The Crossroads Cafe

by Deborah Smith

  “You can’t leave me!” I sobbed.

  She grabbed me in a hug. “We don’t want to leave you, querita. But I won’t risk walking into your room one morning and finding you dead from pills!”

  “I just want to . . . stop hurting.”

  “I know, I know. Sssh.” She helped me to bed, shoved all my books aside and held my hand as I huddled under the covers. “What am I going to do with my life?” I moaned. “I’m not good at anything besides being ornamental. I’m afraid of everything and everybody now, except you and Antonio. Who gave you the idea to look for pills in my room?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “No one knew. No one.”

  “Maybe they guessed. Friends who have thought the same sad thoughts as you. Someone who knows how it feels to be in despair. You can’t blame your friends for caring.”

  Delta? I thought. But she was the most cheerful, stable soul in the universe. No. She’d never had a suicidal thought. Thomas? A sweet, grandfatherly stranger who sent me photos of sunsets and flowers and close-up pictures of Granny Nettie’s stained-glass windows? Thomas, who said to me at the hospital, I used to think bad things only happened to other people. But they don’t.

  He knew tragedy. He knew despair. Maybe he knew me better than I thought.

  Thomas.

  Thomas

  My newest cell phone rang at five a.m. and scared me out of a nightmare. I had been choking in a cloud of dust, looking at my hands coated in ash and dried blood. Watching the towers fall, again. Unable to move.

  “John?” I said the instant after I put the phone to my ear. “What’s wrong?” By then I was already standing, naked, beside my bed. A raccoon and two possums scurried out the open door of my cabin, leaving an overturned trash can and empty Spam cans in the cold autumn moonlight.

  “Thomas?” Cathy’s voice. “It was you, wasn’t it? You called my housekeeper earlier tonight. You told her to look for pills in my bedroom. You assumed I want to kill myself.”

  I inhaled sharply and dragged a hand over my face. “From the tone of your voice, I must have been right. You had pills. You intended to take them. Correct?”

  “Prescription pills. Perfectly legitimate. You had no right to scare an employee of mine.”

  “Oh? Dead is dead, whether a doctor wrote the prescription or you bought it off a guy on a street corner.”

  “I’m not suicidal.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Are you psychic?”

  “No, but I know how tempting it is to give up and die.”

  “If I do, I’m sorry, but it’s none of your business.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You send me pictures, you’ve called me once on the phone. I appreciate your friendship, but you don’t know the real me.”

  “I know you intended to take those pills. You might as well admit it.”

  “I am not going to admit anything. Why do you care so much? Have you got ulterior motives? What do you want from me?”

  Everything, nothing. More than I can say. Keep it simple. “All right, if you really think I’m only interested in what you can do for me, I’ll lay it on the line. I want to buy your grandmother’s house.”

  Stunned silence. “My grandmother’s ... are you saying you’ve worked you way into my life over all these months because you want me to sell you her farm?”

  “No, that’s what you’re saying. But since we’re on the subject, you should sell me the farm. Why, not? You don’t care about it, you don’t want it. You and your father abandoned it.”

  “That’s not true. He had someone maintain it. It was well-cared-for. He told me so. When he died a few years ago his business manager assured me the farm was in good shape.”

  “He lied, then.”

  “My father was not a liar.”

  “I’m afraid in this case he was. Look, you don’t want the house? Great. Sell it to me. I’ll buy it from you, restore it, cherish it.”

  “I see. It’s true, then. You’ve been nice to me to get my house.”

  “No, you don’t see, Cathy. Come here, and I’ll show you. Then you’ll see.”

  “I can’t—” her voice caught. “I’d like to, but I just can’t visit. You don’t understand my problems.”

  “Yes, I do. I know how it feels to shut your eyes every night afraid you’ll see and feel things you never wanted to remember. I know how it feels to go through every day wondering how you’ll put one foot in front of the other. There’s no easy way to overcome that. But you’re not a coward. I know you’re not. Anybody who could grit her teeth and make jokes while a nurse scrapes her raw skin . . . you’re as tough as they come.”

