by Joseph Souza
I glance at the clock and notice that it’s almost four A.M. I’ve been driving for nearly forty minutes. It’s way too early to return home and start chopping potatoes, frying bacon, and scraping sweet cream butter across slightly charred squares of toast. My only hope is that The Galaxy is open at this hour.
Back in the day, when the mill was going full steam, The Galaxy used to be open twenty-four seven. You could find people in there at all times, especially on weekend nights after the local bars and pubs let out. It was a place for workers to go after a long night toiling in the mill. At one time it boasted about having the best corned beef hash in Maine. Come fall, there would be lots of burly, bearded men dressed in camouflage, oftentimes a freshly killed moose or deer lying bloodied in the bed of their pickup.
The road I travel on is dark and surrounded on either side by woods and gentle hills. As I speed past, I see a police cruiser hiding between a grouping of trees. A quick glance at the speedometer tells me I’m doing nearly seventy in a forty-five mph zone. Lights flash and the siren blips. I peek in the rearview and see a cop car racing in my direction. I pull over and watch as the cruiser comes to a stop behind me. The officer steps out of his car and ambles toward the truck, one hand on his holster (this never used to happen here). I place both hands on the steering wheel and pray that I’ve never crossed paths with this cop. My long blue nails tap nervously on the hard plastic. I admire their shape and hue as he approaches, but I try not to focus on the many scars and burns dotting the back of my hands. Women who make their careers in kitchens rarely have smooth skin.
A knock on the window and I roll it down by hand.
“Good morning, ma’am. Out for a drive?” he asks in a low voice that sounds vaguely familiar. He leans forward so that his face can be seen through the open window. I continue to look straight ahead. A distrust for authority once ran strong through these veins.
“Something wrong, Officer?”
“You tell me.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a drive.” I turn and notice that it’s Rick Dalton. How could I forget those magnetic blue eyes and butt cheek chin. Or the barest trace of acne scars over the lower half of his face. Pinned to the breast of his uniform is an American flag. Underneath it, it says AMERICA FOR AMERICANS.
“Going a little fast in this old truck, wouldn’t you say?”
“Honestly, I didn’t realize I was going so fast.” I stare nervously at the road ahead, praying he doesn’t recognize me. I’ve changed since those days. I’m not the same dorky kid he once bullied.
“What’s your name?” He breathes a cloud of smoke.
“Lucy.”
“Well, Lucy, I’m going to need to see your license and registration.”
I pull the registration out of the glove compartment, pluck my New York City license out of my purse, and hand them to him.
“Wow! All the way from New York City.” He stares at my license before breaking into his most charming smile. “Now, don’t go away, Lucy. I’ll be right back.”
I’m a wreck and can barely hold myself together. As I wait patiently for him to return, I pray he doesn’t make the connection between my current and former self. But how could he? I’d changed my name and my appearance since moving away. After a few minutes pass, he gets out of his car and walks toward me. I apply another shade of gloss over my lips, pop a breath mint into my mouth, and toss my hair back over my shoulder. I can’t help but notice that he’s aged well since I last saw him.
“Well, Lucy Abbott, it appears you have a very clean driving record.”
“Do I get a sticker for that?”
He laughs. “Not quite.”
“I’m sorry if I went over the speed limit, Officer. Honestly, I didn’t intend to.”
“No one ever intends to. But the law is the law.”
“I’ll make sure to pay attention to the road signs from now on.”
“Probably not the best idea to be driving around here at this time in the morning. Especially the way this town is changing.”
“Changing?”
He leans in a bit closer. “You haven’t heard?”
I shake my head.
“Just passing through town, are we?”
I laugh. “Something like that.”
“Where’re you staying?” He leans on my door a bit too close for comfort.
“Is this an official interrogation?”
“Just making polite conversation.”
“Good, because for a moment there I thought I might need to call my attorney.”
“This used to be a good, law-abiding town. Unfortunately, a girl was recently kidnapped and killed here. I’m concerned for your safety.”
“Don’t go worrying your pretty face, Officer. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? A girl was murdered.”
“Girls are murdered all the time in New York City. That doesn’t stop me from going out and living my life.”
“Fawn Grove is definitely not New York City,” he says, laughing. “I’ve always wanted to visit that place.”
“You definitely should. The restaurants there are to die for.”
“Listen to me, Lucy. This girl’s murder was different than most murders you hear about.”
“Are you trying to purposefully scare me? Just because I went over the speed limit?”
Dalton stares at me for a few seconds before breaking into laughter. “Maybe I am.”
“What’s so funny?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Big-city girl like you cracks me up.” He reaches for something down by his pocket. “You plan on staying long in Fawn Grove?”
“I’m not sure just yet.”
“Well, whatever you decide, I hope you have a pleasant stay here.” He rips off a pink sheet and hands it to me. “Today’s your lucky day. I’m letting you off with a warning. So take it easy on the gas, okay?”
