The Crossroads Cafe

by Deborah Smith

  “Delta,” I said hoarsely. Seeing her in person for the first time was more emotional than I expected. “Meow.”

  Her head jerked up. She stared at me. “Nevermind!” she shouted into the phone, “She’s right here!” She rushed me with her arms out. The phone fell in a pot of beans. “Cousin Cathy!”

  “Cousin Delta. I’m so sorry I scared you—”

  “All that matters is that you’re alive, and you’re okay, and you’re here!” Whoomp. She grabbed me in a hug. The scent of flour and butter filled my nose. She was a head shorter than me. Her dark, graying hair enveloped my chin, as soft as a sable brush. Her body was plush but strong. It was like being hugged by a human biscuit. She rocked me from side to side. She patted my back. I threw my arms around her and pressed the good side of my face into her hair. She turned me into a smiling, teary sauce of cousin-hood. She was the biscuit. I was the gravy.

  Delta stepped back, crying and smiling, and took me by the shoulders. “Let me get a good look at you!”

  “Thomas is in the Privy. I’ll explain later. Right now I need some towels and—”

  “One look. Just one.” She grabbed my face. Her quick hands caught me off guard. I started to turn away. Delta stared only at my eyes, studying them intently, while her smile broadened and a look of sheer satisfaction came over her face.

  “We favor each other around the eyes!” she exclaimed. “Just like I’ve always told people! We really do!”

  Caught in her charm, I could only sigh with relief and nod. I should have known Delta would see me just the way she wanted to. We were family.

  We favored.

  Thomas

  Cathy might not think of herself as a movie star anymore, but her presence at the café created a hum of excitement that was almost tangible. Most of the immediate Whittlespoon clan—a good twenty people, counting children—suddenly showed up in the kitchen that Saturday afternoon. So much for keeping Cathy a secret. They performed halfhearted prep work for the dinner menu while craning their heads toward the swinging doors that led to the public areas, hoping for any sound that hinted Delta and Cathy were about to emerge from the café’s front dining room.

  Everyone wanted a look at her. Scars and all.

  Ivy and Cora couldn’t concentrate on building more cardboard Christmas cottages, and neither could I. We sat in the side dining room aimlessly gluing sequins to pine cones. I was distracted by my stiff new overalls and sweatshirt with the John Deere tractor logo, the only emergency outfit available in my size at the Crossroads Grocery and General Store. The strange sight of my beardless chest caught me off guard every time I looked down at myself.

  My skin felt as if it had been shaved by icicles then heated with a blow torch. I owed that sensation to the memory of Cathy tenderly caring for me in the Privy. Also to the memory of her breasts in the low-slung bra, and the peek I’d stolen when she turned just-so to pull her pants up. She’d never been nude in one of her films, so I naturally wondered if she had tattoos or birthmarks to hide. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it. I’ll say this much: No tattoos, no birthmarks, and those crotchless longjohns treated me to a front and back glimpse of world-class feminine assets.

  “Maybe Princess Arianna and Delta are done talking now,” Cora whispered across the table to me. “Can we go meet her?”

  “Not yet. She and Delta have a lot of catching up to do. Like I told you, they haven’t seen each other since Cath—Princess Arianna—was about Ivy’s age. And that was twenty years ago.”

  Ivy scowled toward the closed double doors to the café’s front dining room. “Aw, she probably doesn’t want to meet a couple of dumb hick kids, anyway.”

  “Hey.” I leaned forward and looked at her somberly. I didn’t talk down to Ivy. She was a smart girl and nobody should patronize her. “You designed a house earlier today. I don’t know anybody else your age who could do that. And I was impressed by your understanding of architectural terms. If you’re interested, I’ll help you build a model out of popsicle sticks. That’s how my old man—my father—taught me the basics of structural design.”

  Ivy shrugged, but her mocha freckles took on a pink tint and she flicked a sequin into the air with jaunty brown fingers. “Laney says I waste time reading books.”

  “It’s never a waste of time to read a book.”

  “You think Cathryn likes to read? Nah. She’s pretty, she doesn’t need to.”

  “So it’s okay for pretty girls to be dumb?”

