Empire Falls

about is none of her business,” Miles pointed out, a little surprised by his growing anger at the thought of trusting the development of his daughter, or any smart kid for that matter, to the likes of Doris Roderigue.
    “Want to know what your real problem is?” said Charlene, who had passed their booth several times during this conversation and apparently overheard enough to feel qualified to contribute. Charlene hadn’t been a small-town waitress all her life for nothing. She entered into the conversations of diners with both confidence and a sense of entitlement. Last spring David and Miles had each suggested this might not be a good idea with their new evening clientele, especially with the professors, who probably weren’t accustomed to having their thinking clarified by waitresses. Nor were they likely to tip anyone who’d belittled their logic. Charlene had briefly considered the wisdom of this advice, but in the end rejected it. For one thing, she said, having listened to their conversations, many of the professors badly needed a little clarification. For another, she was confident that despite their carefully trimmed beards, their pressed chinos and tweed jackets, college professors tipped in the same fashion as other men—according to cup size. She was doing very well by them, thanks all the same. “Your real problem,” she told Tick, “is that you’re dreaming instead of eating. Shall we let your father in on your secret?”
    “The thing is”—Tick began, pointing the tines of her fork at Charlene, who surprised both father and daughter by snatching the fork and pointing it back at Tick, who leaned away in mock fear.
    “And don’t give me ‘the thing is.’ ”
    “What secret?” Miles said.
    Charlene handed the fork back to Tick, then put her hands on her hips and regarded him as you would a favored pet, perhaps a dog that’s found a place in your heart even though you’ve owned other, smarter dogs. “The purpose of this whole conversation has been to distract you from the obvious fact that Tick isn’t eating her dinner. Again.”
    In addition to feeling free to enter into the conversations of her customers, Charlene, a full-service waitress, never shirked from reminding people that there was no excuse for wasting good food when other people were going hungry. She was particularly vigilant with Tick, who after her checkup last spring was declared underweight. Not that Tick was the only one whose eating habits drew Charlene’s notice and comment. She’d been on Miles’s case for years, pointing out his tendency to pick listlessly at things instead of sitting down to a proper meal. Over the years he’d fallen into the classic restaurateur’s trap of eating his mistakes—the extra order of fries, the under- or overcooked burger—and not just when he was hungry but whenever they occurred. Tonight, for instance, that bowl of David’s bisque, simply because it finished off the pot. It was Charlene’s opinion that if Miles could bring himself to toss out every stray french fry that fell onto the counter, he’d weigh no more than his brother, David, who was gaunt and sinewy.
    “It’s not nice to tell a person’s secrets, Charlene.” Tick frowned. “I don’t go around telling your secrets.”
    “That shows you’re smart,” Charlene said.
    “She hasn’t done that bad a job,” Miles said weakly, indicating Tick’s plate. True, she’d flattened out her food, artfully carving out an area in the middle to suggest that where there had once been food, there now was none. Still, Miles guessed that at least a third of the portion David had served her was gone.
    “No, Miles,” Charlene said. “ You’re the one who hasn’t done such a bad job. You ate your own bisque and for the last fifteen minutes you’ve been picking at Tick’s dinner. Don’t tell me you haven’t, either, because I’ve been watching you.”
    Well, it was true Miles had been picking at his daughter’s food a little—surprised, as always, by how tasty David’s specials were.
    “I can’t help it if I’m not hungry, Charlene,” Tick said, pushing her plate away now that there was no point in continuing the charade. “It’s not a person’s fault if they’re not hungry.”
    Charlene pushed the plate back in front of her. “Yes, it is,” she said. “That’s exactly whose fault it is. Kate Moss is yesterday’s news, kid. Eat.”
    When she was gone, Tick speared a small hoisin -covered