The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel

by Peggy Lampman

  “Malcolm X said if you’re black, you were born in jail,” David muses, his voice low and gravelly, picking at a cuticle on his finger.

  Braydon’s nose twitches, and he pinches his nostrils. I’m sure he’s annoyed that David quoted the man most famous, and most vociferous, in his condemnation of white crimes waged against blacks. David sometimes talks like some badass raised in the ghetto, but he doesn’t understand the scope of what he’s talking about. I don’t either, but at least I admit it. We really could use a road map. And I really could use a beer. I rise and grab one from the cooler.

  “During his senior year in high school, a friend coerced him into robbing a convenience store,” Braydon continues, “and the rest is history. A history looping itself round and round and round. It was the only time he’d ever screwed up, but that time was for real.”

  Braydon puts his beer down, clasps his hands behind his neck, and leans back into his chair, his words directed to the sky. “The other kid was armed, but, thankfully, not Angus’s grandson. Which meant less jail time. Angus said he should be released in a few months, and is moving back with him.”

  “Maybe his grandson’s return will be his silver lining,” Sam says, a gleam of hope in her eyes. Braydon, shrugging, bites his lower lip.

  “So he’s lived in the very same spot for over sixty years,” she continues. “Did he share any memories about the way things used to be in this neighborhood?”

  “He remembers the old diner. To him it was his second home. He and his parents ate there at least twice a week, and always on Sunday after church. The church and diner were the heart of the community. It sat vacant for thirty years before you two bought it. Maybe that’s what’s sad to him,” he continues, his voice heavy with emotion. “The diner’s rebirth reminds him of the old days. Of good times. Today, he’s an outsider.”

  Bon Temps sleeps in a patch of shade. Hero trots to her side, lies down, and joins her, emitting a yowling yawn before laying his head on the ground.

  “So what was your response?” I ask, directing my gaze to Braydon.

  Braydon sighs, shaking his head. “I just listened and acknowledged his feelings. No resolutions were made. Of course not. His point of view encompasses more than the diner.”

  “I think I get where he’s coming from,” Sam says. “Welcome Home’s symbolic of change. He’s coming from a place of fear. And fear makes everyone lash out.”

  “You’re right, Sam,” Braydon agrees. “His car was repossessed last year because he couldn’t pay the insurance premiums. Then he sees two white women sniffing a bargain and moving onto his turf, settin’ up shop. He’s on a limited, fixed income and worried about gentrification. He’s concerned taxes on his home will rise and he will lose it. He has no place to go. Why wouldn’t he consider the diner’s resurrection to be just another betrayal in the city’s history of economic abandonment?”

  Braydon places the tip of his thumb in his mouth, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. We’re all silent, fixated on this man who has experienced so much that we could never, and will never, fathom. But we can, at the very least, listen. He opens his eyes, breaking the silence.

  “Angus is scared. He’s lonely. And he wants someone to talk to. But I didn’t leave without saying my piece.” Braydon shakes his almost-empty beer, takes a last lingering sip, and places the bottle on the table at his side. Standing, he walks to the garden’s edge and lifts a green tomato.

  “You should see the tomatoes growing in his garden. Twice the size of ours.” He gestures toward the large fence behind Angus’s home. “His lot shares space with broken-down equipment he’s repairing. My dad liked to fix things, too.” He turns to face us.

  “To me, the twenty-foot plot of land separating the diner and Angus’s home is like the center line of I-94 at rush hour.” His palms are upturned and his fingers outstretched, as if he were cradling the city. “Half of the expressway represents your people, and the other half represents mine. The line divides us, and we’re both driving away from each other in opposite directions, as fast as we can. Meanwhile, the air shrieks with the sounds of honking cars, trucks, and deafening sound systems, and stinks with the smells of exhaust.”

  Bon Temps, sensing anguish in her master’s voice, ambles awkwardly onto all fours and walks to his side. The pom-pom tipping her tail drags across the ground. He leans over to scratch beneath her ears.

  “Since I’ve started working at Welcome Home, I’ve begun to feel like my home is in the middle of the road, dead center on the line. But no one wants me here. It’s as if I must make a decision to cross over and join the traffic in the left lane or the traffic in the right.”

