“Don’t you think this is hard for me? I mean, I look over there at the front window with my mother’s name on it, and I remember that day. I remember her standing outside in the sun, full of life, and healthy, and her eyes gleaming with pride as they finished the last of the lettering. And then I look at the coffee machines, and I remember her installing them herself! Or the toasters over there, and her coming back from a supply house, grinning ear to ear about how she’d saved a few dollars. And this counter, and the cut in the corner from when we had to replace the cash register. The men installing it dropped the old one, and my mother got so angry that her beautiful counter wasn’t like new anymore. It wasn’t perfect. This isn’t just about the diner – I see my mother in every part of what Angela’s is.” Mr. Thurmon stopped, and shook out the pain settling in his hands.
“Junior, I…” Mr. Thurmon’s face was his again, the little boy was gone. He held up his hand, and added, “I’m sorry, Ms. Potts, I truly am. If there were other options, if someone else bought the diner to keep it running, then Angela’s would stay. Nobody called about the diner. Not one. In fact, the only call was for the plot. It broke my heart. It did. But with the fast-food place up the street, I guess nobody wants to own a diner.”
We said nothing. The four of us stood for what felt like a long time, and then Ms. Potts walked over to Junior, and hugged him again. She put on a smile, and slapped his cheeks between her hands.
“You live, Junior, get on, now, and you live. I understand. Ain’t no need to explain yourself – never to me. I overstepped, and shouldn’t have. Always gonna love you, and always gonna have a place in my heart just for you.”
Junior nodded as Ms. Potts spoke to him. I could imagine him as a little boy with Ms. Potts telling him a wise tale, or teaching him something new and exciting. He nodded, and choked back a tear-soaked breath. When I saw that their eyes were wet, it made me want to cry. And I did. I looked at Suzette, and saw her swipe her cheek. A few minutes later, Mr. Thurmon left the diner in our hands for the remainder of the shift.
I helped get Suzette started behind the counter, while Ms. Potts went back to the grill. And our timing was good, as the bell echoed an arrival, and a young couple sat down at the counter. No better time like the present. I stepped back and let Suzette take the order.
She took to them easily enough, offering her smile, and placing menus in front of them. The woman looked pregnant, but I wasn’t certain until I saw her cradle her belly with her hand. She dropped her chin, a smile brightened her face as she stared somewhere far away, while rubbing her hand over her belly.
Suzette lifted the coffee pot, and the gentleman nodded eagerly, while the woman said that a glass of water would be fine. The rings on their fingers confirmed that they were married. Suzette gave me an elated smile, and I raised an approving eye, confident that she could handle this. When the woman pulled up a small white paper from her pocket, her eyes darted to her husband, and she threw the paper in his face. Shaking a fist at him, the woman began to yell, as Suzette stepped back, confused. The man stood up, pointed his finger, and jabbed at the air as he spouted brief rebuttals to whatever his wife was yelling at him. After another exchange, the man grabbed his coat and stomped out of the diner. The woman pressed her face into her hands and began to cry.
“What happened? What was that?” Suzette asked, tugging at my shirt. I was so drawn in by the story unfolding, that I didn’t see Suzette approach me. She hit one on her first customer. I was working the diner at least a month before I hit my first one. Ms. Potts was stretching her neck from behind the grill, eager to learn more of the story.
“An order of coffee and tears,” I mumbled. Suzette pinched her eye, and asked,
“I’ve heard you and Ms. Potts say that before – Why?” Suzette asked as Ms. Potts walked around to stand with us.
“Well, now that you’re working here, there’s something you should know. The three-to-three shift sees a lot of people, and we hear a lot of stories. And, sometimes, those stories come with tears. They’re not here for the food, just a cup of coffee, and a place away from anywhere. A place where they can sit and let it out, whatever it might be. And, as waitresses, naturally, we get to hear the stories.”
“An order of coffee and tears,” Suzette acknowledged, then added, “I don’t know if I should be angry or embarrassed. Or both.” I put my hands on her arms, and turned her to face me.
“You never have to feel anything but comfortable with us. Okay?” Suzette bit her lower lip, and mumbled a shy agreement.
