Bobby's Diner

by Wingate, Susan

“Yes, José. What is it?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Carlisle. Something terrible, just terrible.”

  As quick as a thumb snap José reverted to his native tongue.

  “Slow down, José. Tell me what happened. In English.”

  “I came to work and found the most awful thing.”

  “What is it, José?”

  “The garden, Mrs. Carlisle, the garden has been destroyed.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Carlisle. Someone has destroyed our precious little garden.” He sounded like he would cry if I didn’t say something quickly.

  “Okay, José. Don’t worry. I’ll be right there. I’m still in bed. So, give me a couple of minutes. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Carlisle. I’ll be here waiting for you.”

  For a moment, I sat back in bed not believing what I’d just heard. Gangster moved off my chest and nuzzled deep into the pillow next to me. The phone call had disturbed his morning slumber. The clock’s red digital display told me I had two more hours before it became critical to get out of bed. Then, I decided I should call Vanessa, too. She wasn’t going to like hearing my voice this early in the morning.

  ***

  Vanessa was already there by the time I got to the diner. It’d had only taken me twenty minutes to get out of bed, make some instant coffee, wash my face, brush my teeth and feed the cat. She was standing outside the diner waiting for me. My car skidded when I pressed hard onto the brakes. I jumped out.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad. Come on.” We walked quickly behind the restaurant toward the garden.

  My heart fell. It looked like someone had driven a truck over a portion of the picket fence enclosure and then did spin-outs on top of the plants. Tire treads crossed and recrossed the entire spot running east to west then north to south. José didn’t utter a word. He’d been crying and his eyes looked red and swollen. There were streaks down his cheeks where his tears had dried. Vanessa walked around inside picking up bits of fencing material. She walked over to the now leaning garden shed. As she walked up to it I could see one of the corners of the building had been demolished and looked like someone had taken a huge bite out of it. She disappeared inside for a second and resurfaced with a rake and began cleaning the mess. José followed suit— disappearing momentarily then reappearing with a wheel barrow. I was frozen. Still taking in the sacking the garden had endured, I couldn’t believe. Why? The question kept repeating in my head. Why?

  “You gonna help or what?” Vanessa had a no- nonsense way about her.

  “You think we should call the police?”

  “Do you think they’ll help us clean this up and get the diner ready in time to open for lunch?”

  “I mean, maybe they can help us get whoever did this.”

  “Georgette, we have less than five hours to get this mess cleaned up and prep for lunch. I’ll have to go back home to shower and change.”

  “I don’t need to take a shower.”

  “Oh, nice. We’ll have all sorts of wonderful smells emanating from the kitchen.” José chuckled at Vanessa’s snide implication. It was the first time he’d uttered a sound since we’d been there. Walking over the wreckage of our garden reminded me of one of those news reels on TV when reporters walk through rubble explaining the destruction of a sacred land. I retrieved a black landscape bag from the shed and began sifting through debris, collecting. In the furthest sunniest corner was another potato bin Bobby had made for the restaurant, for me. He’d taken special pride in building that one. The one at our house was a trial run, but he’d perfected the diner’s. It was split apart and adolescent potatoes bled between broken slats of wood that spilled out earth and peat. My legs felt weak and finally I could stand no more. My knees hit the ground first, then my hands. I heard Vanessa say something soft to hold José back. And, they just let me alone until I was done crying.

  CHAPTER 18

  After twenty minutes of washing dirt from around my face, neck, wrists, and ankles; and redressing in the extra chef’s uniform, my nails still needed a good scrubbing and I realized the only way to make my hands appear clean was to trim off my scrappy-looking nails.

  Both José and Vanessa had gone home to get cleaned up and I’d just barely finished organizing myself and the kitchen when the first customer strolled in. By then José had returned but still no sign of Vanessa and now I started envisioning something terrible happening to her too. Sandy, one of the waiters, came in and voiced her concerns as well, just not as eloquently as say, I would have.

  “The other misses is late!” She sniggered gruffly at her poor taste and picked up her drink order before I could have a go at her and she must have barely passed by her when Vanessa walked in.

