Home to Montana

by Charlotte Carter

  Alisa suppressed a grin. “Oh, dear.”

  “Tammy wasn’t mad or anything. I think she likes Pete.”

  But maybe not so much in the restroom. “You do your homework after you finish your snack. If you need help, let me know.”

  “’Kay.” He spooned a blackberry into his mouth. Juice dribbled out around the corners. “Mom, could we maybe have a dog someday?”

  She and her son had had this conversation any number of times. “I can’t have a dog inside the diner, honey. You know that. And there are too many wild animals around to leave a dog outside all the time.”

  “We could keep him upstairs with us.”

  Reaching across the table, she pulled her son’s head toward her, kissing him on the crown. “Sorry, munchkin. No dogs for us.”

  Dogs were for families with a mother and father and two-point-five children who lived in houses with white picket fences. Not for single moms who worked double shifts and often smelled like grilled hamburger meat at the end of the day.

  * * *

  Nick stacked the last of the kindling under the lean-to and grabbed his jacket.

  “Come on, Rags. Let’s see what kind of table scraps Ms. Alisa has come up with.” Maybe there’d be a few scraps suitable for a hungry man too, he mused, his stomach growling.

  He knocked once on the kitchen door but stopped when he heard a woman inside yelling. Not Alisa’s voice. Someone older. And far angrier.

  “What you mean, you can’t come ’til tomorrow? We got two hundred people coming tonight. I’m not going to—” After a moment of silence, the woman ran off a string of words that Nick couldn’t understand but guessed were an expression of her frustration.

  He took a step back from the kitchen door. “I think we ought to wait a while for those scraps, buddy.” But before he could get away, the door flew open.

  An older woman, her cheeks flushed with anger appeared, her eyes burning with fury. “What do you want?”

  “It’s okay, ma’am. Just wanted you to know the kindling—”

  “You know anything about fixing a dishwasher?”

  The abrupt question stopped him. He blinked. Beyond the woman he could see the shine of stainless steel prep tables and refrigerators. He caught the scent of garlic, onions and paprika. Heard the clatter of pans and sizzle of meat on a grill.

  Sweat formed on his brow and dripped down his neck. His breathing became labored.

  Automatically, he dug his hand into his pocket and began to rhythmically squeeze the rubber ball the prison chaplain had given him. It was supposed to relax and distract him. Don’t lose it. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Think of something else. They’re only memories. It isn’t happening now.

  “Mister, I’ve got a busted dishwasher that’s full of dirty dishes. If I don’t get it fixed in a hurry, we’re going to be hand washing every single dish in the place. Now...” She put her fist on her hip in much the same way as Alisa had earlier. “You know anything about fixing machines or don’t you?”

  “I, ah...” He did have some idea. And he sympathized with the woman’s problem. But fixing the dishwasher would mean going inside the kitchen. Being surrounded by reflections that flashed and sparked off the stainless steel equipment, bringing back memories he struggled to forget. Images he couldn’t ignore. Afghanistan. An attack on his outpost. A shiny kitchen turned into a bloodbath. His crew dead or dying.

  He clenched his teeth. Squeezed the ball harder. Don’t think about it.

  Alisa, the blonde who’d been chopping kindling slipped up behind the older woman. “What’s going on, Mama?”

  “The dishwasher is busted. I called Samson. He can’t come ’til tomorrow.”

  A frown etched Alisa’s forehead, matching her mother’s. “Guess we’ll just have to make-do somehow.”

  Helplessly, Mama threw up her hands. “It must be God’s will.”

  “I can try to fix it.” Nick didn’t know why he’d spoken. Maybe it was the mention of God. Or the thought that the Lord had brought him here for a reason. To fix a dishwasher? He nearly choked on how ridiculous that sounded.

  Mother and daughter both gaped at him.

  “You know how to fix a dishwasher?” Doubt deepened the grooves in Alisa’s forehead.

