"Time to feed the baby!" he answered.
Minnie rolled her eyes. "I know. Jaynanne Spaulding's gone out of town again."
"Dougie's Christmas present to her -- a week with her folks up in Racine."
"Present to himself," said Minnie.
"Taking care of the kids for a solid week, you think that's a picnic?"
"Those kids take care of themselves," said Minnie. "Douglas Spaulding's just a big old kid himself. And so are you, Tom Reuther, if you want my opinion."
"Minnie, honey, nobody ever has time to want your opinion. You give it to us before we even have a chance to wish for it."
Minnie held up a ladle of her Cincinnati chili. "You planning to eat your lunch or wear it, Tom?"
One of the other men -- a mechanic, from the black stains on his overalls -- piped up from the two tables they had pushed together in the middle of the room. "He's already wearing every bit of food you ever served him. Can't you see it hanging over his belt?"
"Under my belt or over it, Minnie, I wear your food with pride," said Tom. Then he blew her a kiss and joined the others.
Douglas was already sitting at the table, laughing at nothing and everything, just like the others. He really did seem to be just a big old kid right then -- there was nothing of the father about him now. Just noise and laughing and moving around in his chair, as if it might just kill him if he ever sat still for more than ten seconds at a time. Rainie half expected to look down and see him wearing too-short or too-long jeans with holes in the knees, showing one knee skinned up and scabbed over, and maybe raggedy sneakers on his feet. She was almost disappointed to see those shiny sensible oxfords and suitpants with the hems just right. He didn't not look at her, but he didn't particularly look at her, either. He was just generally cheerful, being with his friends, and he had plenty of good cheer to share with anybody who happened to come along.
"You going to order separate checks and make my life miserable?" asked Rainie of the group at large.
"Just give the bill to Doug," said Tom.
"You can make one total and we'll divvy it up ourselves," said Douglas. "It'll be easy, because we're all having exactly the same thing."
"Is that right?"
"Beans!" cried Tom.
"Beans! Beans! Beans!" chanted several of the others.
"We gots to have our daily beans, ma'am," Tom explained, "cause we gots to feed the baby of love!"
"I got a double batch of chili with extra cinnamon!" called Minnie from the behind the counter. "This time somebody had the brains to call ahead and warn me!"
Tom immediately pointed an accusing finger at Douglas. "What is this, Spaulding! A sudden attack of maturity and consideration for others? Malicious foresight? For shame!"
Douglas shrugged. "Last time she ran out."
"Chili for everybody," said Rainie. "Is that all? Nothing to drink?"
"What is the drink of the day?" asked one of the men.
"Whose turn is it anyway?" asked another.
"Tom's turn," said Douglas.
They turned toward him expectantly. He spread his hands out on the table, and looked them in the eye, as if he was about to deliver the state of the union address. Or a funeral prayer. "Seven-Up," said Tom. "A large seven-up for everybody."
"Are you serious?" asked Douglas. "And what's for dessert, toothpaste?"
"The rule is no alcohol at lunch," said Tom, "and beyond that we're free to be as creative as we like."
"You're giving creativity a bad name," said Douglas.
"Trust me," said Tom.
"If all we get today is Seven-Up," said the mechanic, "you are going to spend the entire evening as primordial slime."
"No, he's going to spend the night in hell," said another.
At the soda machine, spurting the Seven-Up into the glasses, Rainie had to ask. "What in the world are they talking about?"
"It's a game they play," said Minnie. "It's notorious all over town. More satanic than Dungeons and Dragons. If these boys weren't so nice they'd probably be burnt at the stake or something."
"Satanic?"
"Or secular humanist or whatever. I get those two things mixed up. It's all about feeding beans to the baby and when you win you turn into God. Pagan religion and evolution. I asked Reverend Blakely about it and he just shook his head. No wonder Jaynanne leaves town whenever they play."
"Aren't you going to serve up the chili?"
"Not till they're through with whatever nonsense they do about the drinks."
Rainie loaded the drinks onto the tray and headed back to what she was now thinking of as the Boys' Table. Whatever it was that Douglas Spaulding and his friends had turned into, it was suddenly a lot more interesting to her, now that she knew that at least some groups in the town disapproved of it. Evolution and paganism? It sounded like it was right up her alley.
She started to load off the glasses at each place, but Tom beckoned her frantically. "No, no, all here in front of me!" With one arm he swept away the salt and pepper shakers, the napkin dispenser, the sugar canister, and the red plastic ketchup bottle. "Right here, Miss Ida, if you don't mind."
She leaned over Tom's left shoulder and set down the whole tray without spilling a drop from any of the glasses. Before she stood up, she glanced at Douglas, who was right across from Tom, and caught him looking down the neck of her dress. Almost immediately he looked away; she didn't know whether he knew she saw him looking or not.
My boobs may have sagged a little, Minnie, but I still got enough architecture to make the tourists take a second glance.
There were other customers, but while she was dropping off their orders she kept an eye on the Boys' Table. Tom had been creative, after all -- he had packets of Kool-Aid in his suitcoat pocket, and he made quite a ritual of opening them and putting a little of every flavor in each glass. They foamed a lot when he stirred them, and they all ended up a sickly brownish color.
She heard the mechanic say, "Why didn't you just puke in the glasses to start with and avoid the middleman?"
"Drink, my beloved newts and emus, drink!" cried Tom.
They passed out the glasses and prepared to drink.
"A toast!" cried Douglas, and he rose to his feet. Everybody in the cafe was watching, of course -- how often does somebody propose a toast at noon in a smalltown cafe? -- but Rainie kept right on working, laying down plates in front of people.
"To the human species!" said Douglas. "And to all the people in it, a toast!"
"Hear hear!"
"And to all the people who only wish they were in it, I promise that when I am supreme god, you will all be human at last!"
"In a pig's eye!" shouted the mechanic joyously.
"I'll drink to that!" cried Tom, and with that they all drank.
The mechanic did a spit take, putting a thin brown Kool-Aid and Seven-Up fog into the air. Tom must have had some inner need to top that; as he finished noisily chug-a-lugging his drink, Rainie could see that he intended to throw the glass to the floor.
Apparently Minnie saw the same glint in his eye. Before he could hardly move his arm she screeched at him, "Not on your life, Tom Reuther!"
"I paid for it last time," said Tom.
"You didn't pay for all the lunch customers who never came back. Now you boys sit down and be quiet and let folks have their lunch in peace!"