Dancing on the Edge of the Roof

by Sheila Williams

  “Do you have a manager?”

  “Yes, ma'am.” The smile was barely disguised now.

  “Does he speak French or Spanish, or whatever the hell this is?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Can I see him, please, because I don't!”

  “Jess! Jess! This lady wants to see you!”

  She might as well have let out the Rebel Yell. My toes curled and I could feel my hair stand up. My ears were ringing. She gave me a brilliant smile, and turned on her heel, heading across the floor toward the other customers. As I glared after her, I noticed that the cook, who had been tending the grill, turned around, and came out from behind the counter toward me, wiping his hands on his apron.

  He wasn't tall and he wasn't short. He wasn't fat and he wasn't thin. He was about five feet, eleven inches tall, weighed about one hundred eighty or so pounds. He peered at me over his long, hooked nose with curious black eyes. When he removed his Bulls basketball cap, his long black hair, streaked with silver, fell down around his shoulders. He looked at me like a hawk studying a field mouse. I don't know why I remember every detail about his height and weight. Why it was that I noticed the shape of his face, and the strength in his hands as he wiped them on the white apron. He didn't smile. To tell you the truth, he looked kinda mean. But there was something else about him that was getting to me. And I couldn't put a word to it. My stomach flipped a little. Probably because I was hungry.

  “I'm Jess Gardiner, the manager. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I told him, trying not to look him in the eye. “Look, Mr. Gardiner. I'm starving. Peaches Bradshaw just let me off here, and she said you'd give me a good meal. But”— I held up the menu—“I can't read this menu. I don't know Spanish … I don't know … Italian …”

  “French.” He spit out the word.

  I stopped and stared at him.

  “What?”

  “It's French, not Italian,” he said abruptly.

  My jaws began to get tight.

  “Whatever. All I know is, I'm hungry. I want bacon, eggs over easy, hash browns or grits, and some coffee. Now, where is that on your menu?”

  The black eyes flickered for a second. He looked as if he was about to laugh. What was so damn funny? And I felt myself getting real pissed off.

  “We don't serve that. Miss …”

  “Louis,” I snapped. “And it's Mrs.” Now, I hadn't even seen Rodney Louis in over five years. Don't ask me why today I insisted on being called “Mrs. Louis.” Half the time I didn't care.

  “Now, I do have an herb omelet, with andouille sausage and a croissant that you might be interested in.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “I don't want a damned croissant. I want toast. You know, regular bread, with butter. You put it in the toaster? You do have a toaster, don't you? And I don't know what the hell an … an-doo-wee, ah … sausage is!” Now, normally, I hardly ever loud-talk anybody. But when I'm hungry, or tired—or both—I can make a Tyrannosaurus rex look like Little Bo Peep.

  “It's a traditional Cajun sausage. You'd like it.”

  “Since you don't know me, how would you know what I would like? Listen, what I'd really like, Mr. Gardiner …” My voice was beginning to carry. The table of four across the room had stopped drinking their coffee and were practically staring down my throat. The little waitress stood, transfixed, next to the counter, her eyes big, an amazed look on her face. I stopped for a second. Since I was probably the only black woman for eight hundred miles in northwest Montana, I decided to tone it down a bit. Hell, these people might lynch me, dump my body in the forest, and that would be the end of it.

  I lowered my voice. Took my time speaking. “What I'd like is eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns, and coffee. If that's a special order, then OK, I'll pay for it.” (Like I had lots of money!)

  Gardiner's nose twitched and he had a slight smirk on his face. That smirk was getting on my nerves. I was thinking about doing a neutron dance on his head. “Now, can you take care of that?” I asked.

  “We don't serve anything like that. And as you can see, there are no substitutions or additions.” He pointed to the bold print at the bottom of the menu. At least that was in English. “Now, if you would like for me to make a recommendation …”

  “If you can make this Eggs Benedine, or whatever the hell it is, surely you can scramble an egg or two?”

  Mr. Gardiner's black eyes narrowed again and this time, his jaw got tight. He shook his head firmly, his silver-streaked hair spilling over his shoulders. The smirk was gone, and when he spoke this time, his voice was like ice.

