An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 10

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked in his thick, earnest voice, but I remained cautious.

  “Case file?” I guessed, and was fairly certain I was right. His eyes brightened, and his earlier smile opened to a full grin, revealing two rows of nubby yellow teeth. One tooth stayed long, and protruded upward like a dying tree. In that moment, his upturned face resembled a badger with a toothy grin.

  “Perceptive. I like that. This is my last case file. My only remaining unsolved crime. And it has everything to do with your friends over there, Clark and Ms. Potts. So, given we’re all friends now, I thought I’d fill in some of the details for you.” I took a step back from the table as he opened the case file. Regret surfaced again from interrupting Clark. I turned once to Clark, his face was statue-like, and his eyes stared at us, but I could see they were far away. Ms. Potts had moved to a stool and sat down. She’d raised her hand to her mouth, as though trying to hold in her words. At some point, the young couple must have decided a real-life police drama was too exciting. They decided that it wasn’t as safe to watch in person as it was on television. They picked themselves up and left.

  Suzette remained. Her eyes were moving from person to person, and I wondered what she must be thinking. Maybe, when the air in the diner became electric, Suzette froze. Maybe, on some subconscious level, or from instinct, or just self-preservation, she knew to do that. This was one of her senses – we all have it, but she’d come to rely on it.

  The detective must have read the look on my face. He must have known I was in the dark about such things, and empty of all knowledge of his final case.

  “Ahhh,” he coughed out, and then grabbed the bloodied napkin to cover his mouth. When the threat of more coughing passed, he looked at me, and asked, “They haven’t told you, have they? They haven’t told you about the murder. How very interesting.” Again, he showed his nubby teeth in a grin. I didn’t want to move, or say or do anything, but I did. I gave a short nod of my head. Detective Ramiz stood up, and stepped out from the booth. Taking off the fedora from atop his head, he plopped it on the table next to the open case file. Papers ruffled and lifted, and threatened to fall to the floor. I hoped they would. I’d spill something on them if they did. But the pages settled, and the detective spoke.

  “Ms. Potts,” he began, and stepped in her direction. Like a moth turning away from the heat of a flame, she leaned closer to the counter, away from the detective. “Ms. Potts, where is your husband? Where is Mr. Louis Potts?” he asked, as he approached, and then waited, standing in front of her. Married? Had I heard him correctly? I’d never considered there to be a Mr. Potts. Or maybe I had, but just assumed he passed on long ago. The detective pushed himself up on his toes, and then back, slamming his heels to the floor. Ms. Potts flinched at the sudden sound. “Come now Ms. Potts – Mr. Louis Elmore Potts. Your husband of –” he paused, and tapped the side of his head, “forty years? Yes. Forty years. But, the last time you saw him, or anyone saw him, was twenty years ago.”

  “My husband is dead. You know that,” Ms. Potts blurted. She quickly bumped up the thick frames of her glasses, and continued, “Dead twenty years now, God rest his soul. But we told you this a dozen times before. Why can’t you just leave it be?”

  “Well, sure, official reports list him as dead. Even that case file could be closed, if I let it. But at one time, your husband was a missing person. You had him declared dead. Never found a body, though, did we?”

  “If my husband were alive, he’d be with me. But he ain’t,” Ms. Potts stated, and put her hand back in front of her mouth.

  “Only a matter of time – Angela’s will be sold. Interest is heating up, and they’re not keeping your precious diner. Did you know that, Ms. Potts? How about you, Clark?” The detective continued, raising his gravelly voice. “They’re not going to preserve or rescue your safe haven for the likes of convicts and runaways and dead bodies,” he declared, passing his eyes to me and Clark. The detective’s expression went flat and exacting: he intended to close his last case.

  The tension and strain bled a congestion that was thick and ugly, and it overwhelmed Ms. Potts. She bolted from where she sat, and faced the detective. Fear struck me as I thought she was going to hit him – cartwheel her short arms, and swing them down on him. But she stopped herself. She faced him with a stern expression and pensive eyes.

  “You don’t know! You don’t know me and Clark and this safe haven! My husband is dead! Ain’t nothing more to know than that! So, take your last case, and…”

  “Ms. Potts!” the detective yelled, “I haven’t finished. Now, if you would,” he stressed, and motioned his hand to the stool behind her. The fiery expression she had moments before faded, as though in a classroom that had been reprimanded by the principle. Ms. Potts took a reluctant step back, and sat on the stool. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. The detective had a vendetta that was fueled by some notional theory about a man who’d disappeared twenty years ago. That is what I thought, anyway, before hearing more of what he had to say.