  He sighs, exhausted. “The trouble with me is”—his eyes move around our group, lingering a second on each of our faces—“I don’t want to make the choice.”

  Sam stands, rushes to Braydon, and grabs his arm, shaking her head. “You know us better than that. All of us are with you in the center, all of us on neutral ground. There’s no choice to be made.”

  He winces, and his eyes take on a wounded look. “I get what you’re saying, Sam. But I feel as if someone, something, is going to force me to choose sides.” He drops his head. “And it makes me sad.”

  Bon Temps looks up at her master. Her ears tip back and she whines. “I’m OK, girl,” Braydon says to the dog as he bends to stroke her back.

  “And there lies the holy conundrum,” David says. Folding his arms across his chest, he raises his face to the sky, shaking his head. “To quote Rodney King, ‘Can’t we all just get along?’”

  Braydon straightens, his chest rises, and he looks askance at David. I know David’s trying to be sympathetic, but the next thing you know, he’ll change the music to Jay Z, pull Braydon in for a backslap hug, and call him a brother. David’s overdue for a smackdown, but I refrain.

  Braydon clears his throat. “As I was saying, that’s what I said when I spoke my piece to Angus. I didn’t talk about the diner. I wanted him to understand that I, speaking as a black man, have my own concerns about the future. And I don’t want to choose sides. Maybe I laid it on thick, but I wasn’t there to make small talk. I didn’t expect a response from him and didn’t receive one.”

  I regard Braydon. “Did you get a sense whether he feels friendlier to Welcome Home after your visit? Friendlier towards me?” I steel myself for his response.

  He gives me a long, appraising look, as if he were summing me up, gauging whether or not I was strong enough to hear the truth. Then, he shakes his head, as if dismissing a thought, and smiles. “Well, he polished off all the food you gave him. He’s loyal to your chicken.”

  We laugh, trading quick glances.

  He walks to my chair and places a hand on my shoulder. “You can’t take what Angus said personally, Addie. We must all be patient. Remain sensitive.”

  His eyes soften, and the sound of his voice fades under the blast of horns on La Grande.

  “The conversation has just begun.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sam

  “Ya got that right, Addie,” Lella says. “Just because a dude gives me a big tip, it doesn’t give him license to be lewd.” She chews her gum with abandon. “The know-it-all customers are also obnoxious.” A bubble emerges from her mouth, swelling into a shiny pink blossom.

  It’s Wednesday, 3:30 p.m. The floors freshly mopped, we’re seated around a six-top finishing up our weekly meeting. My eyes wander around the table: Braydon, Quiche, Lella, Paul, Addie.

  Lella’s bubble pops and she continues. “One woman said our goat cheese wasn’t local because it had the flavor of a grass that doesn’t grow in Michigan. She insisted it was crafted in Point Reyes. Wherever that is.”

  “Northern California,” Addie replies, adjusting a strap on her sundress. It’s pale blue with lemon-yellow piping around the middle, accentuating her long waist and slender frame. Her mother just bought it for her. Must be nice.

  “Superior cheeses do come from that region,”
she continues, smoothing her skirt, “but their flavor profiles are different from the Michigan cheeses we serve.”

  “Point her out to me next time she’s here,” I say, bristling with irritation. “I’ll set her straight. Our cheese is handcrafted in small batches at a creamery in Tecumseh. It’s fifteen miles from my family’s farm, and I’m friends with the owners. In fact, I’m pals with their goats, who will testify under oath they only nosh on Michigan grass.”

  “Baaaaaaaa . . . ,” Paul mewls, his staccato sound mimicking a baby goat. “That dude needs to get a life.”

  “It was as if she expected me to hand her a DNA report,” Lella continues. “It’s hard to have a ready answer for these entitled gastronoids.”

  Mouth pursed, Quiche repeats the word as if she were sucking on a lemon. “Gastronoids?” Her brow furrows, as if confused.

  Lella raises her brow, nodding at Quiche. “That’s my name for this type of customer.”

