanessa disputes the characterization of events in the video. She states that she struck the floor to startle the animal away from you because she believed it might bite.”