  “Yeah. They get lots of attention just for batting their eyes. People think they’re smart just because they’re pretty. Especially if they’re pretty and white.” Her eyes narrowed. “They’ve got it made.”

  “I bet Cathy disagrees with you. She reads books; she’s not dumb.”

  “What does she look like in person? Is she still pretty?”

  “Yes, she is. Only in a different way than before. But she doesn’t think so.”

  Ivy’s eyes flickered with instant interest. “She doesn’t?”

  “No. She feels ugly right now. People have been mean to her about the way she looks since her accident. Don’t forget that, when you meet her. Be careful what you say.”

  Cora, wide-eyed and worried, said urgently, “We’d never be mean to Princess Arianna on purpose! I’m gonna go tell her so, right now!”

  She moved fast for such a little girl. Before either Ivy or I could stop her she was out of the chair and at the double doors. She tugged them open and bounded inside. But when Ivy and I reached her she had halted only a foot beyond the doorway. She stared at Cathy with her mouth open and a horrified gleam in her nut-brown eyes.

  “What in the world?” Delta said. She and Cathy had been having a sit-down heart-to-heart at a table in the front dining room over hot tea and cheese biscuits. Cathy got to her feet quickly, tugging at the scarf she’d taken back once I reached room temperature. It didn’t quite hide the right side of her face, and she knew it. The effect had to be unnerving for a child, especially one like Cora, who put a protective filter between herself and even the smallest sorrows. Delta gave me a how-could-you-let-this-happen? scowl.

  “You must be Cora,” Cathy said nervously. Cora didn’t move or make a sound. Cathy slumped. “Cora, it’s okay. You don’t have to say hello or anything. I know I look kind of funny.”

  Cora leapt toward her like a dark-haired hummingbird. She grabbed a chair, pushed it close to Cathy, clambered onto its seat, and reached up. With one little hand she pushed the scarf aside. Cathy froze. Cora gently laid the hand on her burned cheek, patting it with feathery care. “I know what happened,” Cora whispered. “This is where Pereforn breathed on you, isn’t it?”

  In the Princess Arianna movies Pereforn was a dangerous, fire-spewing dragon. Cathy studied Cora with relief and then tenderness. “He breathed on me, yes.”

  “You’re still a beautiful princess, anyhow.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh, yes! And I’m so glad you’re here!” She perched on the toes of her tennis shoes and held up her arms. Cathy swept her into a hug. “I have your ruby in my purse,” she told Cora, her voice breaking. By now Delta was wiping her eyes and my throat felt tight.

  Cora squealed. “You do?”

  Cathy set her down gently. “Absolutely. It’s brought me good luck.”

  “Aunt Laney said it was just a rock.”

  “Nope. It’s magic.”

  “Wow.”

  Cathy’s gaze went to Ivy, who stood there looking awkward and defensive. “Ivy?”

  “Iverem.”

  Cathy clicked on an internal switch. That megawatt smile I mentioned? That stunning charisma? She aimed the beam at Ivy, full-blast. “I have the sketch you sent me. Of the panning sluice. I found a frame for it at my grandmother’s house, and so I framed it and I’m displaying it on my living room cabinets. Among my jar collection. It looks great there. It’s nice to meet you, Iverem.”

  Ivy didn’t stand a chance. Transfixed, she took a d
azed step toward Cathy, then another, stopping at the end of the hand Cathy held out. The left one, unscarred. I noticed Cathy tucking her right hand behind one hip.

  “You can call me Ivy.” She squeezed Cathy’s hand. A semi-shake, tentative and awed. I could almost see the thought on her face. Cathryn Deen shook my hand. Mine. I’m famous, now. “You have a jar collection?” Ivy asked. “Is there something in the jars?”

  “No, I just like the, uh, empty jars. That’s kind of weird, right?”

  “No, and anyhow, I like weird stuff.”

  “Me, too. Cool.”

  “Cool.”

  Delta and I traded a look. She put a hand to her heart, smiling. Cool, she mouthed.

  Behind me, a herd of feet exploded out of the kitchen. Delta’s smile faded. So did Cathy’s. She pulled her scarf back into place then sidled toward the doors to the front porch. “Stampede?” she joked weakly.