“You two go on and help the poor woman out. Looks like she needs some ears to hang her words on. Looks like it’ll be a good story,” Ms. Potts instructed.
“An order of coffee and tears,” Suzette said smiling.
16
A good story can always get the feet moving, Ms. Potts told me once. And I never forgot it. I told the same to Suzette as I followed her to the counter, where a young, pregnant woman sat, crying. A white piece of paper, the one that had chased her husband away, lay on the counter, isolated and seemingly innocent. But it was hiding a dangerous secret that threatened a revelation if touched. Sitting half folded and wrinkled, the crumpled words held a power that piqued my curiosity. With her hands covering her face, I could see the wet of her tears running past her fingers. I stretched my hand with a linen cloth between my fingers, and tapped her arm lightly. My eyes stayed fixed on the paper.
She mumbled a thank you, wiped her face, and then fixed an angry stare on the paper in front of her. The woman froze. She remained like that for what seemed minutes. No movement from her. And, through the corner of my eye, I saw Suzette’s head leaping back and forth. We both flinched when the slap of the napkin hit the counter top. The woman had seen enough of the crumpled note, and swatted it away from her, as if it were a dangerous wasp, readying itself to sting.
“Ma’am, are you okay? Can we get you something?” Suzette began with a sympathetic tone.
“My husband is an asshole. A fucking asshole,” the woman spat, her eyes stuck on where the paper had been. I blinked, and I think Suzette did too. We shared a brief raise of our eyebrows. The colorful language sounded odd coming from the woman in front of us. She was young, but not that young. She wore a cloud of curly reddish-brown hair, and had a round face with pout cheeks and blue eyes which were big and glassy. She dressed up with just enough makeup to keep things simple, but elegant. A thin frame held her eye-glasses, and carried two tones of the colors chocolate and purple. I hadn’t seen the style before, but immediately loved it.
“I’m so sorry – I never talk like that. I think it’s all the hormones, but he is… he is a fucking asshole,” she laughed, as her hands fell to the counter with a thump. Suzette’s eyes were wider, and a smirk formed on her lips.
“So, you are okay?” I asked, confused, but more curious than before. She waved a hand, shooing off the tears, and set her eyes on something behind me. A guilty look played on her face as she eagerly bit at her upper lip.
“My doctor says it’s okay – just one or two a day,” she started, and then pointed to the coffee, “Can I get a cup… a big cup?” She asked, and I understood the guilt was one of pleasure. Suzette tended to the coffee, the smirk on her face rising in the corners. An order of coffee and tears, I could almost hear her saying with her eyes. A door had opened in the conversation, and I wondered if Suzette had caught it. I certainly did. I jumped at the opportunity.
“Ma’am… doctors? Everything alright?” I asked, while Suzette brought over some creamer and sugar. The woman touched her belly, and her eyes beamed with the same look I’d seen earlier.
“Yes, everything is fine. I’m pregnant,” she answered quickly, and wrapped both of her hands around her middle. After a pause, she turned her attention to the counter. Bringing the cup of coffee to her mouth, she pulled in the whispery steam with her first sip. Delight reigned on her face, and she closed her eyes.
“Mmmmmm – that does taste good.” The be
ll over the door echoed, and pulled my eyes. Jarod entered the diner, tools in one hand, clipboard in the other. Was it Thursday already? Had we been so busy that I’d lost track of the days?
Dark bruising remained under his eyes. The worst of it, though, had passed, leaving behind patchy green-yellow, with fringes of blue and purple. He’d taken all of the white medical tape off of his face, and I wondered if it was more out of a sticky or itchy annoyance. The fracture on the bridge of his nose had scabbed over, leaving behind an ink-black lump that stood up high on his face. I hoped it would heal cleanly, and that the inky break on his skin wouldn’t scar. I hoped that every time he looked in the mirror, the ragged mark wouldn’t remind him of that day; the day when Suzette’s husband chewed up his dignity, and vomited it in a single back-handed swing of his fist.
