by Joseph Souza
It doesn’t bother me that I’m using Dalton to get what I want. Maybe that’s the real reason I’m so gung ho about finding the killer; I’m an incredibly selfish person. I have this urgent need to free myself from the voices enslaving me. It’s about forgiving myself and accepting the fact that there are certain things in wartime that were beyond my control.
The problem is that I’m a mess, emotionally and physically. Broken and imperfect, too. And as much as I try denying it, Dalton’s aborted kiss did not entirely offend my sensibilities. It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to kiss me in that way, and I yearn for such intimacy. He’s always been strikingly good looking, even as a kid, which made his cruel acts seem that much crueler. Something deep inside me wants to experience what it would be like to kiss my former tormentor. I know this sounds crazy, but in my twisted mind Dalton feels like the personification of everything that’s right and wrong with Fawn Grove. It’s like being intimate with my past; it repels me as much as it makes me desirous for something more.
I’d run myself ragged in New York City, doing all I could to escape the inevitable question about whether I would find someone to love. I worked so hard as a chef that I kept pushing this desire further back in the recesses of my mind. Drinking, working, and exhaustion filled the gaps that might have composed my romantic life. Because of that, nothing ever materialized. Maybe I feared getting close to someone. The emotional turmoil hadn’t helped either. I kept thinking, What person in their right mind would want to be with a woman like me? A tortured mind to go along with a tortured body. Two prosthetics that hid my sorry past, although they were the least of my secrets. Then so close to a dishonorable discharge before the incident that cost me my legs. I spent two brutal years recovering at Walter Reed. Who in their right mind would want someone like me sleeping next to them at night?
As I consider why I’m sitting here, in my hometown diner, Nadia grabs my arm and leads me to a booth in the back. I inhale sharply from the pain, not wanting her to know how badly I’m hurting. She sits across from me and smiles, almost as if the world had stopped spinning since I left. The ensuing years have only made Nadia more beautiful, despite the spiderwebs forming at the corners of her eyes and lips. There’s tinsels of gray in her short black hair, which she repeatedly swipes over her ears.
“I don’t have long,” Nadia whispers, hands folded over the table. “Fortunately, my full-time job allows me some flexibility.”
“Your other job?”
“Yes.”
“Social work, I believe your daughter said?”
“I fill in here to help out my father. Stef hates working at the diner, but she loves the money. Without her help, my father would not be able to keep this place running. He can barely afford to pay Billie her fifteen hours a week.”
“It’s no secret why the diner’s failing.”
“There’s so much competition in town after Denny’s opened up last year.”
“Don’t lie to yourself, Nadia. Everything about this place screams for a makeover, including the menu.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”
“Harsh is an understatement.”
“Come now, Lucy. Try something else on the menu before you make such a rash statement. The spanakopita is delicious and from my great-grandmother’s recipe.”
“Nadia, look around the place. There’s no one here. If the food was any good, don’t you think it would be packed at this hour?”
“People in this town are narrow-minded and struggle with anything remotely ethnic. It’s the same reason these Afghanis are having such a difficult time integrating into the community.”
“I could cook sheep’s head stew and get more people through that door.”
“You know how to cook?”
“It’s how I’ve been supporting myself all these years. Can’t live in Manhattan off my disability check alone.”
“Then you should go in there and talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to someone like you.”
“Stef says you help these immigrants get settled into town,” I say, purposefully changing the subject.
“That’s part of my responsibility.”
“What about your husband?” I nod at her wedding ring.
“My husband and I have been going through the motions for the last three years. Our marriage is all but over.”
“Why do you stay married to him, then?”
“We pretend everything is normal for Stef’s sake. Our parents are old-school Greeks, and they’d be very upset if they knew the truth about us. Maybe they already do know and are not saying anything. Once Stef graduates and goes away to college, we’ll make it official.”
“I did the math and noticed that you had Stef soon after I left.”
“You broke my heart, Lucy. I was so distraught that I ran into the arms of the first man who would make my family happy. Niko Petras.”
“You married Niko?” This surprises and disappoints me.
“I had no choice. Our families were pressuring us after they found out I was pregnant.”
“So you had a big, fat Greek wedding?”
She laughs. “I guess you could say that.”
Niko Petras was one of the most vain assholes in high school, and it surprises me that Nadia married him. He was brash, handsome, and a womanizer who sported a gold earring when it was still risky in this town to wear one. Girls loved him. Guys wanted to be like Niko. With his muscular physique and flowing Greek hair, he was the object of many of my schoolmates’ desires.
“We started dating after you left. One night we were drinking over at his parents’ house. One thing led to another, and before I knew it I was pregnant with Stef. Getting married made sense. Our parents went to the same Orthodox Church, and there weren’t many other Greeks in town. It was the easiest way out after you left.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You could have told me you were leaving. I would have been heartbroken, but at least I would have known what happened and that you were all right.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“It’s obvious to me now that you had issues at the time, things I couldn’t even begin to understand. The good news is that you’re back.”