  “Sorry I’m late. I went over to the gun shop and got some bullets. I think tonight would be a great night to start your lessons.”

  “Whatever. Get out there! We have customers already.”

  Vanessa scrambled to pin her nametag on her blouse and smoothed back her hair. She looked at me, cocked her head, raised her eyebrows and went to work.

  ***

  Shooters begin. The firing monitor called out the instruction over the loudspeaker. Vanessa picked up the gun and reassembled it, loaded it, and handed it to me. Within seconds gunfire cracked and exploded all around us. Single steady shots. Quick and repeating shots. I jumped. It seemed second-nature to her the way she managed it. But, I pressed my arms firmly by my side.

  “Take it! Just listen to me. I’ll talk you through it.

  Stand like I showed you.” She shoved the gun toward me and I took it reluctantly. She glared at me to begin. “Now hold it gently like an egg, okay?” She handed the gun over to me and my heart started to pound like a bongo, my hands were shaking and sweaty.

  “I don’t know about this, Van.” I turned to the target out in the field and with my right foot in front of my left and my arms steady out but not locked stiff, I took the stance.

  “Good. Good. Now, loosen your grip. You’re not trying to strangle it.”

  I looked at her with squinted eyes and when I did the gun went off. I screamed. It nearly blew me off my feet. A carbon-smoky smell filled the air and some of the gun powder kicked out into my face and eyes. They began to water instantly.

  “Holy, shit!” I rubbed my eyes with my shoulders, the right one first, then the left.

  “Pay attention to what you’re doing! This isn’t a Barbie Doll.” Panic coursed over me in a hot wave. I looked at Vanessa with wide-eyes.

  “You have mascara all over your face.” She smiled because I think she could tell I was about ready to cry. “Be serious and keep focused on the gun, not me.” Her words softened. “Don’t feel intimidated, I’m trying to teach you—not intimidate you, okay. You’re holding a weapon, Georgie. Always, but always, keep that in mind. Let me show you.” She took the gun from me, stood firm, twisted her head to line up with the sight, closed her non-aiming eye, and squeezed the trigger, BAM! She squeezed again. BAM! “See? Like that. Now you try.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Quit your sniveling and take it.” She said it like a drill sergeant and I responded like a private first-class.

  “Okay, now, once again, take your stance, that’s right. Hold it up. Higher, Georgie, you’re aiming at the ground. That’s better. Can you see the sight? Is it lined up with the target? Okay, now slowly and controlled, squeeze the trigger.” The moment of firing was one of the most frightening yet exhilarating feelings I’ve ever experienced. I hit the target.

  “I did it!”

  “Why, yes you did. I’ll be damned. Okay, you have two more rounds. Empty that fucker.” I took the stance and aimed a little quicker this time and pulled the trigger, BAM. And, again, BAM. I looked to see if I’d hit the target. Only one more hole from me. I missed either the first or second shot. I wasn’t sure.

  “You hit the second one perfectly.” Vanessa was an old pro at this I could tell.

  “That sp
ray feels really weird.”

  “The gunpowder? Yeah. You get used to it though.

  Let’s reload and shoot some more, what d’ ya say?”

  “Okay.”

  ***

  The first Guinness went down like cream. Vanessa’s lesson started off a little shaky but after alternating ten rounds with her, I’d come to understand how powerful these things actually were. It reminded me of the quote, “Guns don’t kill people, people do.” But, I still had a sneaking suspicion the guns had something to do with it.

  Vanessa had followed me home. I told her the least I could do for her after two proper southern ladies spent a day out on the shooting range was to buy her a nice cold beer. She stayed for a little more than an hour and we had two beers. We talked a little about business but mostly about the gun, about shooting the gun, and about how invigorated it made us both feel—the blood pulsing through our veins and all! We sat and talked drank beer and talked, talked about nothing in particular. She told me about her brother. He’d moved to Washington and had a thriving little business close to the base of Mount St. Helens. He was killed because he refused to leave his home after warnings the once- dormant volcano was going to blow. He had two acres of wooded land only a mile from his business. The volcano erupted one mid-May day in 1980 and sprayed magma over 2,000 feet in the air. When the stuff came back down to Earth, his home was buried under hot rock and mud from the blast. And, although they couldn’t find a body—everything buried got baked beyond recognition—they assumed he perished.