“Trust me, you won’t catch this girl speeding through town again.” I laugh in spite of myself.
“Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Not if we’re meeting in this fashion.”
“Something tells me that with a lead foot like yours, this speeding thing could be habitual.”
“Habitual,” I say. “Good word.”
“Never underestimate the intelligence of a Mainer.” He raps his knuckles against his temple.
“I would never.”
“Maybe we can grab a coffee sometime.”
“Did you become a police officer to spice up your love life?”
“A guy like me doesn’t need a badge to get a date in this town.”
“Maybe we’ll run into each other one of these days.”
“I’d like that,” he says. I start to roll the window up, but he stops it with his fingers. “My friends call me Rick.”
“You have friends?”
“I have one now.” He winks at me. “Have a great day, Lucy.”
I watch as he walks back to his car. The headlights in the rearview flash in my eyes, momentarily blinding me. I sit quietly, overcome with emotion, trying to keep my hands from shaking. A fine line exists between police work and criminality, and Rick Dalton is no exception to the rule. I half expected to learn that he was behind bars or out on bail. Or that maybe someone had killed him in a fit of rage. Nothing would have pleased me more than to have spit in his face and sped away.
His car does a U-turn and heads back down the long, dark road. Thankfully, he won’t be following me back into town. He’ll be setting a trap for some other poor sap.
By the time I get to the diner, I’m in a much better space. My stomach growls for pancakes, sausages, and bacon. Or maybe a cheese omelette as plump as a princess’s pillow. There’s only a few cars parked in the lot. I pull up in front of the stainless steel caboose, remembering all the times I spent here in my youth. A dilapidated sign over the caboose says THE GALAXY DINER in neon pink lights. It’s the same sign fro
m my youth.
I walk inside the brightly lit dining room, slipping on my sunglasses as I make my way to the counter. My heels click loudly against the chipped and moldy tiles, announcing my presence. The sun will soon start to rise, which will cause me to retreat back to the safety of darkness. If I fail to return to my room by then, the headaches might return with a vengeance. Then I’ll be right back where I started when I first arrived here.
3
I FOLD MY DRESS UNDER MYSELF AS I SIT AT THE COUNTER. APART FROM an elderly man sitting in one of the tattered leather booths, I’m the only person inside the place. The Galaxy looks almost the same as when I left, just rattier and more run-down. Hung on the wall are dusty photographs of Angus Gibbons despite the fact that he never set foot in The Galaxy. Those are new and probably put there to attract the occasional tourist who wanders in. Water stains are splattered across the drop-down ceiling like a Pollock canvas. Tiles along the floor are chipped and dirty. The smell of grease and mold is quite strong. It’s a scent any chef worth a damn can detect. Working in a pit like this would send me over the edge, which is why I was always fanatical about keeping my kitchens clean.
In my floral sundress and gradient cat-eye sunglasses, I feel completely overdressed for this place. My unease will become more profound in an hour when the mill’s shift workers storm in ordering pancakes, bacon, sausage, and eggs.
I grab the weekly rag sitting on the counter and begin to read about the dead girl. She was fifteen when she was killed and lived in this country less than two years. There’s a black-and-white photo of her wearing a hijab and staring into the foreground. Her face is placid, and there’s virtually no expression over it. I wonder how her family is dealing with this tragedy. They’d barely escaped the devastation in their own country only to come to America and experience the senseless murder of their daughter.
“Coffee?” the girl behind the counter asks. Her splotched nameplate says STEF and she has the complexion of a Mediterranean princess.
“I’d love some,” I say, folding the paper in half. She pours me a cup as I glance at the plastic menu spattered with grease and dried food. “I’ll have the Western omelette while you’re here.”
Frowning, she snatches the menu out of my hand and goes back to the kitchen. She shouts my order to the cook and then returns to the breakfast bar. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Passing through town?”
“I suppose you could say that.” I pour cream and sugar into my coffee. Yellowing grains of salt ball up near the middle of the dispenser.
“You don’t look like anyone from these parts.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The flowery dress and fancy sunglasses at four in the morning. Who in their right mind does that?”
“I like to look my best when I go out.” I sip this dreadful coffee and try not to show my displeasure. “And the glasses are for light sensitivity.”
“For real?”
“Would I lie about something like that?”
“How would I know? I don’t even know you.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t.”
“I noticed you were reading about the murder of that immigrant girl.”
I stare in irritation at this busybody. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”
“School doesn’t start for a few more hours.”
I look around the near-empty diner, not in the mood for conversation right now, especially with a moody teen asking me a lot of useless questions. Ripped leather stools to the left of me. Empty stools to the right. Where’s all the paying customers?
“Where’s Harry?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Harry Baker. The old guy who used to run this place?”
“So you do know something about The Galaxy.” She looks surprised by this. “He died and his kids sold it to my papou. He’s been running it for the last eleven years now.”
