by Ted Neill
He sat down again with the book. He opened it. On the TV, a dangerous looking man in a cowboy hat walked out of a saloon and scanned the street. Someone moved in the shadows, and the gunslinger pulled out his pistol and killed him. The volume was low, so Don didn’t hear the shot, but he saw the smoke issue out of the barrel and cylinders. He saw the body of some faceless, sinister character fall to the ground with fake, Hollywood stillness, as if the bullet had paralyzed him, making him stiff as a board, as well as killing him.
Fake.
He read page one hundred:
Ms. Laurelhurst usually did not make exceptions to her rules for anyone, and this ruffian certainly did not resemble southern gentry. But something in his eyes made her reconsider. Maybe it was their hazel coloring, or the sound of his voice that sounded like something sweet she could almost recall but couldn’t quite. If you asked her, this is what she would have said. She was being a good Christian lady and a proper hostess. She had convinced herself of it.
But it was those very “proper” sensibilities that would never let her admit that it was his glistening copper skin, callused hands, the shade of whiskers on his jaw, and the smooth, hard pectorals just peeking out of his shirt that had truly swayed her.
“Why don’t you sit down here on the porch, Mr. Craig. I’ll have the servants bring out some biscuits and tea.”
“Much obliged, ma’am,” he said.
Ms. Laurelhurst turned and raised her hand to her lips to call the serving girl when her movements were arrested. She heard a click-clack of hooves and turned to see a carriage pull up, its window frames and brass door latches gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Oh, that must be the Inspector,” she cried, her hand to her breast. “Dear me, he’s early. That is just like him.”
Inspector Collingwood stepped out of the carriage, one black leather boot at a time. His mustache was neatly trimmed, his doublet well-tailored, his bearing aristocratic. The horses, their coats iridescent, shifted their hooves. The trip from the school to the plantation was all too short for them. Their muscles invigorated, their blood flowing, they were eager to run farther, even to be free.
“Oh, Inspector, it is quite a delight to see you.”
Inspector Collingwood took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“My, Lady, you become more angelic every time I see you. It is lovely—”
Don set down the book. He stood up and went to the back door. The rain was splashing on the deck outside, pooling on the boards, which were sealed with polyurethane finish. Drops were skidding down the glass of the door. He slid it open and stepped outside. He was standing in the rain, getting wet down to the skin. But he didn’t want to go back inside. The lake was hidden from him, except for in the brief flashes of lightning. He realized the bottle was still in his hands. He knew what he would do now. He would stand out in the rain and get drunk. He would stand out in the rain and get roaring drunk. . . .
17.
Everyone Can See It
Sam was an even-tempered man. He knew all his customers, if not by name, then by face. No matter who you were, if you came into Sam’s Italian restaurant, Angelo’s, he would remember you the next time and even pick up where the last conversation left off.
“How’s Ricky doing with the T-ball?” He’d say to the Bridges; or “How’s your daughter doing at that new job,” he’d ask the Murdochs; to Mr. Clemson, whose house had been flooded by faulty plumbing, “Did you get that fixture repaired yet? I know a guy.”
There was no host or hostess at Angelo’s. Sam greeted every guest, every night. Angelo’s was a family place, not corporate, but owned by a family: Sam’s family. Started by his parents, who had immigrated from Syria: Aaron and Rosarita Albaz. He was Jewish, and she was Muslim, but with their olive skin and her name, most people took them to be Italian. Funny that. Most people even thought “Angelo” was their family surname. People often called Sam and his brother, Roy, the cook, Sam and Roy Angelo.
America, the place of reinvention.
It was a Friday night in May. There were all kinds of graduations that night. Tables one, eight, and eleven were reserved for parties of fifteen, five, and seven, respectively. This, of course, would be in addition to the other regular customers that would be expected on a Friday night.
“Big parties tonight,” Sam said to Feleketch, the waitress. Really the only waitress. It wasn’t a big restaurant, and with Sam working the door, along with the runners, bussers, and bartender, they made it work, pooling tips.
