“Great, that’s a big help. Show me how the light panel works?”
He leads her behind the counter, teaches her what she’s known for ages.
“How’s the baby?” Really there’s no time for chitchat.
“A tiger. He grabs my finger. The strength in him . . . a real toughie.”
“I bet.” She smiles, about to walk away.
“The dogs keep watch in front of the crib. You have to get my permission to—”
“Hello . . . Anyone? I need some help,” Mila calls from the doorway, letting in the cold air.
Nick and the electrician hurry out to carry in Darla’s wheelchair, too heavy for Mila to push up the snow-covered ramp; they set the chair down near a table.
“Hey, the conquering hero,” Murray says.
“Shut up,” Mila snaps, her face permanently tense. The woman has lost weight. Her hair’s falling out, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Dina suggested antidepressants. Mila shrugged her off, said there’s no comfort to be had.
Mila’s ragged, pain-filled voice calling to tell her of Darla’s injury, she can’t forget it. Did she receive a wire, a phone call, a man in uniform at her door, she never asked. Instead torn between grief for her friend and relief her son was intact, she drove fast to Mila’s house and found her in bed, sobbing. Consoling words felt impossible, inadequate. She climbed in beside her and held her all night.
Embracing her friend now, she whispers, “I’m glad Darla came.” She’d embrace Darla as well, but the girl’s closed expression warns off hugs or questions. Darla takes in the new décor but says nothing. Her silky skin and thick dark hair remain, but her lovely full lips are pressed in a fixed line. Dressed in a down jacket, her useless legs in corduroy slacks. After weeks of pleading, threatening, cajoling, a zillion phone calls and VA visits, Mila managed to enroll Darla in a clinical trial for spinal nerve stimulation. If the trial succeeds, fingers crossed, Darla could someday get around with a walker or crutches. Maybe then, Mila hopes, her daughter will soften toward meeting her father.
When Willy opens the door, it gives her a start. It’s been months since he was in here. He seems even tinier inside a long coat and fur hat, a scarf wrapped around several times. Last she saw him was Rosalyn’s funeral where he kept muttering, “Not right.” Lots of people attended, the church cool and cavernous but far from quiet, emotions flowing freely, including her own.
“I told Willy to come today.” Mila leads him to a booth, begins to undress the old man.
• • •
Holding aloft a tray of hot finger foods, she carefully backs out of the kitchen, her friends’ chatter loud and insistent. People who know each other. They’ve moved chairs into a tight little circle. Wet coats are piled high in one of the booths, the damp smell raising memories she has no time to decipher. The snow is coming down heavy now, layering tree limbs along the roadway, hushing traffic sounds. Inside, though, it’s warm, safe, and promising, the indirect lighting softening people’s faces. A red paper tablecloth covers the newly tiled countertop. Red and yellow balloons cling to the ceiling, trailing a broken spiderweb of strings.
“Ta-da,” she announces, setting the tray on the counter near several champagne bottles. And remembers to add, “Bruce prepared these last night.”
Nick, in new dark jeans and a navy crewneck sweater, pops the first cork to applause. His expression, focused, in charge, different from any she’s seen before. She watches him pour generously into plastic cups. Murray would insist on glasses that could be washed and reused. But this is Nick, her Nick.
Bruce lifts his cup in a salute to Darla. “Glad you’re home. My son’s redeployed.” Darla nods but says nothing. What can she say? I’m sure he’ll be fine?
Bobby, seated beside Dina, sneaks glances at Darla, someone he knew before she enlisted, before the wheelchair, before he could ever imagine such damage. Well, okay. Forewarned is good.
Shelly weaves around chairs offering a tray of deviled eggs she prepared. “Ava, I told my oldest I’m coming in to help with the Sunday breakfast rush. He looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. You reach a certain age and these kids think you’re finished. Think again, I didn’t say.”
“There’s more hot food,” Bruce lumbers toward the kitchen.
“I can get it,” Murray says, but Bruce walks past him.
“A toast to Rosalyn,” Willy’s reedy voice insists.
