“Ben is a man of all trades. He does our dishes and fixes anything that breaks down around here. Don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Ben turned his head and flashed him a gold-toothed smile. “Thanks, man.”
Frank patted him on the back. He ushered me to toward the grill where another man was scampering back and forth between pots on the burners. He motioned for me to come closer and whispered, “Don’t let Ben scare you. He’s a bit rough around the edges. He’s had a hard life, but he’s got a big heart. It just takes him a while to warm up.”
I nodded.
“That’s Michael.” He pointed to the cook. “He’s been with us since he was a teenager. Started out chopping our veggies for Lois and now he knows all our secret recipes. He’s added a few of his own over the years.”
He walked over to him and tapped him on the back. Michael turned around and began signing. I noticed the large hearing aids plugged into both his ears. Frank signed back, pointing and gesturing to me. Michael smiled widely and walked over to me. I expected a handshake and was taken aback when he reached around to give me a tight bear hug. He squeezed while I stood with my arms at my sides. He smelled like grease and French fries.
Frank showed me the workings of the kitchen but assured me my responsibilities wouldn’t include doing much in the kitchen except bringing Michael orders and helping with clean up when Ben wasn’t around. He chattered away as he explained things.
When we got back up to the front of the restaurant, a thin woman was busy counting money into the cash register. She turned around when she heard us. The bags under her eyes were hard to miss, dark circles encasing her blue eyes. Her nose was red like she had a cold or had been crying. Her hair was tied up in a bun and her navy apron was fastened around her waist.
“I’m Meredith. You must be Sarah.” Her voice had an edge to it.
I nodded.
“Meredith’s going to show you the ropes.” He touched her arm. “Go easy on her, okay? Take it slow. You’ve been here a long time, but try to remember what it was like when you first started.”
Meredith rolled her eyes. “Come on.” She moved toward the tables. “I said come on.”
“Oh…. I…. I’m sorry. I d-didn’t realize you–”
She was already moving through the café barking directions at me and I struggled to keep up. Her lips were moving at a different pace than her words as if I was watching a dubbed film. I tried to follow her instructions, but she made me nervous. She wasn’t much older than me, but I felt like an incompetent child trying to fill all the condiments on the table the way she did. I fumbled and dropped things, turning bright red as I bent to pick them up time and time again. She barely gave me a chance to finish one task before she moved onto the next.
I was fighting back tears by the time my shift ended.
“Great first day, kiddo.” Frank said as I was putting my coat on to leave.
He was lying and we both knew it. I hadn’t done anything right. I’d dropped more plates than I’d carried. I mixed up most of the orders Meredith gave me. I didn’t work the cash register right and when I did, I gave people back the wrong change. Meredith didn’t even try to hide her frustration with me and huffed exaggerated sighs all day. I wanted to tell her I used to supervise over two hundred employees, but the sentence was frozen inside me along with all my other words. I was as mute as Michael was deaf. I wasn’t sure if I’d come back. I didn’t know if I could handle a repeat performance. I bit my lip to keep from crying in front of Frank. Bursting into tears would be one too many humiliations for the day.
I came back the next day despite my horrible first one and things started to get easier as the days wore on. I took responsibility for the simple tasks while Meredith handled waiting on the customers. I began to relax a little without her watching everything I did. I became skilled at filling all the condiments on the tables. I took great care and focus as I counted out the sugar packets in each tray making sure they lined up perfectly. I scrubbed the tables and chairs after customers finished their meals making sure they sparkled. I bussed their dirty dishes into the back, scraping the food into the trash, and soaking them in hot water to make Ben’s job easier. I made sure the coffee was always fresh and the sugar bowls never ran low. I did the same things over and over again, but I liked the vain repetition.
I was surprised to discover The Little Crane was a busy place. I wasn’t sure if people came for the food or to see Frank. Everyone knew and loved him as if he was the town’s grandfather. He wandered from table to table asking people about their lives, remembering every detail. He spoke of Lois frequently and shed tears without reserve no matter who he was talking to. People hugged and patted him, understanding that he needed to talk about her and many of them shared their own stories about her. Her presence was still alive in the restaurant even though she was gone. I felt like I knew her.
After a few weeks, Frank began sending me out to wait on customers when Meredith was gone. Unlike Frank, I was shy and uncomfortable with the customers. It was difficult to make eye contact with them and I had to force myself to maintain it by counting to three before I looked away. I stumbled over my words, stammering and stuttering as I learned to take people’s orders. I’d turned into a nail biter and gnawed at my nails as if they were a delicacy while I waited for them to make up their minds. It was hard to be still. I fidgeted with my apron or compulsively arranged the silverware on the table. I felt like I’d run a marathon by the time I was done waiting on them.
I returned home from my shifts exhausted. I’d fix myself dinner and then shower before falling into bed. Working had given me my first sense of normalcy and routine, but it had also given me the gift of sleep. When I laid my head on my pillow after work, I slept peacefully through the night like a regular person—someone I never thought I’d be again.
