by Jen Lowry
I’d never had the opportunity to hold down a part-time job before. I could buy Maize his own ball, Bell needed some new bows. Bean needed manners and hyper pills, but I’m sure I couldn’t go down and buy those at the Five and Below.
“One stipulation. Your wages go to helping us buy stuff for us, like clothes and school supplies for the kids, and whatever left is put up in the piggy for the calendar day.”
The trip. He was already figuring on leaving this place before we were settled. Typical.
“Deal. I can handle that.”
Immediately, my mind went to my school wardrobe for my senior year. My jeans were classics, fine. But we needed hoodies, because the sling bags were never big enough to carry jackets. We always had to ditch those and grab new ones when they could be worn, not packed. And I positively needed a couple of new t-shirts for school. I was a collector of graphic tees, like a wearable scrapbook of my life. It was the closest thing I had to mementos.
Before we headed back down the staircase, Daddy grabbed my arm. “They are mighty good people, Sweet Potato. I feel it. You’ll like it, I’m sure.”
“Sure, Daddy. Give me a break from Bean, and I’ll be a five-star cooker, for sure.” I couldn’t help but share in his laughter.
“Oh, you won’t be a cooker, but a waitress. Their niece is going off to college, and they needed somebody to take her place. I showed them our old family picture I carry in my wallet, and for some reason, Mrs. Sunshine waved her hand in front of her face like a fan. She started having heart malformations or palpitations or something like that. She said you had to come down and help out.” He swung open the door wide and pushed me forward.
“Daddy, I don’t like these rooftop conversations. Something about the heights had my head all loopy. Maybe we can stick to the room next time.”
“Okay, child.” He chuckled. “You actually thought I’d do something like give you away, or worse?”
I gulped down the fear that rose again at the thought. “Sorry, Daddy. If not the roof, maybe it’s this Virginia heat. It’s worse here, I think.”
He was emphatic. “No way! I sure don’t think so. You up to doing breakfast and lunch times tomorrow, and I’ll be here to keep a steady eye on the youngins? I’ll stick to the evening shifts for the time being, then I’ll do the morning shifts when you start up school. You can let the bus drop you off there in the afternoons if you want.”
I grimaced. Only four days left to sleep in late, but that was gone now, too. “Sure, Daddy. Whatever way I can help, I will.”
He sighed. “That’s my girl. You are the sweetest, you know that. My Sweet Potato Pie.”
“Daddy, that’s old.”
He told the kids I’d be early and out in the morning, and I needed my beauty rest. Bell was the disappointed one, but she would be okay with her iPod, probably wouldn’t even realize I was gone. The boys couldn’t have cared less, and that was okay, too. They’d be out in the back every chance they got, now that they discovered the basketball court. Daddy would even like to get him some exercise. He’d be out there playing with them; I was sure of that.
Bell broke my train of thought and said, “Let’s say our prayers to bless this place.”
We stopped our ritual of the flashlight theater show tonight because of my getting up early. I was sure it was my round to be the storyteller or solo artist for the evening, and I was grateful Daddy let me have my peace tonight. Daddy led us into our nightly prayers, and usually right after the amen round the whole room would soon be in snore mode. But not for us, not tonight. We kept whispering in the dark about the new adventure waiting for me. I didn’t know if talking it out eased my nervousness or built up my anticipation. I would wake up at five o’clock and get ready for my first job. What would it be like? Would I get orders all mixed up? Lordy, no. Would I have to wear a nametag? Lordy, no. Would they make me wear one of those checkered uniforms with the short skirts? Lordy, no. Would I have to say, “Kiss my grits,” to get a tip? Lordy, no. We all went back and forth on those for a while before we could settle in.
Five o’clock, Daddy was my rooster. I splashed water over my face for about the twenty-fifth time, then fixed my hair. I looked decent enough for an early-morning wake-up call. I was never one to wear makeup—wouldn’t have been able to afford it even if I’d needed it. Thank God for my clear complexion, free of the blemishes and pimples other kids my age had. I stared out at my almost-adult self, with my fixed-up hair and dark eyes.