My hand was up in the air before I realized it. I pushed a smile on my face, though, admittedly, there was little effort needed. I wanted Jarod to see me like he had before. I didn’t want any misgivings, or see him shy away out of embarrassment. Coming to my side that day was brave – braver than anything anyone had ever done for me.
Images of my Daddy flashed in my mind. Images of him pulling back his hands as I reached out for him and called to him. The jolt of a painful memory stabbed me, and I reached down where, years before, a sign post was pushed into my belly. The memory hurt. After ten years, it still hurt. I suppose it always would.
But Jarod came to my side that day. When Suzette’s husband held me down, Jarod defended me. No questions or reservations. Just bravery. Jarod wouldn’t see it like that, though. How could he? He was hurt and ashamed. And I wondered what must have been going through his mind when he opened his eyes; the sheer confusion of it all.
I felt a heaviness, a knot in my belly. How awful for him. How terrible. My heart quickened a beat, and filled with a sensation that sparked another memory of something I’d felt before. Angst shuddered more emotion, and, at that moment, I knew. I knew what I was feeling was real. It wasn’t just something my mind had grown from a seed planted by Ms. Potts’ words. I felt something for Jarod.
My eyes felt moist as the realization of feeling something touched me. It touched me deep inside, where a decade ago I’d left a hole open in my heart. The hole remained there like an old dried well, sitting in a field, and spelling danger to anyone who’d dare set foot near the edge. But now, a finger of hope’s simple touch warmed me. Filling the hole, the emotion of it all overwhelmed me, and I had to take hold of the counter, uncertain if I was going to laugh or cry. Looking at my feet, I wasn’t running. In my heart, I wasn’t sad. I think I might’ve been happy.
“Psssst,” I heard from behind me. Ms. Potts waved her hand toward Jarod. I gave an abrupt nod, telling her I knew he was there, and saw him looking at me. His eyes looked beautiful. I offered him a sweet smile as he passed me along the way to the back. I mentioned I’d fix him something to eat when he was done, and he told me he’d like that. Suzette stood, transfixed by the two stories playing out at the same time. She listened to the woman. Claire was her name, and she watched the exchange between me and Jarod.
“My husband’s been cheating on me. And I think it’s been going on for some time,” Claire revealed. She spoke it plainly and directly, and passed a look to both of us. She lifted her eyes and gasped, “Finally, I said it! The words have been racing in my head, but now I said it.” I stepped in, and put a hand on hers.
“Did that have something to do with that piece of paper?” Suzette asked. It was a good question: she wanted more of the story. Claire patted the top of my hand, and lifted her coffee cup toward me. Jokingly, I told her I’d give her one more, but wouldn’t be held responsible for any more after that.
“Two years. That is how long William and I worked to get pregnant. We thought it would be so easy. All of our friends started a few years ago, and we felt it, too. We felt it was time… time to start our own family. We planned it all, from the cradle and the room, to a bigger house and colleges. Planning was fun… I loved it. But it didn’t happen like it did for our friends. We couldn’t get pregnant.” She stopped, and sipped at her coffee. The same delicious expression showed in a grin with relief and a contented smile.
“I could drink that all day,” she started to say, and then dropped her eyes to her middle, laying a hand on her belly, “But not for you. Only two cups, and no more. Have to keep you healthy,” she added with a baby-talk tone in her voice.
“Two years is a long time. But it happened?” I offered.
“It did. It happened. We have our miracle. It wasn’t easy. So many times we almost gave up – but our doctor was certain it could happen. And it did.” She settled her eyes on her coffee, and I could see she was tearing up.
“I’m not sure when it started, but when I smelled perfume on him the first time, I asked about it. He said something about a drive to a meeting with an associate. And then there was the receipt – it was a lunch meeting, he told me. But for two, and with wine, I asked him? And then he told me the fertility drugs were making me think things that weren’t real. He said that I was connecting disparate points in time to make up a story. I hated that he said that – who says that? I hated that he made me think that he was right. And that piece of paper… it’s a note with an address. I should go over there. I should confront the bitch.”