  “Look, lady. We don't do special orders, and we don't do à la carte. If it's not on the menu, we don't have it. So if you want bacon and eggs, Mrs. Louis, you'll have to fix them yourself.”

  Well, what did he say that for? I haven't scrambled eggs, fried bacon, and stirred grits for myself and three growing children for over twenty years for nothin'.

  I jumped up from that table faster than you could say “shit” and hightailed it over to the grill. The waitress stared at me with her mouth open, spilling coffee on the counter.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” the manager yelled after me.

  “You said I could fix them myself. That's what I'm doing!” I yelled back at him.

  “Now, just a minute …”

  I grabbed a towel, tied it around my waist, picked up the spatula I saw lying near the grill, looked around me, then looked at the waitress. The glint in my eye told her I wasn't in the mood for any crap.

  “Eggs?”

  “Uh …” she looked over her shoulder at her manager, who was still standing at my table, his face angry, his dark eyes fiery. We both looked mean, but I guess I looked meaner. “In the refrigerator. There.” She pointed, and moved out of my way.

  “Mignon! Hey, you get outta there! Or I'll come around there myself and pull you out!”

  I looked at him like he stole something.

  “You lay a hand on me, I'll brain you with this skillet here!”

  I looked at the waitress. “Now get outta my way!” She jumped aside.

  “What the hell? I don't believe this!”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gardiner coming toward me. Although I wasn't the kind of woman to get into a wrestling match with some man, I would use that iron skillet if I had to. But just when he'd taken a few steps, the screen door banged against the doorjamb. I caught a glimpse of a couple of sleepy children and a man and woman. In mid-sentence, his tirade changed to “Good morning, how are you? You can sit here in this booth if you want. Would you like some coffee? Orange juice for the kids?”

  I pulled out some eggs, found some respectable-looking Canadian bacon (it would have to do), some real bread, and, way back in the back of the freezer, some hash browns. This surprised me since Gardiner had acted like he'd never heard of them. I started frying up the bacon and hash browns (seasoning them with salt, a sprinkle of pepper, and some chopped onions), then began to beat the eggs. I had been whirling around the tiny kitchen like a dervish for a few minutes, when I realized that I had an audience: the four older men who were at the table across from mine and a teenaged boy who was working at the diner as a busboy. The manager had his back to us, taking the orders of the family that had just come in.

  The men stared, greedily, at the bacon and potatoes frying on the grill. I have to admit: that food smelled good. One of the old geezers looked at Mr. Gardiner, glanced at his buddies, then back at Mr. Gardiner, who was now looking my way. Finally, he spoke to me.

  “Ah … ma'am … ah … that smells mighty good there. I don't suppose you'd mind scrambling up a few more of those eggs would you? For my buddies and me?” He glanced over his shoulder once more. Caught Gardiner's evil eye. “Now, Jess, I don't mean to be disloyal or nothin', but this stuff smells awful good. And we haven't had a plate of plain old bacon and eggs s
ince you opened this place for breakfast and started serving that French shit!”

  His buddies murmured in agreement, but they also glanced fearfully at the manager, who glared silently at them—and at me with piercing, black eyes. Mr. Gardiner did not respond, so the old man shrugged his shoulders and looked eagerly at me. Well, I had stepped in the shit now, so what the hell. I pulled up my hip boots. And since Gardiner wasn't saying anything—silence means consent, right? The worst he could do was have me arrested: for frying bacon and eggs for four old men, one summer school teacher, four tourists from Fresno, and the nineteen-year-old waitress, who was Mr. Gardiner's niece by the way. There were worse crimes.

  I started cooking at ten past seven. I barely managed to get my own breakfast fixed and eaten. I didn't get a chance to take a deep breath. Between bites, I cooked for four more tourists who were retired couples from Naples headed to Glacier, five ranchers and two farmers, the owner of the local (and only) gas station, and the busboy, Carl—who was Mr. Gardiner's cousin. I fixed up eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns, as well as cinnamon toast and pancakes (made from scratch, mind you). I ran out of bacon and one of the customers ran down to the Bi-Lo to get some for me. By the time nine o'clock rolled around, I had cooked breakfast for over thirty people, including four of Mr. Gardiner's relatives! Mignon, the waitress and Gar-diner's niece, warned me as she left two plates of pancakes, scrambled eggs, English muffins, sausage (that damn an-doo-wee stuff was all I could find), and bacon at the high school principal's table, that she had overheard her tight-jawed uncle talking “in a real low voice” on the phone to the local sheriff. But I was too busy to care.