  “I’ve fixed a few. No guarantees.”

  “Come on inside, young man.” Mama opened the door wider. “Give it a try. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  He signaled Rags to stay. Using every ounce of courage he had, Nick crossed the threshold into the shining bright world of a commercial kitchen.

  Blackness oozed in around the corners of his mind. The scream of bullets and crying men assaulted his ears. He fought to keep them at bay.

  This was the world that had once been his to command. A place where he’d felt at home as the top chef.

  After Afghanistan, would that ever be true again?

  Chapter Two

  Nick gritted his teeth.

  He could do this. All he had to do was keep focused on the present. The mission. Find the dishwasher. Figure out what was wrong. And fix it. Plus keep his eyes averted from shiny surfaces that inevitably awakened horrific memories.

  He forced himself to remember his mother’s kitchen. The smell of oregano and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. The laughter they’d shared when she taught him how to make fresh pasta. The good times before she got sick.

  Alisa’s mother marched ahead of him. He watched her feet, her black leather granny shoes treading on the spotless, blue-gray, antiskid tile floor. A well-kept kitchen. A-rated and ready to pass muster with the toughest health inspector.

  She stopped so abruptly, Nick almost ran into her.

  “This is the creature that has decided to plague me.” She slapped her palm on the side of the upright stainless steel dishwasher. Clearly an older model, probably prone to problems.

  Nick used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the sweat from his brow and squinted to minimize reflections. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “She won’t start. Hector, he pushes the button. Nothing happens.” She thumbed toward the fry cook working at his station, a small guy who looked young enough to be a new enlistee. “I push the button. Nothing happens.” The rhythm of her voice spoke of foreign roots.

  The washer not starting meant the problem could be anything from being unplugged to a motor that had burned out.

  Frowning, he looked along the back of the machine. “Do you have a flashlight?”

  Almost instantly, Alisa thrust a heavy-duty flashlight toward him. “Here. I thought you might need one. We lose power pretty often in the winter so we’ve got these positioned all around the diner. Summer lightning storms can knock out the power too.”

  Their eyes met as he took the flashlight from her hand. The depth of her blue eyes and her furrowed frown told him she was dubious he could fix anything. He wasn’t all that confident either.

  He checked behind the machine, handed her back the flashlight and grabbed hold of the dishwasher. “I need to move it out from the wall a few inches so I can get a better look.”

  “It’s heavy,” she warned.

  “Yeah, I figured that.” Rocking it side-to-side, he inched the dishwasher far enough forward to get a better look but not so far that he’d mess with the drain or water hoses.

  He took the flashlight again and squeezed up against the wall. The machine was plugged into a power strip along with neighboring equipment. While he couldn’t reach the plug, he had no reason to think it wasn’t providing power. Everything else was working.

  He fussed with the connection at the back of the machine. It seemed solid.

  “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” Alisa asked.

  He glanced over his shoulder. With her blond hair pulled back, she looked
younger than she had outside. No blemish marred her fair complexion. “I’ve eliminated the two most obvious reasons it won’t work. Your mother’s electrician would’ve charged her a hundred bucks for doing that. I’m saving her money.”

  “Very thoughtful of you.”

  “I’m that kind of guy.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Her overly friendly smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  He sensed her distrust and turned back to the machine, opening the door. Racks of dirty dishes were stacked inside. He pressed the latch on the door.

  “Try starting it now,” he requested.

  “The door has to be closed before it will start.”

  “Unless the latch is the problem.”

  “Okay,” she said, still dubious. She punched the start button. The motor hummed and water spewed onto the dirty dishes.

  Nick shut the door and the action came to a stop. He grinned. Good guess, Carbini!

  “How did you do that?” Alisa asked, her eyes wide with surprise.

  Mama scurried across the kitchen. “You got it fixed already?”