“To our lady of the flowers,” Dina chimes in, raising her drink high, dressed for a party in the long black skirt and blue tunic Rosalyn gave her.
“Rosalyn, dear Rosalyn,” she murmurs, locking eyes with Mila. Both remembering, she’s sure, the night of the funeral. The two of them plus Dina, sharing Rosalyn stories, laughing, crying, drinking at Sully’s bar till the wee hours, none of them willing to go home alone with the loss.
At the counter, too near to where she’s standing, Murray refills his drink and raises the cup. “To my old diner and now yours.” He claps Nick on the shoulder. “To—”
“Hear, hear,” Mila interrupts, sitting close to her daughter, whose jacket she’s removed revealing Darla’s slim torso in a deep purple Nehru shirt that could pass for festive.
“—the place where I met my wife,” Murray continues, “where I spent most of my life, where all of—”
“A shrine will be built,” Shelly says not too softly.
“When I opened the restaurant it was a nothing. If you could’ve seen the way—”
She takes a long drink of champagne, the lemony flavor the same as the one they shared after Nick closed on his house. They brought the bottle to bed, passed it back and forth till it was nearly empty. Trying to muffle their giggles, Bobby in the next room, they stared stupidly at TV sitcoms she can’t remember a thing about now.
“—on the couch in the ladies room, I used to sleep there.” Murray’s voice drones on. “That’s right. Once in a while I had company, before Sylvie.” He turns to Nick, “And one time—”
“Enough,” Nick says, his tone leaden. Grabbing a full bottle of champagne, he walks around refilling cups and returns to top hers as well.
Murray, watching, finishes his drink. “There’s a lot you don’t know—”
“Take a load off,” Bruce orders, kicking out a chair, which Murray ignores.
“Look at all this new crap,” Murray’s arm sweeps the room. “It’ll turn off old customers. Ask Willy. They’re used to what was here. Too much alteration . . . What’s with these lights? Armchairs? Pictures? It looks like a cocktail lounge. People come here for food, not entertainment. Next thing you know, there’ll be some guitar player.” He shakes his head, slides a hand across the counter, then again refills his cup.
“Murray, new management always makes—”
“What new management,” he scolds her. “You guys have been here for years,” his voice going up a few decibels.
“I like the way the place looks,” Bobby speaks directly to Murray.
She flashes her son a grateful but warning smile.
Murray steps around a stool to get closer to Nick. “You can’t hide in the kitchen anymore. Customers need to be chatted up, catered to, they—”
“Hey, Murray,” Bruce growls, “give the man room.”
“It takes more than kitchen savvy to make a restaurant work. You’ll need to consult with other owners. I won’t always be around.”
Damn him. He’s no longer the boss. How dare he take center stage? Rosalyn would get rid of him in a hand wave. With blood thrumming in her ears, she grabs a huge wooden spoon and bangs hard on the counter for quiet, which works faster than she expects. A tableau of faces turn to her and, for a dizzying moment, she’s bewildered. Nick, too, seems to be waiting, but for what? Murray’s eyes on her are challenging, his expression refusing to understand the moment. It’s Bobby’s expectant look that releases her. She hears her
self declare loudly, “Names, everyone, I need names. And nothing more.”
Bobby pops up. “Resurrection Diner.”
“Great,” she replaces the spoon, adrenaline high, and pulls a pad and pencil from her pocket to jot it down.
“Tiptoe In,” Dina adds quickly.
“What kind of name is that?” Murray scoffs.
The door chimes. Chairs scrape and people turn to see. Hamid in a suit jacket over a cable-knit sweater, his hair covered in snow, rushes in. “So sorry to be late.”
“No problem,” Nick says gaily. Clearly, a welcome intrusion. “It’s a party, not a meeting. Everyone, this is Hamid, Glory’s good friend.”
“Ha-mid,” Murray draws out the name. Where you from, Iran?”
“Morocco.”
“Oh yeah. Here in the US to—”
“Take some food,” she interrupts.
“No, thank you.” Hamid shrugs off his wet jacket, pulls up a chair beside Bobby, who looks pleased. “Glory e-mailed me two names.” He waits.