  “How did you—you never talked to me during—” I heard her gasp. “That was you on the phone that day at the hospital. Not Gerald. You.”

  “Delta was desperate to get through to you, and I helped her. I didn’t start out to deceive you, it just happened that way.”

  “You.”

  “Yes, me. And what I heard that day convinced me you’ve got the guts to survive. Don’t give up now.”

  “After what I’ve learned tonight, why should I believe a word you say?”

  “Do you care about your grandmother’s legacy?”

  “Yes. Despite what you think, I love her house, my memories of her, the freedom I had when I visited her . . . I love that place.”

  “Then believe this, if nothing else: If you kill yourself, I’ll burn her house to the ground. Understand? If you die, everything you love—and everything she left for you to love—dies, too. I swear to you. If that’s what it takes to keep you focused on living.”

  I heard her inhale sharply. “You’re even crazier than I am.”

  “I’ve had years to practice.”

  “Everything I thought I knew about you is wrong. You’re a sociopath. And an arsonist.”

  “You don’t have to believe in me. I believe in you. Stay alive, come here to visit, and prove me right.”

  She hung up.

  I looked down at myself. At least I had stopped her from taking the pills. I had saved her life, for tonight at least. That victory gave me the biggest erection of my life.

  “You threatened to burn her grandma’s house down,” Delta repeated slowly, baring her teeth on each word. “To burn it. You threatened a woman who’s been burned. You threatened to burn down her granny’s house. Thomas.”

  Surrounded. I stood in the café kitchen the next morning being eyeballed by Pike, Jeb, Becka, Bubba, Cleo, Santa. The entire Whittlespoon clan seemed to have come together in an impromptu jury, with me as the defendant. They were armed with paring knives and stew pots.

  “Maybe it wasn’t the best tactic,” I admitted grimly, “but it got her attention. I wanted to make her mad, to shake her out of her depression for even a second, to make her think. The hardest thing to do when you’re that miserable is to think clearly. You have to grab those quick moments of insight and hold onto them. I hope she does.”

  Silence. I couldn’t tell if anyone understood my argument. Pike scowled. The others stared at the floor. Delta shut her eyes and stood with her hands on her hips, her head bowed.

  Finally, Jeb raised his head and squared his jaw. “Tom’s right. He did for Cathryn Deen the same thing he did for me when he crawled out on that cliff and talked me out of jumping. I won’t tell y’all what he said. It’s private. But he made me see the light.”

  What I’d said had been fueled by more vodka than anyone suspected. And it went something like this: Jeb, goddammit, either jump or get out of the way so I can. You have a family to live for. I don’t. The fact that Jeb took that grim quip as an insightful bit of wisdom—a shared fate, a promise of brotherhood—had been pure good luck. Someone had been watching over Jeb and me that day. I wasn’t sure I’d get that lucky, again. What had I accomplished last night? What if I provoked Cathy to shut me and Delta out?

  “What if she won’t take my phone calls anymore?” Delta said loudly.
/>   “I’ll call her and apologize. Right now. I’ll do whatever it takes to calm her down.”

  “No. You’ve done enough damage. I doubt she’ll ever listen to you, again. I’ll call her. If she’ll talk to me, I’ll let you know what she says.” She threw a biscuit at me. “Get out of my kitchen.”

  I nodded, grimly palmed the biscuit for Banger’s breakfast, and walked out.

  Cathy

  My head pounded from the wine. My eyes were grainy from crying all night. Yet I felt oddly clean, as if I’d detoxed through my tears. Most amazing of all, I was mad as hell. Finally.

  “Delta?”

  “Cathy, I’m so glad to hear from you. About last night—”

  “Does Thomas Mitternich run around the Crossroads without any kind of ankle bracelet or parole officer or keeper?”

