When his upturned face spied the diner, with me standing in the stoop, he stabbed at the air with a clumsy wave, and pushed forward through the near knee-high snow. I was content with the company we already had, minus Keep on Truckin´. I knew all the faces, and most of their names. If we were going to ride out this storm, drinking hot chocolate and watching Clark’s portable TV, then, selfishly, I was happy not to add any more.
As the man in the trench coat entered, he didn’t look up, or say hello. Instead, he made his way to an empty booth in the corner, and took a seat, coat and hat still on. It was Ms. Potts’ station, and she was already standing and picking a menu up from the counter.
More gray lights played back on the faces of the folks huddled around Clark’s TV. The weatherman was back at the map of Philadelphia, his arms motioning up and down and pointing out snow totals.
“Any change?” I asked, but knew that, even if the rest of the storm were suddenly cancelled, I’d still be happy with the amount of snow sitting outside.
“Nope – still calling for the same,” a voice began to say. And, after a short pause, they continued, “But there is a chance the storm will slow, and, if it does, then we could see up to thirty-two inches. Can you imagine? That’s almost three feet of snow,” they finished, excitement heightened to a near shrill.
Three feet, or almost three feet! I pitched my hand up against my thigh, trying to imagine just how much snow that would be. Without warning, the crash of a coffee pot against the floor exploded in a sound of spilling and tumbling glass. All the eyes in the diner found Ms. Potts. The man in the dark fedora was seated, his back against the wall, facing everyone. When the last piece of glass stopped bouncing, the weatherman’s voice was the only sound we heard. Ms. Potts stepped back from the corner booth. A piece of glass crunched beneath her shoe as she put a hand over her mouth.
“What you want?” she barked at him, “You ain’t said enough before? You ain’t got enough answers?” she began to push some of the glass on the floor with the tip of her shoe. Clark walked past me, a dustpan and broom in his hands. When he knelt to clean up the broken coffee pot, the man in the corner eased his hat off and placed it on the table. Clark stopped cleaning; he didn’t move.
“And who’s this?” the man asked as he tilted his chin in my direction. “She’s new here – and cute, too. Very cute. Haven’t seen her before. Of course, it’s only been a few years, hasn’t it, Ms. Potts? And how are we doing, Clark?” he finished in a rusty voice that sounded crippled from years of smoking. The diner stayed silent. Ms. Potts remained standing, while Clark singled out a larger piece of glass and picked it up. Clark’s eyes stayed on the man in the corner.
“Can I help you?” I blurted out, and then wished I hadn’t. Ms. Potts shook her head in a quiet scolding, and I knew that meant she wanted me to remain unheard. Stay, but say nothing.
“Ahhh,” the man coughed out, “chipper, aren’t you? And what is your name, deary?” he asked, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table. Nerves settled in, dousing the warm lift of excitement from the snow storm. Maybe it was the look on Ms. Potts’ face, or the way Clark took care in clearing the broken glass from the floor, slow and cautious. But what I think made me afraid more than anything, was seeing how my friends feared the man with the fedora.
He was an older man with nothing spectacular about him: he had white thinning hair combed straight back, with a receding widow’s peak above his forehead. The skin below the peak was deeply creased with thick lines that rested atop heavy eyebrows, which went wild in the corners. Deep cuts traveled away from his eyes, and moved down his cheeks to his jaw. I thought maybe there was a time he had dimples that girls liked, thinking they were cute, but they had been gone for some time.
As he picked up his hat and followed the brim of it with his fingers, I noticed large age spots on his hands. Some were browning, and others stood out almost as white as the snow outside. Dropping of glass pulled my eyes as I turned to Clark, who continued cleaning the floor. Clark kept his sights on the man. There was something else in the diner with us. I couldn’t see it or smell it like the snow before the storm began, but I could tell that it was tension and worry.
“Well?” the man growled sharply, and I jumped where I stood. “What is it?”
“What is what?” I asked, and thought my voice sounded tiny and child-like.