They all made more, Sam noticed, ever since he had hired Feleketch. Maybe it was just the restaurant coming into its own.
But maybe it was her.
Sam had known he would hire her the moment she walked in the door, the very first day he had put an ad in the paper for new servers. She had stepped inside, the soft light filtering through the curtains like a white cloud at her back. She’d had on slacks and a collared shirt, but the scarf she had looped around her neck gave her all the grace of a woman moving in royal robes. Grace, that was what he thought of her when she had moved inside from the door, smooth as a brushstroke on a canvass, her shape curving and tapered all at once. Her bangles had rung sort of like chimes when she’d reached her hand out to shake his. She’d said her name and explained to him that it was Ethiopian.
“Who’s coming in?” she asked, preparing the checks in her black server book. Sam’s mind came back to the present. Feleketch was in the starched button-down shirt and long black skirt she wore when waiting tables. Her hair was pulled back, but she still wore her bangles. He was glad for that. Her eyes caught him in their pull over her book of checks. Luminous, that was what one of the customers had once called them.
“Jacksons on table eleven with a party of seven, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, three grandparents, two children. Their son is graduating from Lake Forest High School tonight,” Sam said, laconic. He pointed to their table with his head. “Table eight is the Colemans; they’ll need a booster seat for the youngest kid. They’re celebrating Sally’s birthday. She’s forty or something but don’t ask.”
“Of course not,” Feleketch said in that way that let him know she’d had everything long worked out in her head already. Three years of working together did that. She could read his moods better than most, and he her tones, spoken in that melodic accent of hers that the customers so loved.
“And the big party of fifteen people is at table one, the Shroders. Big dinner. Their daughter’s graduating from Robinson High, valedictorian.”
“Vicky, she’s valedictorian?” Feleketch said, clapping her hands. “That’s wonderful, I will have to congratulate her.”
“Yep. Impressive girl. Varsity swim team, all kinds of National Honor Society Awards. Next year she’s going to Yale. Real go-getter.”
Sam wondered if he would ever have children to make him so proud, but that had not been in the cards for him. In many ways, the restaurant was his child.
“Do we have a cake for them?” Feleketch asked. It was just like her to think of that. She would probably go buy one for them if he said no.
“I’m sure they will bring their own. Don’t forget to charge them a cutting fee.”
“A what?” Feleketch asked, her hands closing around the order book and stuffing it into the pocket of her apron.
“Cake cutting fee. People just can’t bring their own food into a restaurant. You have to charge them. We’ll take the cake in back, slice it up, and serve it. It’s usually twenty-five dollars,” Sam said.
“You are being serious.”
“I am,” Sam said.
“I refuse,” Feleketch said in a tone that told him he had already lost the battle.
“Why is that? It’s standard in every restaurant,” Sam said, tilting his head to the side.
“I don’t care if it is standard. The Shroders are good, regular customers. They tip generously. I am not going to charge them for slicing a cake.”
“They will expect it.”
&nbs
p; “Well, then they can be pleasantly surprised,” she said. She was being assertive and was on the edge of annoyance with him. “The Jacksons are here,” she said, nodding at the door.
Sam took his cue and went to greet them. The Jacksons were walking in the front door, two grandparents leading the way. The grandmother was round, stooped, and leaning hard on a cane. Mrs. Jackson held her arm with all the familiarity of a daughter. Mrs. Jackson was followed by her son, stooping through the door in a royal blue graduation gown.
“Nice gown, Jake.”
“My mom made me wear it in here,” Jake said with a grimace.
“Hi, Sam,” Jake’s mother said.
“Hello, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“This is my mother, Sophia,” she said. “My father, Anthony.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Sam shook hands with Anthony and kissed Sophia. The old lady flushed and giggled at the attention. Sam winked at her husband, who seemed happy that his wife was happy.
Mr. Jackson came in the door with his mother, who was a bit younger than Sophia and Anthony. Sam kissed her cheek and shook hands with him. The Jacksons’ younger son lingered at the back. He was smaller than his brother Jake, and lanky. Britt was his name. Sam suspected he played soccer, but he wasn’t sure enough to mention it. Sam showed the family to their seats and told them that Feleketch would be right with them.