  “Thomas? Why, he’s the sweetest . . . you sound different. Are you okay, honey? I’m so sorry if he upset you. He was just trying to help.”

  “Upset me? He accused me of being suicidal.”

  “You sure you weren’t?”

  “He admitted he lied to get access to me from the start. And then he threatened to destroy my grandmother’s house. He’s obviously not who I thought he was.”

  “So you were going to kill yourself.”

  “I had a bottle of prescription pills. Prescription.”

  “Uh huh. Well, well. Thomas does have good instincts. And I have to say, it’s good to hear you soundin’ mad as an old wet settin’ hen.”

  “I won’t let him blackmail me with my grandmother’s heritage.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “First of all, I want to learn all about him. Starting with his full name.”

  “Mitternich,” she said quickly. “Thomas Karol Mitternich. His daddy’s people were Dutch, way back, from upstate New York. I don’t know about his mama’s people. She died when Thomas and his brother were little.”

  “Mitternich. Spell that for me, please.” As she did, I typed it into my laptop. Thomas Mitternich. “All right, I gather he’s not a native North Carolinian? Did you say he’s from New York? How did such a maniacal Yankee end up in your community and win your friendship?”

  For a moment there was silence on Delta’s end. Then she said quietly, “I can tell you what I know about Thomas, but it’d be better if you read the whole story. Type his name into that, what is it, ‘Google.’ That’s it. You do a Google search on Thomas Mitternich. See what the newspaper reporters wrote about him a few years ago.”

  I frowned. “He has a public record?”

  “You could call it that. Just . . . go and read about him. It’ll open your eyes a lot better than me jabbering about him.”

  “All right,” I said slowly, bewildered.

  “And Cathy?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s good to hear you sounding lively.”

  “I don’t have any choice. My life has been invaded by this man.”

  “You might want to visit here as soon as you can, you know, so you can judge him for yourself. We never know what he’s going to do next.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my grandmother’s farm.”

  “Good! You stay riled up. Go and read about Thomas on the Google, and then come here and kick his butt. And honey?”

  “Yes?” I was already clicking feverishly on the Google search button. I thought I heard her chuckle, but I was too busy tracking down information on my new nemesis, Thomas Mitternich, to ask what amused her so much.

  “I’ll have some biscuits ready when you get here,” Delta said, “with extra gravy.”

  Chapter 12

  Thomas The News Articles

  Heroes of 9/11:

  Ordinary Citizens Showed Extraordinary Courage

  Atrium News and Features

  When they married, Thomas Mitternich, the son of a Brooklyn carpenter, convinced his wife, Sherryl, an heiress from New York’s venerable Osken family, to leave New York’s tony upper east side for the historic neighborhoods of lower Manhattan. The area offered the best of both worlds, he told her: old-fashioned charm with breath-taking views of skyscrapers, most notably, the World Trade Center.

  Mitternich, 34, an award-winning young architect specializing in the preservation of historic buildings, kissed Sherryl and their three-year-old son, Ethan, goodbye the morning of September 11 as Sherryl put Ethan in a stroller. Sherryl had a 9 a.m. meeting with event coordinators at Windows on the World, the renowned restaurant at the top of the WTC’s North Tower. She was planning a surprise birthday party for her sister, Manhattan socialite and business woman Ravel Osken Cantaberry. Pushing Ethan in the stroller, she’d walk the few blocks between the Mitternich condo and the twin towers

  The Mitternichs loved living on the tenth floor of a former office building dating to the 1890’s, which Thomas himself had restored for well-known Manhattan developers Schmidt and Roman. Working at home that morning, he could easily see the World Trade Center’s main towers, north and south, from his office windows.

  As Sherryl and Ethan headed for the condo’s elevators, Thomas tucked Ethan’s favorite toy—a vintage, metal dump truck Thomas had bought and restored—into his hands. Ethan smiled and asked if his father would take him and the dump truck to play in the park later. Thomas said sure.