  “Oh, honey, you’ve gotta meet the rest of your distant kin some time, and it might as well be now,” Delta soothed urgently, grabbing her by one arm. I raised both arms to barricade the door, but they swarmed around me. “It’s no use,” Pike growled, clamping a hand on my shoulder. “This is like a Baptist river-dunking ceremony. Cathy has to get her Whittlespoon baptism over with in one fell swoop. Just say ‘Amen,’ and step aside.”

  The entire herd surrounded Cathy with kindly but obsessive scrutiny. She plastered a smile to her ashen face as Delta introduced each family member in colorful detail. Cathy’s anxious gaze went to me. Sign language. They’re staring at my face.

  All I could do was nod. So let them.

  “Thomas, people will remember this day a hundred years from now,” Delta whispered to me. “The legend of Cathy Deen has begun.”

  “Lord, thank you for bringing Cathy to be with us,” Cleo announced, looking heavenward. “But excuse me while I get this room warmed up for the dinner crowd.” She hurried to a hearth on one wall, squatted on the heels of her running shoes, pulled a long-handled butane lighter from her jeans’ pocket, fiddled with a control for the fireplace’s pilot light, then clicked the lighter.

  The logs ignited with a loud whoosh of orange-and-blue flames.

  Cathy bolted out the front doors and staggered to a porch rail. She vomited over the side with ragged, humiliating force, splattering a neat coil of garland on the ground below, waiting to be stapled along the balustrades.

  “Somebody get a wet dishcloth,” Delta ordered, then went to Cathy and held her forehead while she vomited again.

  I grabbed a pile of paper napkins off a serving table and started out the porch doors, but both Becka and Cleo stopped me.

  “What’s worse than puking all over the Christmas garland in front a bunch of strangers?” Becka asked.

  “Having your new boyfriend wipe the puke off your face,” Cleo answered. “Amen.”

  “I’m not—” I began.

  “Like hell you aren’t,” Becka said drolly.

  They took the napkins from me, and I let them.

  Chapter 16

  Cathy At Delta’s House That Night

  I woke in the dark, humiliated but starving, fixated on the scents of cornbread and beef stew somewhere in Delta’s house. On the pine chest of Delta’s guest room an antique clock chimed ten times.

  Ten o’clock? Had I been sound asleep since late afternoon? After my spewing debut Delta had carted me to her house quickly, insisted I down several teaspoons of some homemade stomach remedy she called “herbal butter,” then gave me clean clothes and steered me to bed. All I remembered was hearing one of my own delicate snores before I fell asleep.

  Now I reluctantly pushed aside the soft caress of a flannel sheet and an aged quilt pieced from dresses Delta’s grandmothers had owned when gas cost twenty-five cents a gallon and every civilized flapper wore a bell-shaped cloche hat pulled so low over her brow she had to tilt her head back to see. If I weren’t starving I might have stayed in that heirloom cocoon for the next several years.

  I shuffled into a softly lit hallway, trying to ignore the fact I was dressed in tube socks, flannel pajama bottoms that didn’t quite reach my ankles, and one of the café’s logo sweatshirts. The Lard Cooks In Mysterious Ways, its slogan said in big pink script. I smoothed my hair over the scarred side of my face, cleared my throat to see if anyone responded, and when no one did I padded toward the back of the house, where I vaguely recalled seeing a big, lovable kitchen. As I passed an open bedroom door I peeked into its shadows. Cora and Ivy snuggled in a double bed under quilts. Two housecats snuggled with them.

  “Sleep the sleep of innocence restored,” I whispered. I felt maternal and amazingly profound.

  I found the kitchen and stood just outside the entrance, an archway lined with family photos, while I watched Delta at the stove. She hummed as she worked. How could someone be so happy about the simple task of making a meal?

  There are people nobody notices, but the world revolves around them. They’re the quiet ones, the strong, peaceful ones, who form the unbreakable hub for a bunch of fragile spokes. True families aren’t bred, they’re spun together. And at their center, at the center of the infinite wheel of every family of every kind, blood or otherwise, there is a hub, that person, those people, who hold the wheel together and keep it turning.

  Once upon a time I’d thought I was a hub simply because I paid a lot of people to orbit around me. Now I made a soft, mournful sound at the truth: I wasn’t even an outer moon of a forgotten sun. Delta turned quickly from her stove. “Why, our newest Crossroads resident is awake and lookin’ pink again,” she said kindly.