Chapter Fifteen
They filed in every Friday night at seven o’clock and their meeting began at seven-thirty. They were some of our regulars. It hadn’t taken me long to identify the regulars. The Friday night group was our largest group besides the Sunday church group. However, they couldn’t have been more different than the Sunday crew. The Sunday churchgoers all looked, dressed, and talked alike as they walked down the street for brunch after Sunday morning worship, but the Friday night individuals were a mismatched bunch.
There were ten of them and I couldn’t imagine how they all knew each other since they looked so different. They weren’t even the same age. The youngest one looked like he couldn’t have been more than nineteen. He dressed in all black complete with matching dark fingernail polish and his eyes nervously flitted about the room whereas the oldest one looked over sixty and dressed in a three piece suit as if he’d come straight from the office. The other men were the same contradictions. One messy and unkempt like he’d just rolled out of bed before he came and another in his forties perfectly manicured and reeking like cologne. There were only two women. Both were overweight, but that was the only similarity they shared. The blond wore long, draping skirts and oversized t-shirts with hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed all week. The other was dark haired and covered in tattoos from head-to-toe. She bore the name of someone’s initials tattooed across her neck whereas the blond wore a cross around hers.
Each Friday, they greeted each other with hugs, squeezing tightly, and beating each other on the back like they hadn’t seen each other in a long time. They pulled two tables together in the back corner of the restaurant. They drank a lot of coffee during their meetings and my job was to make sure their pots stayed full. Sometimes they didn’t order food, but Frank didn’t mind because they were some of his favorite people.
Frank loved everyone, but he had his favorites. He adored the knitting group ladies who came in every Tuesday at two o’clock for pie and coffee after their weekly meeting where they knitted baby caps for newborns that they donated to the hospital in the city every month. They were three little old ladies in their eighties who were proud of th
e fact they’d been living without their husbands for over a decade and were still doing fine on their own. I wasn’t sure if the ladies had always been Frank’s favorite or if they’d only recently earned the status given that he was a new widower. Either way, he slid into their booth and chatted and laughed with them until they were finished.
It didn’t take me long to figure out the Friday night group was having a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. They held hands and recited the Serenity Prayer. Then, they went around after the prayer with the tell-tale sign of saying their name followed by the “I’m an alcoholic” proclamation.
“I don’t get it,” I said to Frank one Friday night after they’d left and we were washing the coffee pots and mugs together. Ben never worked on Friday nights so I’d started staying late to help Frank clean up. I washed while he dried.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I thought Alcoholics Anonymous was supposed to be anonymous. Doesn’t it bother them that they’re in a public restaurant talking about being alcoholics?” Frank’s gentle and calm disposition gave me the confidence to speak without stumbling over my words. It was a relief to have fluid conversations with someone again.
His shoulders shook with laughter. “Honey, everyone in this town knew they were alcoholics long before they started going to meetings. Heck, I think they have the meetings here so people know they’re still sober. You know Gus?”
“Which one is he?”
“He’s the skinniest one. Looks so skinny he might fall through his own asshole?”
I laughed, knowing who he was talking about right away—the tall skinny guy who wore the same clothes every week. He was also the quietest. I rarely heard him talk or smile and he didn’t join in on the laughter they shared.
“We used to call him Dewey. That was his nickname for the longest time. Know why?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“We called him Dewey because he got so many DUI’s. Like five. They finally took away his driver’s license but you know what that son of a gun did?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “He started driving his dang tractor! Right down main street—if you can imagine that. A big ole’ tractor rolling down the road. Cops didn’t know what to do about it. They even held a town meeting about it to figure out how to handle it, but it wasn’t long before it was taken out of their hands. He drove that tractor straight into a telephone pole on Ninth Avenue on Christmas Eve. Messed it up real bad.”
“Was that what got him sober?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure. He disappeared for a few weeks after that. No one knows where he went or what he did. One day he just showed up at the meeting, said he was done drinking, and he’s never had a drink since.”
“What about Joe?” I asked.
He was the only one whose name I remembered because he was the kind of man every woman couldn’t help but notice. He was strapping and well built, thick in all the right places. He came to the meetings dressed in tattered jeans and shirts spotted with dust and paint, but still looked good despite his work clothes.
Frank’s eyes filled with sadness. “That there is a tragedy.”
I waited for him to go on. I knew if I waited long enough, he would. Frank loved to talk and he didn’t like to leave any story unfinished, but this time he was silent, staring into space like he was watching a private memory.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Joe was our boy. Man, that kid could throw a football. He was the best dang quarterback Triton’s ever seen. Everyone loved to watch him play. The stands used to be packed. They moved him onto varsity when he was in eighth grade. Eighth grade, can you believe that? He was starting every game by ninth. Led us to four state championships and made All-State Quarterback three years in a row. Amazing.” His chest puffed with pride as if we were speaking about his own son.
“That’s pretty impressive.” I had no idea what it meant to be an all-state quarterback, but he had to be good if he’d won high school championships. “What happened to him?”
“He went to Notre Dame on a full scholarship after high school. The Eagles drafted him his senior year. He looked real promising his rookie year.” He was interrupted by the bell jingling at the front door and a family of four walking in. He never got to finish his story about Joe, but I wanted to know how it ended. What tragedy brought him into AA?