  “Well, I don't have time to worry 'bout it, honey,” I told her as I passed her another plate of hash browns, toast, and bacon for Carl. “I got three orders of pancakes and sausage, and one of cinnamon toast to fill.”

  It was funny. Gardiner probably woulda thrown me out himself, but the diner got so busy, so fast, that he didn't have time. And everybody that came in started ordering “à la carte” after seeing the plates of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and pancakes I had fixed for Abel Long and the other three old men. Guess they just assumed that's what was on the menu. Since the manager didn't have time to explain that good ole bacon and eggs weren't usually available, he just took the orders and turned them in. To me. I gave him a big smile. He gave me a glare that would stop a train.

  At ten, I took a break, poured myself a cup of coffee, and waited for the sheriff to arrive.

  I didn't hear him come in. I was slicing tomatoes the size of baseballs and had just yelled at Carl to bring me a stack of clean plates. When I didn't get the plates, heard the screen door slam and the place suddenly get quiet, I turned around.

  All of the customers were frozen, mid-bite. And stone-faced Jess Gardiner stood in the middle of the floor next to the biggest white man I had ever seen.

  They didn't call him “Mountain” for nothin'.

  Frank “Mountain” Peters had to be six feet, twenty-five inches tall and weigh three hundred pounds when he was born. He was dressed in the whole sheriff's getup: khaki pants, black shirt, badge, gun strapped on his hip, crisply starched black shirt, Mountie hat, aviator-style reflective sunglasses. Except for the sunglasses, he looked like a giant-sized Dudley Do-Right.

  I didn't know how long he'd been standing there and, frankly, I didn't really care. If he wanted to arrest me, fine. But I had to slice those tomatoes first.

  Mignon's eyes were huge as saucers, and I hoped she'd catch herself before she dropped her tray on the school principal. She glanced quickly at her uncle and the formidable sheriff, than looked at me. In fact, everybody in the place was looking at me.

  Sheriff Peters made his way toward me, studying the food on the tables as he went. He slowed down when he got to Mr. Ohlson's table. Mr. Ohlson, the principal, smiled sheepishly and balanced a forkful of sausage and potatoes against his beefy fingers, which held a piece of English muffin. He also had something in his mouth.

  “Mornin', Sheriff,” Mr. Ohlson said as pleasantly as he could. It sounded more like “Mawwumph Shawiff.”

  Peters tipped his hat slightly, then pulled his sunglasses down to his nose as he took a good long look at Mr. Ohlson's plate.

  “Good mornin', Mr. Ohlson. Summer school start up all right?”

  Mr. Ohlson swallowed.

  “So far, so good,” the principal answered, more clearly this time. That man didn't stop eating, though. He just went on sopping up some egg yolk with the muffin.

  Jess Gardiner cleared his throat and nodded in my direction. Peters looked over his shoulder, then looked at me. He ambled over to the counter and took off his hat. He left his sunglasses on.

  “Ma'am?”

  “Sheriff?” My throat was tight. Peters was huge, the size of a walking door. I wasn't sure I wanted to be arrested in little old Paper Moon, Montana.

  Then “Mountain” Peters removed his sunglasses and looked at me with an open, eager—and hungry expression.

  “Frank Peters, ma'am. Jeez, that smells good. And I haven't eaten since six-thirty this morning. I wonder … could I trouble you for three eggs over easy, hash browns, toast, six strips of bacon … and some of those pancakes?”

  Mignon giggled.

  “Aw, Mountain!” This came from Jess Gardiner, who slapped a towel against his thigh in disgust.

  I grinned and reached for the coffeepot and a mug.

  “You want coffee, too?” I asked the sheriff, who was now making himself at home, his huge elbows resting on the counter in front of me.

  “Yes, ma'am. Thank you. And a large orange juice, please.”

  “Mountain! You're supposed to arrest her, not place an order!”