“Oh, wait until you meet Feleketch,” Mr. Jackson said to his in-laws as they took their seats. “She’s Sam’s wife.”
Sam chuckled as he helped Sophia into her chair. “Well, that would be something. Don’t go spreading rumors about my employees.”
Mr. Jackson looked up, the surprise on his face sincere. “What? But I thought . . . all these years I just assumed . . . .”
“Doug,” Mrs. Jackson said, waving her hand at him. “Look at his fingers. Sam doesn’t have a wedding ring.”
“Oh, I guess you’re right,” Doug Jackson said, scratching his head. Jake seemed relieved that someone was now more embarrassed than he was. His brother Britt snickered as Jake whispered something to him.
Sam didn’t want his Mr. Jackson to feel uncomfortable, so he lightened the mood. “No, I’m a bachelor. You know me, a real party animal with my argyle sweaters and sensible loafers. I think I got this pair at a garage sale just last week.”
They all laughed. The moment had been diffused. Jake, in fact, stood up for Sam. “But Sam, you’re totally smooth, like all Mafioso.”
“Mafioso?” Sam repeated.
Jake’s father leaned close to Sam and elbowed him, speaking in a low voice. “Well Sam, if you had not considered Feleketch, maybe you should.”
He followed with a wink.
A look from his wife silenced him.
“Good evening Doug, Debbie, Britt. How are you?” Feleketch said, appearing at the edge of the table with menus.
“Feleketch, we were just speaking to Sam about you,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Oh?” she said, pivoting and handing the menus out to the grandparents, women first. “You must be Doug and Debbie’s parents, it is nice to meet you.” Feleketch never missed a beat. She turned to Jake. “Jake, congratulations on graduating.”
“Thanks, Feleketch.” Jake smiled.
Sam left to get a water pitcher. They were in good hands.
Something was wrong. By the noise and flow of the crowd, Sam knew they were already into the evening rush. He checked his watch. It was 6:15. The Jacksons were supposed to arrive after the Shroders. The Shroders had been due at 6:00. Sam looked at the big table they had set for them. Fifteen glasses, fifteen plates, seventy-five pieces of silverware, not counting butter knives. The butter knives made ninety. All that space would be taken up, all those dishes would be filled. Big check. The Shroders weren’t usually late; they were good customers. Maybe the reservation was taken down wrong. Maybe it was 6:15, not 6:00.
When Feleketch came alongside him to add up a bill from a four-top he said, “Please, when you get a chance, will you light the candles at the Shroders’ table.”
“Sure, Sam.”
A young couple, college students, came in and stood at the front. First timers. Girl was lean like a track runner. The young man was athletic looking too, lacrosse, football, maybe both. Sam shook his hand and led them to their table with a large friendly swoop of his arm. Feleketch nodded her head to signal she had seen them seated. Sam made a sign with his fingers for her to card them. She winked. She had it covered.
After that, a man wearing slacks and a dress shirt with the tie loosened entered. He had a Newsweek under his arm.
“Table for one, please.”
“Sure, this way,” Sam said, ushering him to a two-top in the corner. “It’s Edison, right?”
“Yes,” Mr. Edison said. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I try to remember everyone who comes in. You were here a while back with your wife, right?”
“Yes,” Mr. Edison said, sitting down as Sam took away the extra place setting and poured him some water. “She’s out of town, and I didn’t feel like cooking tonight.”
“That’s fine. That’s fine, sir. Let us do the cooking for you.”
“It’s funny,” he said as Sam laid the napkin over his lap. “All these years being married, I don’t really know what to do with myself in the evenings when she’s not around. I guess it’s not like working with your wife.”
Sam paused.
“Working with my wife?”
Mr. Edison nodded towards Feleketch. “That lovely woman who is waitressing, isn’t she—”
“No, no, no. She’s an employee.”
“Oh, sorry. I guess it’s just the family vibe this place has.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” Sam said.