I was familiar with AA. Every treatment center Rachel was at instructed her about the importance of going to AA meetings if she wanted to stay sober once she got out, but she never went because most of the time she never made it through treatment sober. She either used while she was there or checked herself out early before her days were up.
I’d been in family therapy meetings with her and my mom while she was in treatment, but those meetings weren’t anything like the Friday night AA meetings. The treatment meetings had a drug counselor who led all the meetings and dictated what happened. The Friday night AA meetings didn’t seem to have any kind of leader from what I could tell. A different person started the meeting every week and then people took turns sharing in no particular order.
I was intrigued by the people in the meetings. I gravitated toward their table and strained to hear what they shared with each other. I refilled their coffee mugs even though they didn’t need it and busied myself cleaning the tables next to them, hoping to catch bits and pieces of the things they talked about. If they noticed my hovering, they didn’t say anything. My ears perked up when one of the women began talking about her kids.
“I got to see my kids this weekend. We had so much fun, but I wanted to drink as soon as they left.” Her hair was in dire need of a highlight job as her dark roots were longer than her blond ends. She wore long red acrylic nails that she tapped on the table as she talked. “What kind of a mom gets her kids taken away from her? I know that’s what everyone thinks when they look at me. I know because I think it too. But you know what’s crazy—I know I’m not a good mom. I’m just not. I thought it was because of the alcohol, but I haven’t had a drink in 182 days. I’m still as shitty of a mom now as I was then.”
My breath caught in my throat and my stomach dropped. How could she admit those things openly? I’d never heard anyone confess they were a bad mother. I thought back to my mom’s night out dinners and functions I’d attended with Robin. Everyone always spoke about their kids in a favorable light and competed with each other to prove they loved their kid the most. Even when they mentioned something negative about them, they quickly made a loving remark to prove they were a good mom. I scanned the room, studying the faces of everyone around the table to see how they were judging her, but nobody seemed moved. They all continued to stare at her, nodding their heads, and waiting for her to go on.
“That’s all. I’ll pass,” she said.
“I’ll go next.” The woman next to her spoke up. “I’m Arlene and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Arlene.” They all responded in unison like a perfectly choreographed choir.
“I know what you mean, Mary. I’m the same way. Don’t beat yourself up. I still have my kids and I look at them wondering what the hell God was thinking when he gave them to me. I should’ve started saving for their therapy fund when they were born.” Everyone around the table burst out laughing. It was a few moments before their laughter died down and she could continue. “But seriously, I just do the best I can. I mean, I figure I’m doing better than my parents. I don’t beat them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, sometimes I’d love to smack them, but I don’t. And they do some messed up shit. Seriously messed up. Like the other day, my youngest got suspended from school for the third time this year and comes home thinking he’s going to sit on the couch all day and play video games–”
“Sarah? Sarah?” I still wasn’t used to being called Sarah. “Table six needs you,” Frank said, motioning to the other side of the room. I was embarrassed he’d caught me eavesdropping. I scurried away to the other table, staring at my feet, and avoiding eye contact.
/>
Chapter Sixteen
“Hey.” I felt a hand on my back and jumped.
I turned to see Joe standing in front of me with a sheepish grin on his face. “Sorry to scare you.”
I flushed. “You didn’t. It’s fine.”
What was he doing here at noon? He only came in on Friday nights and it was Tuesday. The restaurant was empty besides me and Ben. Frank had gone to the bank and to do a few other errands. Meredith had been out all week. She’d been spending more and more time away as I grew confident waiting on tables. There was something going on in her life. The bags under her eyes were ever present and her face was lined with stress. Whatever it was, she kept it to herself.
“You know, you can come to our meetings if you want.” The grin still hadn’t left his face.
“I…. uh…. I’m not sure-uh, what–”
“I’ve noticed you hanging around on Fridays. Some people are scared to join our meetings and I just wanted to let you know you’re more than welcome to pull up a seat.” His eyes were a deep brown with gold specks and framed with long lashes any girl would kill for.
I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. Had it been that obvious?
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I said.
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows, studying my face carefully. I looked away and began busying myself wiping down the counter, chasing away imaginary spots. “How long have you been the new girl in town?”
“I’m not new.”
The space between us was too close. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. I wanted him to go away and leave me alone.
“Oh, I hadn’t seen you around before. Where are you from?”
“Out West.” It was my standard response. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m here to pick up a pie for my mom. Blueberry. The last name is Ramsey.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I couldn’t get to the back of the restaurant fast enough. My heart was racing. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t handle someone asking a few questions about me? But it was more than that. He’d caught me. He’d noticed me lurking in the shadows driven to find out more about the strange people who shared their secrets with each other in public. A few weeks ago, I’d heard a man talk about choking his wife in a fit of rage while he was drunk. He shared it as casually as if he was describing the kind of car he was going to buy. He went on to tell how he’d made his amends to her by attending anger management classes for the first year of his sobriety. It’d been ten years since he’d had a drink.
Missing Parts Page 13