“Temporarily, remember?”
“Maybe Fawn Grove can be more understanding this time around, especially when everyone learns that you’re a decorated veteran.” She looks around, and when she’s convinced it’s safe to do so, she cups my hands.
“I don’t know, Nadia. It’s too early for that kind of talk.”
“I loved you once, Lucy. I can certainly love you again.”
“But I’m not sure how I feel anymore. About anything.”
“Take your time. There’s no rush.”
“I’m broken in so many ways and still struggling with my issues,” I say, squeezing her hand. “I beg you, do not tell anyone about my injuries.”
“You’re a hero, Lucy, whether you want to believe it or not.”
“I can’t believe getting my legs blown off makes me heroic. Unlucky maybe, but certainly not a hero.”
“That can’t be the real reason you came back. So you could recover from the trauma you experienced.”
“When I first arrived in town a few weeks ago, I couldn’t even get out of bed I was such a mess. Once I started to feel better, I realized I needed a reason to stay. A purpose for being here. That’s probably why I’m so interested in this girl’s murder.”
“And so you’re going to take it upon yourself to find the killer?”
“I never said that.” Admittedly, it does sound rather silly coming from her lips. I glance around the diner, hoping the sunglasses mask my embarrassment.
“Then what, Lucy? When the case gets solved, are you going to run away like you did those many years ago?” She shakes her head in frustration and begins to slide out of the booth.
“Wait,” I say, holding onto her hand.
“You can’t
repeatedly run away from yourself and think you’re escaping your past. At some point you need to come to grips with who you are, Lucy, and whatever it is you’ve done to warrant such self-doubt. Maybe the people here won’t be as dismissive as you think. They might even accept you.”
“But what if they don’t?”
“They will because you’re one of us. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can come see me.”
Nadia picks up one of the greasy plastic menus and flicks it in my direction. It whacks my chest and flutters down onto the table in front of me.
“Give the spanakopita a try while you’re trying to find yourself. Maybe by the time you order, you’ll figure out who the hell you are.”
* * *
I ordered the moussaka, believing it to be more reflective of authentic Greek fare. It sits in front of me waiting to be sampled. I can manage only a few bites because it’s so terribly offensive to my taste buds. A puddle of grease has formed at the bottom of my plate, and the eggplant has a distinctly sour taste. The whipped potato topping is dry and came prepackaged. I wish the dish were edible so I’d at last have one good thing to say. It blows my mind that Yanni couldn’t be bothered to drain the grease before adding burger to the moussaka. No wonder no one eats here.
I pull the earring out of my pocket and place it next to my mug of coffee, studying it closely. It’s slightly curved with gold and white colors. A series of inverted Ls have been cut into the metal that runs the length of the piece. It’s an interesting design, one I’d never seen before. Had it belonged to the dead girl? Or someone involved in her murder? Maybe there’s no connection at all but the one I’m fictionalizing in my head, a head yearning to connect the dots and find a rationale for this terrible crime.
I wish I’d asked Nadia if she knew the dead girl or the girl’s family. I think about her broken marriage to Niko and how she has to keep working in order to help raise Stef. I hope she didn’t put any of her own money into this dump. I wonder if she and Niko are still on good terms. Nadia said little about Niko, and I wasn’t going to push the matter. What about Stef? All this turmoil must be hard on her. No wonder she displays such a bad attitude. She’s home alone most nights and being forced to work at this shitty diner.
Knowing what I know about The Galaxy, and its connection to my past, I can’t help but be protective of its place in Fawn Grove’s history and to want to save it from dying a slow death. Feeling sorry for myself won’t bring in new customers, nor will criticizing the food every chance I get. But something inside me is saying that I have to come up with answers before I can be useful to anyone or anything, including myself.
Or maybe it’s something else that’s keeping me tethered here. Something that’s not even obvious to me. Is it possible that I’m operating under the deluded notion that I can do some good here? Prove my worthiness to the citizens of Fawn Grove? I fled a long time ago, certain that I’d never return. Certain I’d never fit in and be accepted for who I am. But at the age of eighteen, confidence can be a false emotion. Things are different now, I keep telling myself. I’m a better person than the one who left. And this is a better town.
Here’s what I know for sure: There’s a murderer loose, and this poses a threat to the well-being of the people living here, the people I grew up admiring and resenting. It’s natural for them to fear change, and to fear those who are different from themselves. And yet fear is a survival mechanism with the goal of keeping us safe. It’s an evolutionary tool we’ve used to perpetuate the species and divide and conquer. My own fears run deep, and I often believe it’s the reason I’m still alive. It’s the reason I survived that bomb blast and the pressures of a Manhattan kitchen. But I don’t have time to philosophize about such matters. And neither do the immigrants who’ve moved here, trying to fit in in their newly adopted land.