“Your name, deary? You see, I know Ms. Potts, here, and I know Clark. Heck, we’ve all known each other near twenty years. But, deary, I don’t know you, and I don’t know your name.” Twenty years, the man said. Twenty years. The scolding in Ms. Potts’ eyes had faded, as did her strong posture. She now stood with her shoulders slumped. This wasn’t my Ms. Potts. This wasn’t my Clark. This was a family that was alien and foreign to me. It scared me.
“I’m Gabby, sir. And can I fix you a cup of coffee, or get you a bite to eat?” As I finished offering one of my better waitressy deliveries, the man slapped the table and let out a boisterous laugh that ended in choked coughs. He cupped a hand over his mouth and hollowed out a year or more of sediment that had settled deep inside his lungs. Surely, I considered, this old broken man couldn’t be a threat to Ms. Potts, or Clark? The tension remained, but the edges were gripped by confusion. When his coughing fit was over, he let out one last guffaw, and pulled an envelope from inside his trench coat.
“Well, Miss Gabby, my name is Detective Ramiz. I’m one of Philadelphia’s finest – have been most of my adult life,” he began to say and, moved his eyes to stare at the envelope in his hands. His words went softer, as he continued, “That is nearly forty-years of my life. One job. One purpose,” he finished.
Ms. Potts motioned her eyes to me, and then to the coffee makers. The diner was silent again, with only the weatherman’s voice to fill the dead air. Nobody lifted a fork or spoon. Instead, they watched and listened as I approached the table. Turning over the mug in front of the detective, I poured for him a fresh cup of coffee. He gave me a smile, and I thought his eyes seemed warmer, more pleasant, now that I was closer to him.
“I’m glad we can be civil, Ms. Potts,” he exclaimed, lifted his cup, and motioned a gesture in her direction. He drank it black, no sugar, no cream, just black.
“What is it you want? Our business was over twenty years ago, and then fifteen years ago, and then again ten years ago,” Ms. Potts addressed him with a tone I’d heard only once or twice before when chasing out undesirables.
The detective held up the envelope in his hand. He waved it back and forth, and let out a forced sigh.
“You see this, here – these are my walking papers. Forced retirement. Full bennies and pension, and all that comes with getting old. I’m out, and…” he stopped and dropped his hand with the envelope on the table. Whatever the reason for the retirement, it wasn’t his decision. The detective took a sip of his coffee. When he was ready, he faced Ms. Potts.
“Almost two-hundred cases have come across my desk in my career. Do you know how many are left open?” he asked, then turned to Clark, and then to me, and back to Ms. Potts. “I know you know. Don’t you, Ms. Potts? How about you, Clark, I know you know, too. Why don’t you both tell Miss Gabby, here, how many cases I might be leaving open before they cart me off to rot in a retirement community, or old-folks home, or wherever it is they push out old dogs to die?” Ms. Potts and Clark passed words with their eyes, and then I saw Ms. Potts mouth the word ‘one’.
“What was that? Say it. I want to hear you say it!” the detective said, raising his voice.
“One, sir. It is one case,” Ms. Potts answered, her voice breathy and weak.
“YES, it is. One in my entire career, I’ve solved all but one case!” he bellowed loudly, as though preaching to a room of followers. “Well, how about that? But maybe I’m not done. Maybe Philadelphia’s finest is going to get a shock when I come in with my final one case solved!” he chortled, and then coughed up more sediment. He pulled in a mouthful of coffee and forced it down.
“Can’t you just let it go?” Ms. Potts began to ask, “Can’t you please let this thing go?” The detective dropped his coffee cup to the table, and grabbed his fedora. As he stood in front of me, he put himself back together with a practiced efficiency. Within seconds, the dark figure I’d first glimpsed under the street light was standing in front of us. He lifted his head to reveal his face, and answered.
“Because, Ms. Potts, you and Clark, your ex-con, there, are guilty of killing a man. Guilty of a murder. I know it in my heart. And you know it, too. I aim to finish this,” he said evenly, and made his way to the door. Murder? Ms. Potts and Clark? Ex-con? Who have I been working with for the last year? This had to be a mistake. There was no way!