“But how can you know for sure?” Suzette asked, and refreshed her cup with just a few drops to keep it tasty hot. Clair motioned to her coffee cup, pinching two fingers, she whispered,
“Please?” Suzette put on a reluctant smile, but then added a couple more drops.
“I wasn’t really sure, at all. Not at first, but then I found the piece of paper. It was on the floor of his car, on the passenger’s side, and I grabbed it on our way over here. When we sat down, I asked him about it. He didn’t try to deny anything. I almost wished he had, though. He said a few things, but then ran. A guilty man runs – they always will,” she answered, and the tone of her voice went soft, almost quiet.
When I heard the words “a guilty man runs,” my thoughts went to Clark and his book. I thought of his list, the one that kept his life on a piece of paper – it spelled out who he once was, what he’d done, and who he was today. I thought of the man in prison who gave him his book. And then I thought I might know where Clark was.
That was the last I heard of Claire’s story, and the last I thought about Clark and where he might have gone. When the bell above the door rang out, bright afternoon light and a hot breeze pushed into the diner. An older man stood at the door, his silhouette keeping his features hidden from us. We were back into the throes of the spring season’s summer-warm days, and the figure at the door held his jacket over his arm, as though he’d been walking a while. The bell rang again, as the door closed behind him. I’ve made a habit of giving a brief look to those that enter, and then immediately a quick check of the booths, their linen and silverware, and the counter. We were between the rush of late afternoon lunches and the dinner crowd. It was quiet for the time being. If he was alone, he could sit at the counter.
There was something familiar about the man, and my eyes went back to him. When his eyes found mine, he stepped forward, and the air in my lungs became hot like the outside breeze, and I coughed it out. I wanted to run. Run to the back where Clark had been, and then run out the door. It was my father.
“Donut?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Ms. Potts said from the grill. I heard the sound of metal on metal when she dropped her spatula. She was around to the counter and by my side a moment later, holding my arm.
“Gabby, girl, it’ll be fine,” she started to say, but I couldn’t hear more than the whisper of her words. My eyes were stuck on my Daddy. He was old. So old. The thick black hair I shared with him was almost all gray, and the perfect skin on his face was a mass of lines around his eyes and cheeks. He looked more than just old, he looked tired.
“Gabby. Please,” he pleaded, raising his hand, and took another
step into the diner. Images of him pushing my hands away came to mind once again, and I shook my head.
“I don’t want you here!” I yelled. He stopped abruptly, and shuffled back a step, as though he’d bumped into a glass wall he couldn’t see.
“I’ll sit,” he started, and motioned a hand toward a booth, “I’ll just sit, and… and I’ll order something. Can I do that?” Ms. Potts let my arm go, and, without a word, she brought two cups over to the table nearest my Daddy, and poured coffee into each. The diner was so quiet. I kept my eyes on my Daddy, and listened to the sound of the coffee pouring.
Ms. Potts looked up at me once as she poured, but said nothing. She didn’t ask. She didn’t seek out an objection. Nothing. Two cups – she took two cups, and poured the coffee. Not a word. But that said everything to me. When she was done, she glanced back at me and motioned with her eyes to the booth.
I shrugged at him, and saw in his eyes the man I remembered when I was a little girl. They were the same eyes that held me after a tumble while learning to ride a two-wheeler. They were the same eyes that told me I’d be okay, and planted a kiss atop my head after a nightmare. It was my Daddy, and, for a moment, the pain and anger fell away. I moved to the booth, and Ms. Potts followed with an arm on mine. I heard her say again that it’d be okay… that I just needed to sit and listen.
My Daddy was seated by then, stirring creamer into his coffee. His eyes stayed on mine. I sat down across from him, and, at once, felt old. I wanted to be nine again. I wanted to be running to him and crying after having scraped my knee in a fall. But I couldn’t do that. Ten years had passed, and never once did I consider my age. Inside, I still felt like a teenager, the one who learned her way across the country.
Seeing my Daddy was like looking into a mirror. The reflection showed me that I was no longer the teenager who had run from home. I wasn’t walking the blacktop of sleeping roads while the sun struggled to stretch an arm over the mountains. I wasn’t that Gabby anymore. I wasn’t Donut.
An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 16