  “I really put on a show today, didn’t I?”

  “Yep. You’re a legend, already. I mean it. I told Thomas so. Legends don’t have to be perfect. In fact, the more warts they have, the better. Gives the gossips and the historians plenty to explain. You’ve got more warts than a frog’s butt. I mean that in a good way.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Formerly a princess, now a frog’s ass. Maybe some prince would come along and transform me with a kiss. It wouldn’t be Thomas. I’d never vomited in front of a man before.

  “Have a seat,” Delta urged again. “The stove won’t bite.”

  “Put a leash on it, just to be sure.”

  “Aw, come on. It’s tame.”

  I inched into the kitchen, squinting in the lights of a wagon-wheel chandelier over the long, pine-slab table and keeping an eye on her six-burner, professional cookstove. Delta set a blue crockery soup bowl filled with stew on a placemat. “Try a spoonful of this while I get you some hot cornbread.”

  I stared at the blue gas flame beneath the stew pot on the stove, then quietly shifted my place setting to the opposite side of the table. I sat down slowly, darting more glances at the burner. You never know when a stove might jump away from its berth and try to fry you. It happens in cartoons all the time. The aroma of the soup seduced me and I finally looked down at it. “You cooked all evening at the cafe and now you’re cooking for me. I would have been happy with just some more of that herbal butter and a biscuit.”

  “Aw, it’s no trouble. I cook like other people breathe. I don’t even have to think about it. So you liked my home remedy, huh?”

  “I know this is a strange thing to say about butter, but it even tasted soothing.”

  “Butter is good for the soul.” She pulled a small black-iron skillet from the oven. A golden cap of cornbread puffed over the rim. The smell was delicious. I grabbed a spoon and shoveled a quick appetizer of beef stew into my mouth. “I’ve never been so hungry in my life,” I said when my mouth was briefly sans stew again. “I haven’t had an appetite like this since before . . . since last spring. Can you teach me how to make that butter remedy? It’s like an appetite stimulant and a tranquilizer rolled into one.”

  Delta pursed her lips as she sliced the cornbread then scooped a steaming triangle onto a plate beside my bowl. “It’s a secret recipe. Santa makes it.” Her tone was too casual. “He keeps me supplied, b
ut only for serious medical emergencies.”

  Santa. The pothead of Jefferson County. My hand halted with the cornbread halfway to my mouth. “Are you saying you gave me pot butter?”

  She cocked her head and widened her eyes as if shocked. “You’re in the house of the county sheriff. A man sworn to uphold the law. All I gave you was an old-timey mountain remedy made from medicinal herbs.”

  After a moment of slow—very slow—pondering, I stuffed the cornbread into my mouth and shrugged. Okay, I was stoned. No wonder I was hungry despite the sinister stove watching me.

  Delta settled across the table from me with a big bottle of Biltmore chardonnay and a pair of wine glasses painted with uneven blue polka dots. “My granddaughter made me a whole set,” she explained as she poured wine.

  “Beautiful.” I lifted a glass and studied it intently.

  Delta began chuckling. “Don’t stare at the dots so hard.”

  “The sky over Hog Back is almost this exact shade of blue. And Ivy’s eyes were that blue when she was trying to decide whether to like me, today. And in the Privy, Thomas’s skin was blue. Blue is the universal color of deep personal connections, don’t you think? If Jesus were a color, He’d be blue.”

  “I think I gave you too much butter. Five hours later and you’re still able to see Jesus in polka dots.”

  Delta sipped wine while I finished two bowls of soup and the entire skillet of cornbread. The meal absorbed enough illicit herbal remedy to lift me from my philosophical daze. Depression settled in. “I used to be so comfortable as the center of attention. Now I make a fool of myself when someone lights a gas log.”

  “Aw, come on,” Delta said. “Take your glass of wine and let’s go sit in my sunroom. Pike added it on the summer after my mama and daddy died. They died of heart attacks within two months of each other. All that summer Pike and me worked on the sunroom. I bet I cried over every nail. All that sorrow, going into something productive. Now it’s my favorite place in the house. At night it’s a good, quiet room for contemplating life.”