I push the paper aside as an elderly couple settles into a back booth. Stef shrugs so that her black hair cascades down around her shoulders.
“You can’t be much older than this dead girl.”
“She was in a few of my classes, but I didn’t know her very well.” She walks away as if that’s all she’s going to say on the matter.
The girl is limber and quick, and moves gracefully around the counter with coffeepot in hand. She reminds me of someone I once knew but can’t quite place. I hear her take the elderly couple’s order. When she returns to the counter, she stares at me wearing a goofy smile.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“Those two old-timers asked about you.”
“Why would they do that?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Are you that clueless? Someone like you stands out in this town. They think you’re famous.”
“Me?”
“With your fancy hair, sunglasses, and dress. And wearing all that goopy makeup.” She laughs. “Of course I told them you weren’t anybody worth staring at.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Despite the obvious sarcasm in her voice, I find her rather amusing. The irony is that she’s likely more striking than any other girl in town. If she looks this way now, how will she look in five or six years? Back in New York City, no one raised an eyebrow at me on the streets, especially after I’d spent twelve hours toiling in a hot kitchen, my grease-laden hair up in a bun, sweat dripping down my oven-blasted face. In the city, I was a nobody, a drone worker like everyone else. A lesser species of tuna in a sea constantly swimming with grade A bluefin. And that’s exactly how I wanted it. To fit seamlessly into the teeming masses and live my life the way I saw fit.
“So, how do you know about Harry?” she asks.
“I spent a little time here back in the day,” I say. “So what about this girl? How well did you know her?”
“What’s it matter whether I knew her or not? She’s dead.”
“Just trying to make polite conversation.”
The girl shrugs. “She’s one of the immigrants who settled here. Not sure which country she came from and don’t really care. I have my own life to live.”
“Come on, now. Working here in this diner, you must hear all the scuttlebutt around town.”
“You don’t stop with the questions, do you?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been back in Fawn Grove. I’m just trying to catch up on what’s going on here.”
The girl sighs as if she’s annoyed with me. “Some people think they’re sponging off the system. Free housing, free food, driving around town in brand-new vans. Blah, blah, blah.” She flips her hair back as if to make a statement. “I heard customers complain that a few of them might even be terrorists.”
“What about the girl? How was she killed?”
“How should I know?” She refills my cup. “All I know is that there’s a lot of people who aren’t happy about them being here.”
“What do you think about it?”
“I’m fifteen. What does it matter what I think? No one listens to kids in this town, anyway.”
“You must have an opinion about these people.”
“Everyone deserves a chance as long as they follow the rules and obey our laws,” she says as if reciting the line from a class on diversity.
I’m about to reply when a burly chef dressed in soiled whites drops my omelette on the counter in front of me. I can tell right off that he’s overcooked it, and judging by its bright orange color, I’m certain it was made with liquid eggs. The two of them begin to argue in a foreign tongue, and it makes me slightly uncomfortable. I readjust my sunglasses and study the chef closely. His hair is much grayer than I remember, and he’s gained a few pounds, but I recognize him immediately. Yanni Doulos. His family immigrated here twenty-plus years ago and landed in Fawn Grove. I know this because I used to date his oldest child.
The chef throws up his hands and storms back to the kitchen. I scan the plastic menu and read the lunch offerings. Spanakopita, grape leaves, mous
saka, and keftedes. He’s added Greek fare to Harry’s classic diner menu. The girl rests her elbows on the counter and smiles at me. The steaming pile of shit on my plate looks so unappetizing that I’ve now lost my appetite.
“What were you two fighting about?” I ask.
“I told my papou to stay out of the dining room, but he never listens to me. Customers don’t want to see a fat, old Greek guy when they’re eating.”
“Good advice,” I say. “Do you have any other family members who work here?”
“My uncle sometimes, and my mom helps out from time to time whenever we’re short staffed. And there’s Billie, who’s practically useless, although she’s not family.”
“What does your mom do beside working here?”
“She’s a social worker. Helps the refugees get housing and benefits once they arrive in town.”
“Did she know the missing girl?”
“We never talk about that kind of stuff.” She stares down at my omelette. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”
I hold it up and inspect it. “Would you?”
“No, but then again I hate eggs.” She snaps a wad of gum between her teeth. “You’re the paying customer.”
“I think I’d pay not to eat it.”
“Try it before you knock my papou’s food. You might like it.”
I fork a rubbery cube into my mouth, along with some fries, and it takes all my might not to toss it up. The home fries taste bland and undercooked. The old Galaxy used to at least serve decent food back in the day.
“So?” Stef asks.
“You want the truth?”
“Sure.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“You think you’re too good for us? Because you wear a fancy dress and are from out of town?”
“You wanted the truth, I gave it to you.”
“I think you came in here determined not to like anything.”
“Hate to burst your bubble, kid, but this is one of the worst omelettes I’ve ever had the misfortune to eat.” I hold a rubbery piece of the orange protein up to the light.