I guessed if I had to choose one quality, I had that was worth looking at, it was my eyes. It seemed like when I looked at myself in the mirror, I always saw Momma’s eyes staring back at me, as if she was trying to tell me something from the grave. An urgency was always behind them. All the way down to the Soul Food place, I kept wondering what people saw when they looked into my eyes. Mrs. Betty Atkins asked yesterday if I was well. Did I look sick? Lost? Hopeless? Or like a wounded bird on a cracked sidewalk? Definitely not the kind that deserved a kissing tree.
I pulled out the torn-out notebook sheet where I’d copied my newest poem to memorize and tried to busy my mind with the words to get the thoughts of the new job out of my dizzy head. I was at the part where Anonymous said that hope came in the joy of morning when I reached the door to the place where our family had found a helping hand.
The words were scrolled in deep violet lettering on the door, some of them worn with age and peeling a little. “A Daily Dose for the Soul …”
The closed sign was still posted. It was about five forty-five. Daddy must have taken a long safari walk with Bean yesterday, because it had only taken me about four minutes to get here.
I was about to rap on the glass when he stepped into view. He was staring at me quizzically, his head turned sideways, his brow furrowed deep in concentration. He turned and yelled something behind his shoulder. He had on a simple, white t-shirt, with a purple apron draped across his muscular chest. His eyes were a deep brown with golden flecks, and I could tell right away his face was the kindest face of any boy that I’d seen in my entire life. Not a boy, though. He was a man, top-to-bottom solid.
How old was he? Who was he? And I was sure to find out, because the door timidly opened. His voice was of a lyrical kind. That was it. Like the lyrics of the sweetest song. It reminded me straight away of Bell and the way she could captivate me with her voice.
He said, “Are you her?”
I stammered, “Am … am I?”
He smiled a full smile, his teeth perfect in alignment. “Well, if you don’t know, then I sure don’t know, so we both are at an impasse. We don’t open for customers for about fifteen minutes.”
Girl, pull it together. “I’m not a customer.”
He smiled again. This time, I felt like I could melt straight on down. “A food critic at five forty-five?”
I grinned back at him, then forced myself to hold it, because he seemed to sidestep me. Did I do something? Did I have something stuck in my teeth? Oh, Lordy!
“I’m Sweet …” I stopped myself, reined it in, and began again. “I’m supposed to start today. The waitress job.”
He opened the door wider, swept his hand out in a grand fashion, and hollered, “Momma, the girl is here.”
The girl. I was the girl. He picked up a bucket from one of the violet booths and turned back to work, wiping down the already pristine table.
The sunshine white woman in my imagination was far from what Mrs. Sunshine Patterson was in person. She had a commanding presence about her, a strong-looking Black woman with proud eyes and a swagger to her hips like none I’d ever seen. She wore the same white t-shirt, same violet apron with a Bible verse scrolled across it in fancy, gold lettering. My soul will be satisfied as with the richest of foods; with singing lips my mouth will praise you.
I didn’t have time to notice if Mr. Door-Opener’s apron said anything important, because when I looked back at him, I was too busy staring at those eyes of his. He was be
yond fine, and that was all I could think of.
Instead of shaking my hand or smiling at me, Mrs. Patterson embraced me straight on, taking me in her arms like I was the long-lost prodigal daughter come home. “Well, my … my … lookie here, will you, Joe? Joe! Joe!”
Her husband’s chubby face peeked from the service window. “What is it? What now? Too early to get my blood pressure working into a tizzy. What’s the matter?”
“Lookie here! It’s Sweet Potato Jones, come to work for us today!”
I froze solid at the sound of my name being called out that loud. It echoed around me, and I knew the boy was looking at me from one of the corner booths. No hope for a proper introduction, or even time to think up a lie like “Rose Jones” or something that had a nice, catchy ring to it. Lordy, no! She had to go hollering it out.