“Yes?” pencil poised, her voice loud, ready to talk past Murray, who watches her warily.
“First name is Come Back Diner,” Hamid pauses, no one says anything.
“Got it. Next?” her voice more normal though everyone’s eyes are still on her.
“Welcome In Diner,” Hamid offers with some assurance.
“That’s as silly as Tip-toe In,” Murray heckles.
“Hey—” Nick says evenly. “Everyone here participates equally. You want to give us a name or what?” He stares hard at Murray.
“Nick and Ava’s,” Murray replies sourly.
Mila rolls her eyes.
She writes it down. “Others?” she asks.
“A-One Diner,” Mila raises her thumb.
“New Place,” Willy points a bony finger at the additions.
“Fine Dine,” Dina tries again.
Murray inches toward the door, god willing he’ll slip out.
“Chow Down,” Bruce offers.
“Eat Out,” Mila declares.
“Food for Thought,” the electrician perched on a stool suggests shyly.
“Second Chance,” Shelly says loudly.
“Ace Diner.” Bobby grins the way he does when he’s playing Nintendo, aware this isn’t a game but wanting to win.
She’s writing now as fast as she can. When she looks up, her son’s watching her. His admiration fills her with the kind of love only a child elicits. Her steady gaze embarrasses him. She turns away. Outside, a blanket of white as far as the eye can see. Bad weather curdled Murray’s mood. It doesn’t bother her.
“Hey, Ava?” Murray calls as if reading her mind. “What’s your contribution?” He’s leaning hard against the newly painted wall.
She hasn’t thought about a name and admitted as much to Bobby yesterday, who took pains to explain that a name was important. A tag, he said, without a tag you’re unknown. Lord help her, a lot rides on the diner being known. Her eyes scan her friends’ waiting faces.
A name, she thinks. Give them a name, any name, but her mind blanks, wiped clean of names forevermore. She glances hopelessly at Nick, a name, she begs him silently, any name.
“Best Deal,” he says softly, but loud enough for others to hear.
“It’s Ava’s turn,” Murray shouts.
Darla’s hand shoots up. “How about Stop Here?”
• • •
She sits at the bedroom window, watching the blue edge of dawn emerge. In the weeks since they closed on the diner she wakes at the same time each night. It’s eerie. A scattering of illuminated snowflakes tumbles past the streetlamp, reluctant to hit the ground. The party’s on her mind, though it ended hours ago. When Murray finally shut the door, she felt both relief and a chill of fear. The diner was theirs. In the twilight darkness people left in a group, Bobby went home with Dina. She and Nick watched the cars’ red lights come on and then snake away. Alone, silent with their own thoughts, they tidied up some till hired cleaners arrived to finish the job.
Tomorrow the diner opens for business, the name, though, still up for grabs. All agreed Nick should make the decision, which delighted him. He’s excited to be an owner. It’s there in the way he palms the storeroom keys, responds patiently to salespeople who phone nonstop, checks and rechecks condiments, floors, appliances though no customer has yet been served. She’s careful not to undercut his pleasure, careful to keep certain worries to herself. Because, really, it’s not the best time to start a new venture. Look at how difficult it was to secure the mortgage, and what if they don’t make enough to cover it? What if all the stuff they bought and still have to pay for doesn’t result in more customers? What about her friends, now employees? They, too, must wonder, can she and Nick pull this off? If the diner fails, they’ll be out of work. What then? These are the thoughts that visit before her day begins.
It’s not that Nick’s free of worry, he frets all the time, always has, about something happening to her, about Glory in Mali, whatever. Yet he sleeps, one arm up under the pillow. Amazing. Her eyes flick to her dead husband’s portrait, a man who didn’t fret. She offered to remove it. Nick said, no, he’s gotten used to it, feels some affection for the guy.
Slipping out of the flannel robe, she climbs into bed. He curls around her back, warm, reassuring in its way.
“Couldn’t sleep again?” she’s surprised to hear him whisper.
“Umm.”
“Want to say why?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Nervous?”
“A bit,” she admits.