  When American Airlines Flight 11 struck the World Trade Center’s North Tower, Thomas heard a muted boom and felt a tremor shake his drafting table. He looked up to see smoke boiling from the North Tower’s top floors. He rushed down to the street and headed for the WTC on foot, while repeatedly trying to contact Sherryl via cell phone.

  By the time he reached the WTC complex, panicked evacuees crowded the area. Thomas doggedly followed fire, police and paramedics toward the North Tower. Dust and smoke now clogged the air. Debris littered the streets, striking people as it fell. Horrifically, the debris included human body parts. Thomas was splattered with blood and tissue when a torso struck the pavement directly in front of him, disintegrating on impact. Shards of falling glass gashed the young architect’s head, and a fist-sized chunk of metal glanced off his left shoulder, fracturing his collar bone.

  Bleeding, injured, but determined to find his wife and son, Thomas made his way into the skyscraper. There, in the chaos of the lobby, his cell phone rang. It was Sherryl.

  “I’m not sure which floor we’re on,” she said. “There’s a lot of smoke, and it’s getting hot. We’re trying to make our way to the stairs.”

  “I’ll find you, I swear, I’ll be there as quickly as I can,” Thomas told her. In the background, he heard their son crying. “Tell Ethan I’m not going to let anything happen to him. I promise.”

  He heard his child scream “Daddy,” before the phone went silent.

  Thomas raced up a stairwell as far as he could before being blocked by people descending—many hurt, bloody, and burned. Two firefighters from a ladder company were struggling to transport several badly injured office workers. “Your wife and son probably came down a different stairwell,” one of the firefighters told Thomas. “The South Tower’s been hit, too. It may collapse. This one, too. You’ve gotta get out of this building. You can’t go any further up the stairs.”

  Unable to do more than pray his own family had escaped down a different stairwell, Thomas helped the firefighters carry victims to safety. He returned with the firefighters three times to assist other wounded evacuees, despite his own injuries.

  He was carrying a young woman to paramedics on the street when the North Tower collapsed. Like many people that day, he stared in disbelief while the massive skyscraper imploded. Paramedics had to wrestle him into their ambulance as a tidal wave of choking dust filled the street.

  He was determined to return to the tower, searching for his wife and son, even in the ruins.

  Firefighters Laud Civilians Who Came To Their Aid

  PSR Northeast News

  Thomas K. Mitternich has been named an honorary N
YFD firefighter for assisting firefighters in the rescue of his fellow citizens on 9-11, and for extensive volunteer work at “the pile,” as Ground Zero is known, in the weeks and months since. Mitternich continues to work exhaustively at the site, aiding searchers and coordinating information for survivors and their families.

  Mitternich’s wife and son remain missing.

  Photo, DNA Evidence Confirm Worst Fear For 9-11

  Hero

  North Press Correspondents

  For Thomas Mitternich, one of the civilian heroes of 9-11 and an inexhaustible volunteer at Ground Zero ever since, it was the day he’d been dreading for over seven months.

  The New York City Medical Examiner’s Office, using DNA analysis and dental records, has confirmed the remains of Mitternich’s wife, Sherryl, and son, Ethan. Adding to the tragedy, photography experts have conclusively identified Sherryl and Ethan as among the dozens of victims who lost their lives when they jumped from the towers. A cameraman at the scene snapped a picture of a woman clutching her small child as she leapt from a blown-out window of the North Tower. The woman is Sherryl Mitternich. The child is Ethan.

  “We don’t classify the 9-11 jumpers as suicides,” a spokeswoman said. “They had no choice. It was either die from the smoke and heat, be killed when the building collapsed, or jump. They knew help wasn’t coming.”

  It is estimated that Sherryl, Ethan and other victims who leapt from the highest floors of the North Tower fell for as long as ten seconds before hitting the streets or plaza below. Although death was instantaneous on contact, experts admit many of the jumpers likely remained conscious during the fall.