  She didn’t add much but I knew more about Vanessa, more than she revealed. I remembered the letter she’d written to Bobby was dated shortly after her brother was killed. Even now, when she talked of him, the memory bubbled to the surface. She got real misty but acted as though she had gotten a lash or something in her eye. I’d never seen her get emotional until that day— the day we shot the gun together.

  CHAPTER 19

  Early evening was hanging with white flies clustered like clouds in the warm air. When they landed they’d do so on innocent hibiscus and lantana. At the cabana bar, Tweeter took a long drink from his Long Island Ice Tea. He liked to meet clients at Houston’s. The place was classy and stood in stark contrast to his unsophisticated manner. People gave Tweeter room when he’d walk in and when he’d sit at the bar which was fine with him. Having space meant having fewer eavesdroppers. Pinzer walked in and spotted him right away on this business-side of the bar near the waitress pickup station by the straws, olives, lemon peels, and lime wedges. Tweeter tipped his head up in recognition of Pinzer. Tweeter couldn’t help but feel envious of Pinzer’s appearance—clean-cut carrying an attaché— the appearance Tweeter thought exemplified money.

  As Pinzer approached, he consciously had to fix his facial expression not to intimate to him how Tweeter’s appearance nauseated him.

  “Hey, man. How’s it goin’?” Pinzer sounded cool about the meeting which immediately set Tweeter at ease, and put his hand out to shake.

  “Good. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Pinzer nodded. “Sure.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “You having the usual?”

  “Uh-huh. Long Island Ice Tea.”

  “I think I’ll just have a Heineken.”

  “A Heineken for my friend and I’ll have another.”

  Tweeter yelled off to the bartender.

  “So, how’d it go?” Pinzer wanted to get done with this meeting as quickly as possible.

  “Easy. Went off without a glitch. Did you hear anything?” The bartender delivered both the men’s drinks.

  “Pyle said the police think it’s some teenage vandals. They haven’t got a clue. Both women are shaken-up by it. It’s time to go back and make a second offer.” Pinzer grabbed his beer like an Oscar, held it up in a toast and took a long healthy drink.

  “You have the money?” Tweeter looked at Pinzer and his bright, scarred face distorted in that way it did. Pinzer looked away quickly.

  “Yeah, yeah. Here.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out an envelope. “Don’t count it here. It’s all there, ten thousand, like we agreed.” Tweeter stood and pulled from his pocket a wad of cash, counted out twenty dollars in fives and threw it onto the bar. “Perfect.” Tweeter sucked down his drink while he stood. “Call if you need anything else.”

  As Tweeter began to walk away Pinzer shook his head that he would and picked up his beer to take another swallow. “Will do.”

  He turned to see Tweeter leave and felt a shiver run down his spine, like a rattler had just crawled out of his pants.

  CHAPTER 20

  As he packed, the mayor’s head sweated profusely from his rapid and exaggerated pace and he wiped it off with the sleeves of his upper arms. He balled two dress shirts one after the other and stuffed them into his Pullman. Helen leaned against the bedroom door biting her thumb nail. He went to another drawer and pulled out his dollar-sign boxer shorts and another striped pair, grabbed two pair of black knee socks, and two undershirts. He piled them next to his piece of luggage before stuffing them in along and down the inner sides of the two-day hodgepodge of things to wear. He grumbled and shook his head angrily while he packed.

  Then, finally he stopped and looked again at Helen and protested further.

  “What were you thinking, if anything, by going out on ‘a night with the girls’, as you put it?”

  Helen’s hand lowered from her mouth as if she wanted to defend herself but no words were readily available. She shrugged her shoulders and hemmed and hawed, but only for want of an excuse the mayor would approve of. Helen knew this didn’t exist and she looked out through the door where she stood. She slowly brought her thumbnail back in between her teeth and chewed on it more.

  “Are you stupid or something?”

  Helen turned quickly toward him from the cruelty and squinted disapproval.