  I smile. The staff is coming up with a language of its own. In a couple of years, we’ll be the only ones who understand one another.

  “A gastronoid,” Lella continues, “is a human subspecies that only lives to eat and complain.”

  I widen my eyes into Os and mime pulling my hair out at the roots. “Gastronoids are full of gas.” The group giggles.

  “Seriously, guys,” Addie says. “You should have a ready answer when customers have a question. When things settle down, Sam and I will host a tasting seminar for the staff and invite our vendors. You can become acquainted with these folks and discover the passion they bring to their craft.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Lella says. “I can become a gastronoid myself.”

  Quiche snorts. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Settled,” I say, scribbling a notation in my notebook. “Do any of you have any further suggestions for the team? Any earth-shattering revelations before we disband?”

  Braydon lifts his hand. “Addie. Sam. All of us are aware that funds are tight, but business is out the door. I know you ladies are working crazy hours trying to keep up, but we could still use another set of hands.”

  Addie nods at me before turning to Braydon. “It’s you guys who are the champions. Welcome Home would be nothing without your hard work and dedication. Sam and I have discussed this, and we hear you loud and clear. We plan to set out some feelers and will make a hire as soon as the right candidate presents themselves. It may take a few weeks, but rest assured our burned-out bodies share your concerns.”

  “Full time?” Paul asks, his voice hopeful.

  “Yep. Either one full-timer or two half-timers.”

  The group applauds.

  “How about tacking on a dishwasher while you’re at it,” Paul says, ducking his head sheepishly.

  “I’ll bet you drove your parents crazy when you were a kid,” Addie says, smirking. “When they gave you a basketball, you asked for a hoop.”

  “You knew my folks?” He leans back into his chair, a grin spread across his face. “You ladies are the ones who always say to dream big.”

  I rise from the table, so proud of the team we’ve created. “Next week, let’s revisit the issues we’re having in the neighborhood. I’d like each of you to come up with one solid idea to increase foot traffic. We want to encourage people who live in walking distance of the diner to feel welcome. There are unspoken boundary lines that need to be erased.”

  “The old man next door will be an especially tough sell,” Paul says, unaware of Addie’s encounter with him. Last week’s episode was a wake-up call that we needed to take action. Addie and I had no idea as to the extent of his resentment.

  “Maybe I’ll offer to lend him a hand and replace his front steps,” he continues. “They’re rotting away. If he’s not careful, he could take a mean tumble.”

  Lella turns to him, her smile so broad it appears to crack her face. “You are one awesome dude, Paul. I know a thing or two about carpentry. I’ll help.”

  Our staff is phenomenal. “The diner will pay for whatever materials you need to get the job done.” I glance at Addie; I’m sure she concurs.

  She clears her throat. “To quote Plato,” she says, her gaze to the ceiling, forefinger resting on her chin, “‘The community which has neither poverty nor riches will always have the noblest principles.’”

  The staff becomes quiet, trading glances. So now our meetings are a forum for Addie to reveal her book smarts? I thought we were trying to figure out how not to alienate the neighbors. We understand what she’s saying, but when she quotes these philosophers, it sounds as if she’s showing off. Aside from Paul, there’s not a one of us who’s ever set foot in a college classroom. Talk about alienating.

  I sigh and glance at the clock: 4:00 p.m. “This meeting is officially adjourned.”

  I’ve a couple of hours to organize tomorrow’s prep list, catch the bus, and change clothes. Uriah’s picking me up at six. We’ve met for coffee a couple of times, but tonight he’s taking me to dinner, on a real date—a Mediterranean restaurant he feels sure I’ll enjoy. I bite my lower lip, my pulse quickening in anticipation of seeing him.

  “You’re right, Uriah. This food is delicious, the flavors so fresh.” I place my napkin on the table, push my plate away, and take a sip of wine. “The lamb’s juicy and tender. It has such a sunny, lemony tang.” I tap the prongs of my fork at the bulgur wheat speckled with greens and tomatoes. “Usually parsley is the only herb used in tabbouleh. This one also had thyme and oregano.” I catch Uriah’s eye. “It’s such a treat having someone else do the cooking for a change.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “When you said that, I thought of my mom. She’d say those exact words every time we’d go out to dinner.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say, fiddling with the napkin. “The last time we met, you said that you couldn’t stop thinking about her signature dessert. A combination of a sweet potato pie and a pecan pie, right?”