  “Well, Jess, I can't arrest her on an empty stomach, can I? Besides, I don't see why I should arrest her for anything. In fact, I ought to arrest you if you don't hire her as a cook!” He threw his hat onto an empty stool. “What happened to that ‘Help Wanted’ sign you had out front anyway?”

  “Mountain, that ain't the point …” Gardiner started to say.

  “Mountain,” who'd spied the huge beefsteak tomatoes I was slicing, ignored him. “Oh, and I'll take a couple of those tomatoes, too.” He looked sheepishly back at Mr. Gardiner. “If you don't mind.”

  Laughter followed this comment and Gardiner scowled at Mountain and at me.

  “Well, don't ask me anything, I just own the place. Ask Miss High and Mighty over there.” He stormed over to an empty table and began to clear the dishes. “She's in charge!” He yelled over his shoulder.

  “It's Mrs. Louis to you!” I snapped back, stirring the pancake batter.

  “Hummph” was Mr. Gardiner's only response.

  With the support of local law enforcement, I decided that I could be bold. Threw a drop of water on the griddle to test it, and yelled at Gardiner, “Will you get me another onion when you bring the plates?” He growled at me and disappeared behind the swinging doors. Mignon giggled again. Within the past hour or so, we had become best friends.

  “I should apologize to your uncle,” I said, looking toward the still-swinging doors. Now that things had quieted down a little, and I'd been able to catch my breath, I felt kinda embarrassed: I had come in here like I owned the place, disrupted the business, and changed the breakfast menu— all in three hours! Had practically thrown Gardiner out of his own diner! Guess he woulda been within his rights to have me arrested, although from the way Mountain talked, I felt pretty safe from that. We could hear Gardiner slamming things around in the back. “I don't usually act like this,” I told Mignon. “I guess I was just … a little hungry.” I gave the pancake batter another stir. Turned the bacon.

  Mignon looked at me sideways.

  “I'd hate to see you when you're starving!”

  I could feel my cheeks reddening.

  “It's a … a blood sugar thing,” I mumbled.

  “Hum
mph,” Mignon commented. She sounded like her uncle.

  “Your uncle's pretty pissed off. I should probably go.”

  “Why? Jess will get over it. What's he gonna do? Throw you out?” Mignon motioned toward the twenty or so people who were now eating in the diner. “Sometimes, we don't get this many customers in a day much less for one meal! I hope you need a job.”

  I told her that I was really only passing through, but thanks for the offer. “Besides, Mignon, I can't even read that French and Italian stuff, much less cook it!”

  “It doesn't matter. It's a good thing you came along when you did. Jess is close to losing this place. Maybe you being here will bring him back to the real world,” Mignon replied, pouring orange juice. “When Mom and Uncle Jess bought the diner and Jess got this fool idea to turn it into a Continental haven—in the middle of nowhere— my mother told him he was crazy.”

  Mignon's mother, Mary, is Jess Gardiner's older sister, and his business partner in the diner. I learned that Jess had picked up his Continental culinary skills in Paris after he returned from two tours in Vietnam. He had always wanted to operate a restaurant and when the previous owner of the Paper Moon Diner decided to retire, Jess grabbed his chance. The way he figured it, tourists on their way to Glacier and Flathead National Parks were a sophisticated group who could appreciate a more Continental type of “cuisine,” as Mignon laughingly referred to it. Jess put the hamburgers, meat loaf, and club sandwiches out to pasture, and replaced them with eggs Benedict, cassoulets, and béarnaise sauce. It worked OK for dinner on weekends. Mignon said that the diner was gaining a good reputation among the yuppies, university crowd, and artsy types in Missoula.

  But breakfast and lunch were a problem. Mostly locals, hunters, fishermen, or traveling families with kids then. Only trouble was, Mignon said, nobody in northwest Montana was much interested in crêpes suzettes and hollandaise sauce for breakfast. And hunters and fishermen, and especially families with kids, weren't either. They were, however, interested in plain old scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, pancakes, and other stuff like that, as I had discovered. And the dinner crowd was iffy—sometimes they were there, sometimes they weren't. Not a good thing when it came time to pay the food bills for those expensive Cajun sausages and gourmet coffee beans.