When the bell above the door rang, tension spilled out of the diner like the snow falling to the ground, only to be replaced by a mountain of questions. But the detective didn’t leave, not at first, anyway. He closed the door briefly, and turned back to face us again.
“By the way, word on the street is that Angela’s Diner is for sale. There’s also word that there might be an interested buyer; very interested. And they have no plans on keeping your little diner – they’ll be tearing it down. And we all know what that means,” he finished. Then he opened the door to leave. Snow flew in high above him, and low around him. It spiraled in the air with a momentum carried by the winter wind pushing inside. When the door closed, the hovering snow fell to the floor, settling on Clark, who was shaking his head, and clearing the broken glass.
Ms. Potts approached the booth where the detective had sat. Her steps were slow, and seemed crippled. When she reached the booth, she clutched the table, and held herself up. She pushed on her glasses and gulped for air. She gave a worried look first to Clark, and then to me. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to take her hands and help her sit. I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.
Later, when I’d finally rested my head on my pillow, I dreamed about the snow storm. But it wasn’t a happy dream. It wasn’t filled with the same excitement I’d felt earlier. Instead, I saw the deserted street in front of Angela’s Diner. A blinding rush of falling snow covered the cars and the lawns and the buildings. I saw the figure of a dark man wearing a fedora, standing directly under a street light. An orange-yellow glow surrounded him as he laughed a hideous sound. Ms. Potts’ body lay at his feet, motionless. A spread of blood grew and reddened the snow around her while the detective’s heinous laughter echoed like the rolling of distant thunder.
7
A few weeks had gone by since experiencing my first actual snow storm. More than thirty inches of the white stuff was dumped on us. We took turns unburying the stoop and the sidewalk in front of the diner. A few of our regular customers even joined in and helped shovel during the storm, keeping our walkway clear by removing a few inches at a time. The snow was fluffier than I expected. It was feather-light, and didn’t pack together at all like some of the snow we had earlier in the year. I tried to make a snowball. I even tried to throw one in the street, only to see a confetti bomb of loose flurries explode from my closed hand.
The snow was so light that I played magic tricks with it. Waving my hand over the top of the snow, I could pull up a handful of flurries and have them chase my fingers before falling again. Someone mentioned it was a cold and dry snow, with very little moisture, so it stayed extra fluffy. It sounded funny, like something you’d order at a bakery. What I liked most was that shoveling wasn’t much of a chore, although I can’t say the rest of the city agrees. After all, thirty-plus inches of anything is bound to slow things a little. Or a lot.
In all, the storm shut down most of the greater Philadelphia area. Cars were buried – first by the drifting snow, and then after the streets were plowed. Busses, trains, and airplane flights were all cancelled. The winds that pushed the snow up into drifts also brought down phone lines and some power lines. At least five deaths were directly attributed to the storm. Two of those were an elderly husband and wife only three blocks from my apartment. Their house filled with a poisonous gas when a vent on their roof became blocked by snow and ice. The news reported that they went to sleep that evening, and never woke up.
Angela’s Diner was one of the few places that stayed open. We lost our phone lines for a day or so, but we never lost power. Clark said the grill ran on gas, anyway. He said he’d cook up whatever was in the fridge, and then leave it outside. I thought that was clever. According to the thermometer, temperatures were still hovering around twenty, which was already colder than any refrigerator we had.
The Irish Pub across from us stayed open, too. I’d seen a few comings and goings as I passed by in a walk to the diner from my apartment. And, as usual, some of their regulars were swaying, and some were falling, and most had overstayed their welcome. Fortunately for us, those stumbling had made their way home to their own beds, and didn’t stop in for a bite at the diner. A part of me was happy to see that the fast-food restaurant was shut-down by the storm. And it wasn’t just closed during the snowfall, it remained closed for the better part of three days. Angela’s saw more new faces during those three days than we’d seen in the previous two weeks.
One of the faces I’d not seen back at the diner was the detective’s; not that I’d care to see his face, anyway. He’d come in to bid his warnings to Ms. Potts and Clark, and then left. He said one case, just a single case of his remained open and unsolved. Days passed, and I wondered how it could be that the detective’s single case involved two of the most caring and loving people I’d ever come to know.