  “Not yet, ma’am.” He opened the door again. “Looks like I’m going to need a screwdriver.” Fortunately, the only problem was that the latch had loosened and didn’t make a solid electrical contact. Thus the machine wouldn’t work. It wasn’t the first time Nick had seen that particular problem. The heavy use of equipment in a 24-7 military kitchen meant lots of parts broke. He’d had to learn to keep things going with whatever he could find.

  From somewhere Alisa produced a screwdriver. With a few twists, Nick tightened down the latch.

  He closed the door and stepped back. “Okay, try it again.”

  The motor hummed. The water whooshed.

  Mrs. Machak threw her arms around Nick and kissed both of his cheeks. “You’re a genius! Thank you! Thank you!” She patted his face, which was now hot with embarrassment.

  “It wasn’t that hard to do, ma’am.”

  “You call me Mama. Everyone does. I’m going to bring you a big plate of my special chicken and dumplings. Alisa will show you a nice place to sit out front—”

  “I really can’t—” He figured he looked a mess, his face streaked with sweat from fighting the memories that were reflected in the stainless steel. Even without that, he was pretty dirty from chopping wood and being on the road so long. “My dog’s outside. I was hoping he’d get some table scraps.” He glanced at Alisa.

  She nodded. “I’ll fix Rags a dish.”

  “Thanks. And if you don’t mind, Mama. I appreciate your offer of supper, but I’d just as soon eat on the porch with my dog. Looking the way I do, I think I’d scare off your customers if I ate out front.” Being outside would also get him away from the reflections. Give him some space to breathe again.

  Mama narrowed her eyes, appraising him. “Trust me, we’ve seen worse. But if that’s what you’d like, it’s fine with me.”

  He made his way out the back door and walked halfway into the yard, his leg more painful than usual, before he could draw a comfortable breath of cool, fresh air. He supposed the prison chaplain who counseled him about his post-traumatic stress disorder would say it was a good thing he’d done. He’d gone into a kitchen without having a full panic attack like the one he’d had when they’d assigned him to prison kitchen duty. They’d transferred his work detail to the prison laundry in a hurry.

  Good thing or not, he was still shaking on the inside.

  Rags did a couple of circles around Nick. He knelt and wrapped his arms around the dog. A calming sensation eased his nerves. The tight muscles of his neck and shoulders relaxed. More than one night since he’d found Rags, the dog had awakened Nick before his recurring nightmare had a chance to send him screaming out into the cold. Instead, he’d buried his face in the dog’s fur, holding on while the bloody images faded.

  “Your dinner’s on the way, buddy.” His voice was hoarse, his mouth dry. “Sorry it took me so long.”

  The back door opened. Alisa stood backlighted on the porch with two plates in her hands, her slender figure revealed in silhouette.

  He pushed up to his feet.

  “You really could eat inside,” she said. “We get hikers and fishermen who’ve been out in the wilderness for weeks that look worse than you do.”

  “I’m fine here, thanks.” He took Rags’ plate and put it down at the foot of the steps. “Here you go, buddy.” Tomorrow he’d have to find a grocery store and stock up on dog food. He didn’t usually take handouts, but he had to admit the paprika smell of the chicken was enough to make his mouth water. Rags didn’t have any objection to the chunks of steak on his plate, either.

  “We do appreciate you fixing the dishwasher. I was afraid Mama was going to blow a gasket if we had to do without until our electrician could get here tomorrow.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  Alisa hesitated for a moment before handing him the plate of chicken. “Just bring your dirty plates inside when you’re done.”

  He nodded and watched her walk back into the kitchen. An ache of loneliness rose inside him, and he wished he could follow her into her world. A world that used to be his.

  He’d be a fool on any number of levels if he acted on that impulse. She’d be worse than a fool if she let him.

  He bent over his plate, said a silent grace and dug into the chicken. The mixture of sour cream, paprika and garlic in the sauce slid across his tongue giving his taste buds a treat. He chewed the fork-tender chicken thoughtfully.

  Mama Machak sure knew how to cook.