The soon-off-to-college niece came up to me then, holding out my nametag. It had been printed out with one of those inkjet printers, with little, lilac flowers embroidering the sides. “Jones” was written out in the middle. These were godly people, after all.
Denise smiled bright at me as she fastened the tag. “Your Daddy told us you’d like it simple like that. Is that okay?”
She could probably tell it was just from the look of relief flooding my features.
I nodded, still too disoriented to speak. This whole being present without the kids in tow made me feel discombobulated—bashful, even.
“Come on and be my shadow this morning. By lunch shift, you’ll have it all together. It’s so simple, I’m sure even Bean could handle it.”
I let loose a grin then, imagining him taking customers’ orders. The spelling alone would cause a catastrophe in the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
And thankfully the customers all welcomed me the same as the family did. Come to find out that the locals ’bout came here every single day and had been doing so for at least the past twenty years, since Soul Food had first opened its doors for business. I ghost-walked behind Denise all morning long and watched as she openly confessed Jesus to the customers, right down to breaking into a song from the gospel radio station blaring out of the old speakers. Mrs. Sunshine would occasionally come by me and offer me a word of encouragement or a compliment, or break out singing a duet with Denise, spinning her around on her heels to another apparent favorite: “There’s a harvest, souls a-plenty …”
All I could do was conjure up my public smile behind Denise, and that was enough for the morning. She was right, at least: it was simple enough. The menu was as plain as the day was long—another blessing under the Soul Food tin roof. And one more was the pair of pecan eyes that kept watch over me. Even when I least expected it, he’d be there. Once, he accidentally touched my arm as he walked past, carrying his gray bucket piled high with flapjack remains. My cheeks prickled, and I wondered if he felt this strange sensation, too, because he stumbled a bit but caught his footing and carried on about his business, trying to brush it off. Could that mean we both felt something going on? It wasn’t nothing. It was something, and whatever it was, made my heart flutter.
When the rush settled down, around eleven, Denise took me to the corner booth reserved for the family.
She eyed me curiously. “You don’t have a lot of words about you, do you?”
I shrugged. “I’m a little nervous, that’s all. It’s my first job.”
Denise leaned in and said, “You have found the best place, just saying. Maybe I’m biased, but it’s hard for me to imagine myself any other place than here. I’m nervous about leaving for college, between us.”
College. I didn’t know how to respond. That had never been a blip on my radar. I had never even imagined myself staying in one place, period. There was no place that held roots for me. Nothing really for me to miss, except a porch swing.
Mr. Joe was out from the back, dipping into some blueberry pie that Mrs. Sunshine brought out from under the large cake stands. I watched them exchange loving glances, and then Mr. Joe swatted Mrs. Sunshine playfully as she swished by him flirtatiously.
It took attention to detail and strong focus for me to be around people—without the kids, that is. I wasn’t used to standing on my own two feet unless I was in a school situation, and then I could busy myself or have a book in front of my face for cover. Here, it was different. I was expected to perform tasks that required communicating. I was expected to smile, to engage, to converse with others. It wasn’t about filling customers’ bellies. Denise and Mrs. Sunshine worked with an intensity and care like it mattered.
Mr. Door-Opener remained in the back most of the time. He would jog out to do his duty, to disappear yet again. I peered through the diamond-shaped cutout in the silver, swinging door to see if I could catch a glimpse of him, but all I could see was his back against the line of sinks. He was taller than me, which was a relief since I was like the Jolly ol’ Giant. His nose seemed to come right at my eyes when we faced each other at the door this morning. I tried to calculate it—maybe six feet three?
Denise waved her hand in front of my face, and I knew that I blushed cayenne. “Life to S.P. You better eat up quick, because the lunch crowd will hit in the next few minutes. This will be our only break until after three.”
I did as she instructed, listening to her rattle off about going to Virginia University of Lynchburg to study seminary. She already had the makings of a fine youth minister, Mrs. Sunshine reported as she slid in the booth, cradling Denise protectively under her arm.