“Me too. Things tank. We could live in a tent, no expenses, go from park to park.”
“What about winter?”
“Problem,” he agrees.
“We could go south.”
“We could,” his words low in his throat.
“There’s Bobby—”
“Don’t be real,” he admonishes softly.
“That’s a challenge,” she whispers more to herself. The streetlamp flickers off and milky morning light brightens the sky.
Acknowledgments
My deep gratitude to Jane Lazarre for her talent, time, and unwavering eye on this book; to Jocelyn Lieu and Jan Clausen, whose attention to all on the page continue to impress me; to Tom Engelhardt for getting me started on the long journey here; to Denise C. for her insight and encouragement; and to Judi Brand, Elizabeth Strout, Barbara Schneider, Marsha Taubenhaus, Vickie Breitbart, Prue Glass, and Liz Gewirtzman for constant support and friendship.
Huge thanks to Dan Simon, Publisher extraordinaire, for his ongoing belief in this project; to my editor, Gabe Espinal, whose intelligence and easy ways made the process more than pleasant; to Gail Heimberg for her technical wizardry; to John Samuel Wiggins for his video; to Jesse Lichtenstein, Anne Rumberger, Elizabeth DeLong, and everyone at Seven Stories Press for their thoughtful and tender care in making this into a book. And deep and abiding appreciation to my agent, Melanie Jackson, a national treasure.
As always I remain grateful to my beloved, Charlie Wiggins, for his unfailing devotion, enthusiasm, and faith in what I do. And to the lights of my life, Georgina, Dónal, and Maya, you make it all matter.
About the Author
beverly gologorsky is the author of the acclaimed novel The Things We Do to Make it Home, originally published by Random House in 1999, reissued by Seven Stories in 2009, named a Notable Book by the New York Times, Best Fiction by Los Angeles Times, and a finalist for the Barnes and Noble Discover Great Writers Award. Her work has appeared in anthologies and magazines, including the New York Times, Newsweek, The Nation, and the LA Times. Former editor of two political journals, Viet-Report and Leviathan, she is acknowledged in the publication Feminists Who Changed America. She lives in New York and Maine.
About Seven Stories Press
seven stories press is an independent book publisher based in New York City. We publish works of the imagination by such writers as Nelson Algren, Russell Banks, Octavia E. Butler, Ani DiFranco, Assia Djebar, Ariel Dorfman, Coco Fusco, Barry Gifford, Martha Long, Luis Negrón, Hwang Sok-yong, Lee Stringer, and Kurt Vonnegut, to name a few, together with political titles by voices of conscience, including Subhankar Banerjee, the Boston Women’s Health Collective, Noam Chomsky, Angela Y. Davis, Human Rights Watch, Derrick Jensen, Ralph Nader, Loretta Napoleoni, Gary Null, Greg Palast, Project Censored, Barbara Seaman, Alice Walker, Gary Webb, and Howard Zinn, among many others. Seven Stories Press believes publishers have a special responsibility to defend free speech and human rights, and to celebrate the gifts of the human imagination, wherever we can. In 2012 we launched Triangle Square books for young readers with strong social justice and narrative components, telling personal stories of courage and commitment. For additional information, visit www .sevenstories.com.
A Seven Stories Press Reading Group Guide
Stop Here
by Beverly Gologorsky
The following questions are suggested to enhance individual reading and invite group discussion regarding Beverly Gologorsky’s Stop Here. We hope these questions provide additional topics for consideration and generate a stimulating dialogue with others.
For a complete listing of Seven Stories Press books featuring Reading Group Guides, please visit our website at www.sevenstories.com.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1.War affects most of the characters, both directly and indirectly. How does each character react to the effects of war and what do their reactions say about their personalities?
2.Most of the characters in Stop Here are struggling to make ends meet and have limited opportunities because of their economic situations. How does each character respond to the stress of supporting themselves and their families? How does each character feel about their economic situation and how does that reflect their view of the world?
3.How does money affect the way the characters view Murray, the owner of the diner? How does it affect the way they view Sylvie, Murray’s new wife?
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