Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 19 of 20

The crowd had been fed, but the danger was not over. More dishes kept arriving at the pavilion. Guests set them down wherever they could. Casseroles, pies, and pots piled up with no order. People reached across each other to grab food. The late guests at the edge pushed forward to get in. Thomas saw the crowd lean toward the table like a wave about to break. If someone lunged, dishes would spill and bodies would crush. "Everyone, slow down!" Thomas called. His voice vanished under the noise. The press grew worse. Then a short, round woman shoved through the crowd. She wore a stained apron and a hairnet pushed back on gray hair. Thomas had never met her, but he knew the type at once. She moved like a woman who had served a thousand hungry rooms and feared none of them. "Out of my way, hon," she said, planting herself at the table's head. She looked at the mess and clicked her tongue. "Lord. Who set this spread? A raccoon?" "I'm Thomas. This is my feast." He flushed. "The crowd's about to rush us." "Not on my watch." She stuck out a thick hand. "Marge Caldwell. I ran a school lunch line forty years. Forty years of children, hon. A hungry crowd is nothing." She was already rolling her sleeves. Marge clapped twice, loud and sharp. The noise cut through the chatter. Heads turned. "Listen up!" she barked. "One line. You come down this side, you go up the other. Nobody reaches over nobody." She pointed at the pile of dishes. "Thomas, we sort this. Hot food here. Breads in the middle. Sweets at the far end. Move." Thomas moved. He grabbed casseroles and lined them up where she pointed. Marge slid the pots into a straight row. She stacked the rolls together and pushed the pies down to the end. In a minute the jumble became a path a person could walk. The crowd sensed order and settled. The pushing stopped. Marge waved the first guest forward and filled his plate herself. Then the next. Then the next. The line crept along the table, slow and steady, no shoving. "See?" Marge said, not pausing. "People don't fight when they trust the line. They fight when they think it'll run out before they reach it." Thomas worked beside her, scooping squash onto each plate. The wave had broken safe. He waved the late guests in from the edge, and Marge found them a place in line too. Every hand got a plate. Nobody was crushed. Nobody was left out. Then Marge straightened and frowned at the far end. "Hon," she said, pointing her spoon. "You got pies and cakes down there for an army. But your coffee pot's bone dry, and folks at the end have been standing an hour in the cold. They'll want something warm before they'll sit for sweets."