  He leans toward me, his eyes glowing. “She’d also add a splash of bourbon to the batter.”

  “How yummy. I love old-fashioned desserts.”

  “It sounds like something your grandmother would have made.”

  “Babcia and bourbon?” I giggle at the thought. “Ha. Maybe if she’d been born in Tennessee instead of Poland.”

  He studies me thoughtfully. “I still can’t believe you’ve never been south of Ohio.”

  “What can I say?” I shrug, embarrassed that aside from my stint in Manhattan, I’ve spent my entire life in Michigan. “I told you I’d like to go down there one day.”

  “And I told you I’d love to be your travel guide. Remember?”

  I inhale sharply. How could I ever forget that conversation? It was the first time he held my hand.

  “The area where my folks live has some of the best whiskey distilleries in the world,” he continues, a gleam in his eyes. “And the countryside surrounding Nashville is beautiful. All of those farms and rolling hills. You’d love Lynchburg. It’s a quaint little town with some amazing antique stores.”

  “Seriously, Uriah. I’d love to visit Tennessee. But back to that pie.” I wink into his deep, dark eyes. “Let me make it for you. Do you think your mom would share her recipe with me?”

  “Heck yeah, Sam.” He rubs his hands together. “And you sure know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll have Mom e-mail it to me. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

  He looks at me, blowing out a long breath. “I take that back. I can think of one other thing . . .”

  Oh my. I feel the warmth of a flush creeping across my face. I can’t stop my grin, or these dimples that are burning holes into my cheeks. I drop my eyes, feeling shy, and then reach for my wine. He turns his attention to his dinner, finishing his meal in a couple of quick bites.

  Looking up, he wipes his mouth with a napkin before pointing to my plate. “You’ve only eaten half of your supper. And what about dessert? The baklava at this place is amazing.”

  I
t’s unlike me not to clean my plate. But it feels as if I’ve swallowed a bag filled with butterflies. There’s not much room for food.

  I smile, beaming at him across the table. “You go ahead. I’ll have a bite of yours.” I gesture to my plate. “I’ll ask the waiter to box up the leftovers. It’s going to be insane tomorrow at work. I’ll have something to look forward to after the day.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he narrows his eyes as if studying me. “I don’t know how you do it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to own a restaurant.”

  “I can assure you I had no idea what I was in for.” I pull my hair around my neck. It falls into soft waves shining down the front of my blouse. “The responsibilities of running Welcome Home remind me of a Cirque du Soleil performance I once saw.”

  “That troupe’s incredible,” he replies, grinning widely. “I saw them perform at an arena in Nashville. They take theatrics to another plateau.”

  “I know. Literally, right? The performers juggling dozens of balls in the air across the stage, intercepting and passing them from one to another. Without even one of the balls hitting the floor.” I straighten in my chair, speaking quickly, my fingertips darting to my lips. “I, too, feel like a professional juggler. One minute I’m texting a menu proposal for an office luncheon, the next I’m describing the daily special to Lella and Quiche. The next thing I know, I’m answering the phone, taking an order.” I fan myself with the palm of my hand. “All the while making sure I don’t burn the soup.”

  “And God forbid you drop a ball on that beautiful head.” Leaning across the table, he tucks a long, wavy curl behind my ear. “I couldn’t bear the thought of even one of those golden tendrils disturbed.” I feel my face getting warm. My pulse quickens at the touch of his fingers as they slide down my neck.

  “But, honestly, Uriah.” I take a deep breath, trying to corral the stampede in my chest. “The largest problem we face is trying to get our neighborhood community to warm up to us. It’s not their dollars we’re after. It’s their fellowship. The area’s a disaster zone. We want them to know we’re all in this together. There’s a congregation of churchgoers right across the street. You’d think at least they’d want a cup of coffee after Sunday services.”