A few times, I caught myself wanting to ask about Detective Ramiz. I was a breath away, once – I’d had my hand up with a question on my tongue, as though I were back in grade school. Ms. Potts walked from the back and stopped where she stood. She fixed me a look as if ready to answer a question she hadn’t heard yet. She was like that – she could read me, especially when there was something on my mind. But I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if it was because I didn’t want to think any differently about my new family, or because I knew that, if I opened the book on their past, then maybe I’d obligate myself to opening the book on my own. I wasn’t ready to do that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I shrugged away the pending questions, and Ms. Potts lifted her chin in a quick nod before continuing on with her work.
By the time some measure of normalcy had become more a part of our every day, the snows had receded like the flood waters I remember seeing as a kid. Gone were the large drifts that swallowed the smaller cars. Gone were the lawn chairs from the streets and curb that folks used to claim a parking spot as their own. Some interesting fights grew out of that practice.
What were left were street-length rolls of blackened snow hugging the curbs, along with mountains of plowed storm remains in the supermarket parking lots. The only white snow that could be seen anywhere was the square patches of lawn that sat in front of row-homes and a few businesses. Angela’s Diner didn’t have a lawn to call its own, so I adopted the one in the front of my apartment: Ms. Potts’ house. But that, too, began to shrink as the weather warmed. And, by the time we entered into March, the edges of the snow melted to reveal the grasses that lay sleeping, waiting for spring to arrive. By then, I was itching for spring, too. I think we all were.
I jumped when I heard the shattering of glass on the diner’s floor. The tumbling pieces of reminded me of the coffee pot and Detective Ramiz. Thoughts of pending spring weather disappeared as images of a dark figure in a fedora entered my mind. I could see Clark kneeling, and Ms. Potts standing at the booth, their expressions tortured and afraid.
“Sorry about that, Gabby,” I heard, and saw Jarod Patreu, an ‘oops’ expression on his face, and an empty light bulb box in his hand.
“Shame, it was new, too,” I answered back, smiling.
“Slipped right out of the box. Last one, of course. Gonna have to go pick up more on my run to the hardware store.”
“Jarod Patreu –
what’d ya do now?” Ms. Potts exclaimed from behind me. “We pay you to fix what we can’t fix. We ain’t paying you to break things, too,” she complained, but I could hear the playfulness in her voice. She was fond of Jarod, and was having fun with him.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Potts. Bulb slipped, just slipped right out of the box. I’ll replace it,” he answered, his voice sounded disappointed. I started to feel bad for him: Ms. Potts was teasing, and he had no idea.
Ms. Potts walked around front with the broom in one hand, and passed me the dust pan. She was smiling by now, and said, “Baby, you ain’t gotta buy nothing. Heck, Gabby, here, dropped more dishes her first month than you done broke anything in all the years you been helping.”
“How did I get dragged into this?” I jokingly complained, but knew I was only playing a supporting role in the conversation.
Shallow relief settled on Jarod’s face as he stepped down off the chair. “You must have broke a lot of things, huh?” he said, smiling, and then added, “thank you, Ms. Potts. I’ve got to pick up a few more things tonight, anyway.”
When we finished cleaning up the broken bulb, Jarod gathered some loose tools he’d brought out, and tucked them away in the yellowing tool bag he wore around his waist. Watching him, I had a memory of home and my parent’s garage. A workbench lined the far wall, black drawers, and a wood top. A back board stood behind the bench with pegs sticking out to hang tools on. Growing up, I learned how to fix things; a lot of things. That sounds odd for a girl, but I enjoyed it. And I was good at it.
“You carry a lot of tools with you. Heavy?” I asked, as Jarod tucked a screwdriver away. He gave me a half-smile, then shuffled his feet before answering,
“Yeah, a little. Need to have a variety, and all – time to time, stores need something different… that is, I’ve gotta lot of places to manage,” he answered in a shy voice with sweet eyes. Until now, I hadn’t really noticed his eyes. But, standing closer to him and talking a little about nothing at all, I realized I liked his eyes.
An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 6