Then she fired a question at me. “What is it that you want to be when you graduate, Sweet Potato?”
She threw my name out there like it was “Linda” or “Cindy.” Not a root vegetable.
“A free bird.” My rambling was embarrassing.
Mrs. Sunshine beamed. “A free bird leaping full on the coattails of the Virginia wind, my … my … I love it. I love it. You’ve ridden those gusts right to our door, sweet girl. All those miles led you right where you were meant to nest. I think that the gusts in your life have quit a-blowing, and God has set you in the right place. It’s there in my very soul—the whole nature of you. I want you to know that I get you, girl. And now you are one of the Soul Food’s finest ladies. The best in town.”
I didn’t quite know how to take that speech. Was this woman for real? Did she spout out wisdom in daily doses for the soul like the letters on the door said? The name of this place fit her like a model’s dress, and with a name like Sunshine, she was a fashionista for sure.
He emerged from the swinging, silver door, hands free of buckets and rags. I was trying to listen to Mrs. Sunshine as she turned back to Denise, but I couldn’t quite make out the words. There was something about that boy that made me stop and see only him. The world and all its problems seemed to fade away into white noise and backdrop. Never once had I paid one ounce of attention to boys. I didn’t even care I hadn’t been kissed, been on a date, had a boyfriend, or even talked openly to a boy unless forced to in some group at school. The point was that no boy in the entire geographic area of North Carolina ever got my attention. Move to Virginia—bam, a different story all together.
His strong hands came up from behind, draping over the violet booth right beside me. Those hands that cleaned fascinated me so. My eyes could not leave them. They looked so soft, not cracked as I’d expect from years of scrubbing. He had long fingers that reminded me of those jazz men with the guitars on the covers of the old albums we once owned. I could only imagine what it would be like to feel those fingers intertwined with mine.
Oh, Lordy! Lasso that back in, girl. Get your head ship-shape to the here and now.
He reached over to Denise’s plate and swiped a fry. I couldn’t help but watch the way his muscles flexed and danced beside me.
Denise giggled, cupping her mouth with her hand. She could probably see that my face was as red as beet juice. Regardless of how bad I wanted to hide the feelings that were rushing through me like a violent t
hunderstorm, I could not do it. I was an open book, and Mrs. Sunshine knew it, too.
She pursed her lips and said, “I knew it, and I tell you I did. As soon as I saw that portrait of your family he carries around in his wallet, I told your Daddy, ‘Bring that girl right on up here to work for Denise.’ I’m sure glad that the Spirit does the talking around this place. We’d miss out on the world, otherwise.”
I exhaled heavily, not fully understanding a word that she was saying. Denise seemed to be right in alignment with her thoughts, though, and she winked at me.
Mrs. Sunshine cooed, “Ray, why don’t you sit down with us?”
Ray. His name was Ray. Sunshine. A ray of light in my darkness. My Ray. Oh, Lordy! What was wrong with me?
He stretched back. “I can’t right now, Momma. I’ve got to go down to the library really quick to check out that ASVAB study guide.”
My mind raced to a catalog of acronyms I’d seen once. I’d heard of the ASVAB in a counseling lecture at my second-to-last high school.
Denise frowned. “I thought that you weren’t going into the military until after college, Ray? Please consider going to Lynchburg with me. You’ve already got your acceptance letter. You have to send them the confirmation. You still have time.”
Joe hollered from behind the counter, a piece of the pie spitting out of his mouth in the process. “Let him follow in the old man’s footsteps. Army strong, I am.”
I sat solid as a stone figure in a museum. Army. Guns. Fighting. Overseas. War. Temporal. He was just like everything else in my life. My heart sank right down like it had been hit with a submarine missile, right to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Ray Patterson, Army man. Gone. Moving on before my thoughts of him had even settled. Typical.
Mrs. Sunshine stood up. “I guess I’ve got to go on and accept this, huh?”
Ray stepped beside me and put his arms around his momma. “It’s right. Trust me on this. It’s something God is leading me to do.”