  “Well, really Helen, did you think it was a good idea to go out drinking with them?

  “Why not, Harold?”

  “Why not! I’ll tell you why not, you’re supposed to be the wife of an esteemed politician.” She turned her head away and rolled her eyes so he couldn’t see. “And, here you are, carrying on like common folk, that’s why not!”

  He was again stepping up onto the soapbox which happened more often than not during their life together since his career move into the political arena, a move she’d long regretted.

  Then, Helen began meagerly. “I’ll tell you one thing, Harold, going out with them, as you put it, was one of the most fun times I’ve had in… I can’t remember. I don’t know when it was last that I laughed so hard. We had fun, Harold. Fun, plain and simple.” Helen got a touch bolder. “I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I’m not sorry I did it.”

  “You certainly have changed from the woman I married. I remember when you wanted nothing more than to please me, be my wife, support my efforts, efforts I make for us. But, I see these women are more important to you than I am.”

  “Oh, Harold. For crying out loud. Why don’t you get a little more theatrical.” She spoke out daringly.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Pyle!”

  “Quit yelling at me, Harold. It’s demeaning.”

  “I’m demeaning you? You demeaned me when you went out on your drinking binge!”

  “Harold, please, it wasn’t a binge. We had a couple of glasses of wine at their restaurant. No one was around except the three of us. We made dinner there together and had a good time just being women.”

  “Just women, Helen. Well, let me remind you that you, my dear, are not just any woman you, Helen, are the wife of the mayor in this here town and you’d better start behaving like it again.”

  Threatening was always a last resort with Harold in any confrontational scenario, but mostly with Helen and she hated it. She walked out when he finished.

  As she sat at the kitchen table her tea wafted up in steamy spikes and smelled of bergamot. Her journal’s pages were rice-paper thin from
rigorous writing.

  May 3rd: Harold reminds me of a tyrannosaurus rex: he’s a virulent meat-eater and vicious when he wants. He has beady small eyes and a big open mouth always spouting, roaring, growling ideas of a perfect future—his perfect future. I don’t know him anymore. He’s become an oddity to me more interesting than interested. You’re my only source of comfort, your skin touches my hands and I touch your skin, soft dry delicate page who knows me completely. Flannery would never have put up with someone so weak, she would shun a weaker person for a strong writer. Weakness breeds parasites. Parasites eat the body from the inside out, eat the soul. Your skin translucent watermarked linen crisp my hand caresses you tenderly, tenderly with my sad words.

  Forgive me Flannery. I’m not worthy.

  Helen sipped her black and creamed tea and let its fragrance soothe her soul. She closed her eyes before setting the bone-china cup back on its saucer. When she reopened her watery eyes she gazed at her own front yard through the boxwood-lined walkway, the solar lights, the Saltillo stepping stones. She gazed past the asphalt’s pulsing heat of the blackened, pebbly pavement, to the neighbor’s triple-tiered wax leaf topiary. Her eye landed and then skipped off the leaded cut glass windows trellised, over their seldom-fired chimney, into the tips of tall oak and birch beyond that lined a parched river bed and out toward the distant sun breaking through the leaves in the trees and splitting off into a crystal blue firmament away, away, away. The distant land welcomed her, called to her, she could hear the ocean’s breeze, waves cresting, ebbing, arcing, flowing, salt air, fish-laden yet clean, mournful gulls crying, boats lolling along, massaged in-between green waves slipping out to sea—away, away, away.

  She closed her eyes again and held her face in her hands. Why did it seem so utterly impossible?

  ***

  Pyle was in the bathroom collecting the toiletries he’d need for the next couple of days. Before he opened the medicine cabinet he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The mayor. He was upset with Helen but not as much as with the other women—“the Carlisle wives.” He chuckled to himself when he thought it. Those bitches had better sell. They don’t know what they’re asking for if they don’t. Women! They should be seen and not heard. They have their place. The only reason they had the diner at all, was because of the hard work Bobby put into it. But, they benefit. It’s not right, not right. He was throwing miniatures of aftershave and shampoo, toothpaste, shaving cream, and deodorant into his leather satchel, his razor and his comb. That should do it.