After that, Harold arrived. Harold was a regular. He took a seat at the bar and ordered his usual Crown and Seven-Up. The bartender, Daniel, was new, just graduated from college with a degree in English. He had grown up in the subdivision across the road and had been coming in for years with his parents. To Sam, Daniel was something of a hybrid: half employee, half nephew. Now he was trying to decide on grad school or the Peace Corps, neither of which seemed like a good use of a college education to Sam. Daniel slid Harold his drink. Sam noticed how his eyes continued to follow Feleketch as she passed by, mouthing her order of one sauvignon blanc and one pinot grigio for table fourteen.
“Hey, eyes up here,” Sam said, snapping his fingers.
“Sorry, she’s just sort of spellbinding, you know.”
“She’s more than ten years older than you.”
Daniel shrugged. “It was Herodotus who said that the most beautiful women in the world were from Ethiopia.”
Sam had not gone to college, a secret he rarely revealed to his employees. “Herodo-what?”
“Herodotus, he was a Greek historian. He wrote that 4,000 years ago. Can you imagine, people have been raving about the beauty of Ethiopians since then.”
“Huh,” Sam said. He remembered what Jake Jackson had called him. “Daniel, what does Mafioso mean?”
“It’s like the mafia. You know, a cool character: smooth, generous, powerful. Like the Godfather. Why?”
“Jake Jackson said I was Mafioso.”
“Oh, he’s totally right, Sam. It’s why everyone loves coming in here and being greeted by you. They feel special, like you are taking good care of them. You’re the cool guy.”
Sam looked at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but Daniel seemed sincere. Sam would have to think about that.
“Just keep pouring drinks, college boy. And keep your eyes on the customers, not our waitress. I don’t need some romantic drama in here.”
Daniel smiled. “A bit worried I’ll move in on your game, Sam?”
Sam felt his hands tighten around the edge of the bar. “What do you mean?”
Daniel shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I just pour drinks.”
The older couple in the corner still didn�
�t have menus. Sam made an opening and closing motion with his palms and pointed at them. Jose, the busboy, saw him and took them some menus. It was 6:30.
“Did the Shroders call and say they would be late?” Feleketch asked, coming out of the swinging door of the kitchen after dropping off an order to Roy in the back.
“No, but we’ll hold the table a little longer. They’re good customers, like you said.”
The candles on the Shroders’ table were still burning. Sam wanted them burning when the Shroders came in, but if they were lit any longer they would burn down too low. The O’Hares were leaving. They always came early, 5:30ish, to avoid the big crowds. Sam waved them out. Mr. O’Hare took some peppermints from the basket by the door.
A middle-aged couple entered the front. They were very well dressed, must have come directly from work. The woman in a red suit had red lipstick, red nails, and brown hair. The red dress, matching her lips and nails, looked strange. Sam couldn’t decide if it was attractive or not—just strange. Her husband was tall, with dishwater blond hair and a yellow tie. Sam sat them at table thirteen and carried menus over, because he knew everyone else was already busy.
A couple was sitting at the bar chatting with Daniel, who was listening with a big smile. The kid had good teeth, Sam noted. It was the benefit of having parents who could afford orthodontics. People liked Daniel, found him easy to talk to. Sam heard the man at the bar order his fourth Coors Light. Feleketch passed with a basket of rolls and tapped Sam’s arm, directing his attention to the front door. The Colemans had arrived.
Rodger Coleman was the pastor at the local Baptist church. It was traditionally an African-American church, but Rodger’s sermons had been drawing in crowds of all colors. Pastor Rodger had invited Sam more than once for service, but Sam usually attended the Coptic service on Sundays. Sam was not particularly religious, his parents having fled the religious strife of the Middle East, and the schisms of own families, to where they could choose to be anything. They had chosen, well, nothing. Sam and Roy had grown up thinking Americans believed in The Force, after seeing the popularity of Star Wars. Roy had married a Catholic woman, so they went to Mass. Sam had been attending the Coptic one ever since Feleketch had invited him.