10
I’D REACHED A POINT IN MY CAREER WHERE I HAD TO MAKE A DECISION. Do I continue working as a well-regarded sous-chef in a busy East Village restaurant, or do I take the leap and accept a head chef job somewhere else? Maybe even take the plunge and open my own restaurant? My skill set was on par with all but a few top chefs working in the city. The owner of the restaurant where I worked kept asking when I would move on and start my own establishment. Advancement was the norm in that world. It’s not that she wanted to lose me; she needed enough time to find a worthy replacement. Chefs of my caliber didn’t stay mired in the same miserable conditions for very long. Chefs like me, who worked long and ridiculous hours for shitty pay, usually ended up working long and ridiculous hours for themselves.
But I kept deferring all offers to open my own place or become someone else’s head chef. I actually liked my job. Cooking became my obsession only because the vacuum created in its absence frightened the hell out of me. I was respected by those in the industry, and I’d reached an obscene level of comfort. The thought of leaving terrified me and was something I didn’t want to consider. So I kept my head down, put in my hundred-hour weeks, collected my human scrapbook of scrapes and burns, and took solace in the small and insignificant place I occupied in the universe.
I probably would have stayed had I not awoken one day in an absolute panic. Sweat dripped from every pore in my body, and I experienced a sense of dread so visceral that it was all I could do to climb out of bed. Why now? I thought. The next day would be better, I kept telling myself. Then the next day came and nothing changed. Neither did the day after that and the day after that. One week turned into three. My sudden and unexplainable bout of depression settled into abject melancholy. Ensconced in that dark cloud, and with no end in sight, it felt like an eternity of gloom sprawled across the universe. The illness had texture and permanence. It felt as if bubble wrap had formed around my body, and I believed at the time that I’d never escape from its formidable grip.
That’s when I decided to leave New York. What did I have to lose? The city was my savior, and yet at the same time it spit me out like the whale that coughed up Jonah. It’s a volatile and unpredictable place, and it will steamroll you if you don’t keep up with its frenetic pace. I stopped and watched as the city left me in its wake, like a person cast overboard in the middle of the ocean, watching helplessly as the cruise ship motored away.
I faltered in that stilted environment, decrying the state of my pathetic life. Little did I know that fate had determined I return home and make my peace with it.
* * *
Yanni emerges from the kitchen into the dining room, his tangled gray weave placed carelessly over his seborrheic scalp. His chef’s whites are soiled and wrinkled, and I can’t for the life of me see how they got that way. Based on the number of customers walking through the door, his stained apron baffles me. He barks something unintelligible to the young waitress, and she jumps at his command. The poor woman is merely a sounding board for his rash of complaints. The bitch session turns into a tongue lashing, and it appears all too apparent that he’s using her as the scapegoat for his many failures.
I move to the counter and watch his red-faced theatrics with barely controlled rage. His yelling would be an embarrassment had there been any other customers inside, but since there aren’t any, it doesn’t really matter. Yanni stops midsentence and sees that I’m watching. I’ve dealt with assholes like him all my life, and I don’t take such fools lightly, especially when they’re as incompetent as him. Men like Yanni believe they possess the culinary skills of Thomas Keller and the business acumen of Steve Jobs and thus can treat their employees however they please.
“You want something?” he shouts at me in a condescending tone.
“How about making some decent food for once and stop cussing out the help.”
“She’s been delivering orders to the wrong table all morning,” he says, eyeing me warily, unsure of what to make of a strong woman standing so close to him.
“Maybe if this diner actually had some paying customers you could blame her.”
“It’s all right,” the woman named
Billie says, “I deserve it.”
I turn angrily to her. “The hell you do! I could make puppy chow taste better than the crap he cooks here.”
Yanni’s impenetrable demeanor cracks, and he lashes out at me. “I been at this a long time, lady. You think you can cook better than me?”
“I think that stool could cook better than you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. The people in this town love my food.”
“Name one.”
“Did you try the moussaka? It’s from my nonni’s recipe and a big hit with the locals.”
“May she rest in peace, but your nonni would probably turn in her grave if she knew you made it the way you do.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the moussaka.” He seems taken aback by my honesty. Bullies always do when confronted.
“Not if you like extra grease and instant potatoes as toppings.”
“You don’t know that,” he shouts.
“Oh, yes, I do,” I say. “I’ve tried your moussaka, and it sucks.”
“You think you can do better?”
“In my sleep—and I have insomnia.”
“Tell you what, honey. How about you come back in a few days and show me what you got?”
“Oh, hell no, honey!”
Yanni stares at the mousy waitress named Billie. “Did she just say no?”
The waitress nods. “She said, ‘Oh, hell no, honey. ’”
Yanni turns back to me. “You afraid your food won’t be as good as mine?”
“Hardly. I’m not cooking with all that frozen meat and powdered crap you use back there,” I say.
“How do you know what I cook with?”
“I’m not stupid, Yanni. I can taste it in your food,” I say. “Besides, your granddaughter showed me the kitchen the other day.”