  * * *

  Alisa shook her head as she returned to the kitchen.

  The man was a puzzle. Scruffy and unkempt, a drifter but well-spoken. A man who worried about his dog before eating his own supper.

  Normally she’d find that admirable.

  In this case, she’d put it down to her quixotic quirk that made her a sucker for the underdog.

  “You get that young man his dinner?” Mama plated two chicken specials and added a serving of steamed julienne vegetables.

  “He’s eating on the porch with his dog. Just like he wanted.”

  “He’s a good man. I can tell.”

  “Why? Because he fixed a switch on our dishwasher?” If she’d known what was wrong, she could have fixed it herself.

  “No, it’s in his eyes. They’re honest eyes.”

  Alisa thought they were intense eyes. Penetrating. Almost mesmerizing. She didn’t know about honest. And wasn’t about to volunteer to test Mama’s intuition.

  “You think he’s looking for a job?” Mama asked.

  “I doubt he’ll stay around that long.”

  Mama slid the two plated dinners under the heat lamp where the waitress could pick them up. “What’s his name?”

  “Nick. Carboni? Caloni? Something like that.”

  Cocking her head, Mama frowned. “There used to be a family here. Carbini, I think it was. The mother was sickly all the time. The father worked summers at the mill and got drunk all winter. There was a cute little boy—”

  Alisa gasped. “Nick Carbini! I remember him from third grade. He had a neat smile and told knock knock jokes and dumb riddles until we were all sick of them. But he couldn’t be the same—” This Nick rarely smiled. She doubted he was into telling jokes. There was too much sadness about him. Still, as she remembered her classmate’s eyes...

  “When the mother died, the old man took the boy off with him,” Mama related. “I wondered sometimes if the youngster would be all right with his father. He wasn’t a good example for the boy.” She tossed two New York strip steaks on the grill, and they sizzled.

  “Maybe,” Mama mused, “your young man has come home to stay.”

  “He’s not my young anything.”

 
Mama pulled off her disposable gloves and tossed them in a nearby trash container. “You watch the steaks, sweetie. I’m going see if young Mr. Carbini would like a job.”

  “Mama! What kind of a job? You don’t know anything about the man. He could be a criminal for all you know. Just because you knew him as a boy and felt sorry for him, doesn’t mean you can trust him as a man. It doesn’t sound like he came from a very good family.”

  “Not everyone is as lucky as you were to have a nice mama and papa. From what I’ve seen, Nick Carbini knows enough to fill in for Jake for a couple of weeks.”

  Mama grabbed her sweater from the coatrack, tossed it around her shoulders and stepped out onto the porch.

  Alisa rolled her eyes. Nick might have had a rough life, but he was still a drifter. She didn’t want him or his dog around, not when Greg was so obviously drawn to the pair. Not when she knew her own weakness.

  If Nick decided he’d take the job, she’d have to make sure to keep her distance.

  How she’d manage to do that with him working around the diner was beyond her.

  * * *

  Nick looked up as Mama stepped out onto the porch. At the same time, Rags lifted his head and his tail began to swipe through the air. Greedy as he was, he was probably hoping for another plate of scraps.

  “This chicken is great. Wonderful flavor,” Nick said. “I’ve never had dumplings like these either.”

  Mama beamed. “My mama taught me. It’s a Czechoslovakian dish. Some people use water for the dumplings, but milk is better.”

  “Gives it more flavor and body.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” She sat down on the step beside Nick. “So, young man, are you looking for a job?”

  Petting Rags, he frowned. “I don’t plan to hang around long.” He had no idea where he might go next. But he would leave as soon as his flashbacks returned. The nightmares that woke him in a cold sweat. Then he’d move on. Trying to outrun them.

  So far that hadn’t worked.

  “How ’bout for two weeks? Our handyman’s gone,” Mama said. “Jake’s daughter was hurt real bad in an accident in Spokane. He plans to come back when she’s able to manage on her own.”