  Detective Ramiz coughed a new butterfly-splatter of blood and phlegm onto the white linen. He studied it a second, and found me staring, too. He snapped the napkin into a fold, and tucked it into his pocket. I could see he was afraid. He might have seen butterfly blood spatters a dozen times a day – every one of them scared him some. More than that, I could see that he knew he was running out of time. He shrugged, as if to say it was nothing, and then turned to face Clark.

  “And Clark, you’ve been here almost as long as Ms. Potts. If my memory serves, that back room of yours wasn’t always there. Was it? Angela Thurmon bumped it out and put on that addition.” The detective walked around the counter, and stood opposite of Clark. When Clark said nothing and only offered a vacant stare, the detective took a cup from the back counter, and poured himself some coffee. We watched him drink half of the cup without so much as a wince of his eyes, or a flinch in his face. Hot and black. He drank the fresh coffee straight – when he brought the cup down from his mouth, steam rolled up over his lips like a dragon’s breath. The sight of him with his badger grin and coffee steam bleeding from his mouth was sinister, if not downright frightful.

  “Let me ask you something. Back then, before the addition, what stood behind you, Clark? Hmmm? Don’t know? Maybe this will help. I used to sit right there, where Ms. Potts is sitting now, and she’d serve me up two eggs and a side of bacon. And I used to see you working the grill back there, and the only thing I could see behind you were some… what was it?”

  “Sh-Shelves. J-Just some shelves, is all. N-Nothing else.”

  “Right as rain, son. Nothing else. Nothing but a wall, and a door out to the back of the building. Angela Thurmon had grand plans, and bumped all of it out for refrigerators and a dishwasher. Not the kind you buy for your home – these were the big ones, big and professional.” The detective poured the remaining coffee down his throat, and let out a steam-filled ahhhh that rose and disappeared like smoke just beyond his lips.

  “When you build in big appliances, you have to add all sorts of plumbing and electricity. Don’t you? Angela Thurmon had to dig new trenches to tap into the water lines. For a while, it looked like a moat back there. Didn’t it? Deep one, too. Wasn’t it? But they cleaned it up all nice and pretty-like. Poured in that concrete pad you’re standing on now. Didn’t they?”

  “I-I suppose? Yes. Y-Yes, they did,” Clark answered, and looked briefly at the detective, but then turned away. Ms. Potts held her hand to her mouth, and Clark glanced at me, but again turned away. The detective spun around to face the front like a lawyer in a courtroom, facing a jury.

  “Mr. Louis Elmore Potts was last seen entering Angela’s Diner. Eye-witnesses from the Irish Pub saw him leave the bar, walk up the street, and enter the diner. Mr. Louis Elmore Potts was never seen again. Clark… just when did they pour the pad?” he asked, leaning his head over his shoulder in Clark’s direction.

  “Pad?”

  �
��The concrete,” the detective raised his voice, “When did they pour the floor you’re standing on?”

  “D-Dunno, not too g-good with dates,” Clark answered, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “That’s okay, I can fill in the blanks for you. It was the next day. The very next day. Isn’t that right, Ms. Potts – I know you know the date. You reported him missing on that day. Just one day. Not two, or three, or five? Nope, one day. And that, my dear was a mistake. Raised suspicions at the station right away.”

  “But he always come home. No matter what his business was at the pub. My husband always come home to me,” Ms. Potts finally said. Her voice shook as she spoke, and her hands trembled. She pulled her hands together when she saw me watching. She pulled them together, as though praying. The detective turned away from his imaginary jury to face Ms. Potts. His eyes gleamed, and his face looked younger, more vibrant. He welcomed the rebuttal. He orchestrated it. He wanted to hear the contradiction so that he could put Ms. Potts on the spot.

  “I know. I’ve heard you say that before. In fact, it is in my case file over there on the table. But, you know what else is in my case file? A report stating that you and Clark were the only two people working in the diner that night. Convenient? And the next morning, men in big trucks rolled down this narrow street, and poured the concrete. Did anyone look in the trenches? Was there an inspection before the pour?” the detective finished. I waited a second to hear more, but the brightness in his eyes dimmed, and the vibrant excitement on his face faded. He was spent. He clutched at his chest and sucked in air – I could hear crippled rattling in his chest as another flurry of coughs threw him forward. A moment passed, and the quiet in the diner was replaced with the shuffling sound of the detective’s shoes as he made his way back to his booth.

  “You see, Gabby… we’re still friends, right? My last case, my remaining case, is as real as any missing persons case. And the shared opinion is that this has always been a case of murder,” he finished in the same tone that he started. A loud wheezing sound came from his mouth, and he began to fall forward. He reached out and clutched the table for support. We all passed looks back and forth, and I wondered if there were images in their heads of the detective falling over and dying. When he composed himself once more, he placed his fedora back on his head, and unrolled a few dollars from his hand.

  “Your tip is for bringing me the water. That was a civil thing to do; very civil of you… amongst friends,” he grinned, “and the extra dollars are for you to call home. Call your parents. Children should be civil to their parents.” Holding the dollar bills in the air, he waved them, and then dropped the collection to the table. And, like before, the bell above the door rang out, and seemed to clear the electricity in the air. But did it? Could it? The detective talked of murder. He accused Clark and Ms. Potts of murder.

  11

  When Detective Ramiz left the diner, I turned to face Ms. Potts, and wanted to scream, Is it true? Is any of it true? But I couldn’t. The thought of any of this, all of it, was overwhelming. As I considered the breadth of the detective’s accusations, I thought I’d start to cry. I mean, this was my new family, my home, and the two angels who’d saved my life a year ago might be falling from heaven right in front of me. The faint sound of the bell above the door pulled my attention – we were alone. A part of me wanted a full diner: a busy diner. A diner full of life that I could hide in and not be concerned about what I’d just heard.

  “Gabby, you don’t need to worry yourself with any of this. We’ve known the detective for the better of twenty years, now. And we answered his questions already; more than a few times,” Ms. Potts explained, but her voice lacked the same confidence as her words.

  “I heard the detective,” I began, “We all heard him. And he wasn’t here just to give you a hard time. He has a plan. I don’t know exactly what it is, but whatever it is he has, he has more of it now, and I don’t think he is going to stop.”

  “M-Ma’am, do you think G-Gabby right?” Clark questioned, and was immediately met by a loud shhhh, as Ms. Potts raised her hand in his direction. But Ms. Potts regarded what Clark said as worry creased her brow. She closed her eyes, and began to rock back and forth.

  “Ma’am?” Clark implored. Ms. Potts raised her hand again, and tightened her eyes shut, as though running from the questions in the darkness. She continued to rock back and forth.

  “Ma’am – can’t go back to prison,” Clark whimpered. Ms. Potts stopped rocking and opened her eyes with a deep sigh. She pushed her glasses back, and looked at me and Suzette, and then Clark.

  “I know it, Clark. I’ve known it these last twenty years. Ain’t nobody known it like I do. Baby, you…” her words stopped, and she heaved in air and began to cry.

  “I don’t know what happened. But, does it still matter – does it matter anymore?” Suzette muttered, “I mean, the detective’s entire case seems to hinge on an eye-witness account of Mr. Potts being here, in the diner.”

  “M-Miss Suzette, he was here that n-night. And s-so was w-we,” Clark stammered, and I could see he was shaken badly. Scared. Clark began to move his lips like he had earlier. He was praying. Only, now he was praying for more. Something did happen that night, and both Clark and Ms. Potts were involved. I hated thinking of them in this light; it was surreal and almost impossible to comprehend. Could they have been part of a murder?

  “So, something happened? What?” I insisted, and heard frustration in my voice. I’d never before talked to Ms. Potts or Clark like that.

  Ms. Potts was taken aback by my tone, and stopped crying. She remained quiet another minute, and then poured herself a cup of coffee. She walked to the back, where Clark continued praying, and wrapped her arms around him. He collapsed against her and gave her a weary look.

  “I’m tired, ma’am, b-been sitting on this so long.” Ms. Potts took his face in her hands, and whispered a long shhhh.

  “Clark, I don’t know what will become of us, but maybe it is time. Maybe we been sitting on this thing long enough,” she said in a somber voice that sounded hoarse and tired. Clark mouthed another prayer, as Ms. Potts joined him. When they finished, he glanced at me and Suzette.

  “Maybe things happen this way for a reason. Maybe you c-can help?”

  I walked behind the counter, and stood opposite of Suzette, whose eyes furrowed with concern. Ms. Potts came back around to the front, and fixed another cup of coffee.

  “Order of coffee and tears,” she half laughed, and lifted her cup to us as a tear wet her cheek. When she was ready, she sat on the stool and told us their story. With an empty diner and a full pot of coffee, Ms. Potts told us everything.

  Both Suzette and I listened. What was important to her was to first tell us who her husband was. Until now, he was just a name, a name from the mouth of Detective Ramiz. No face. No memory. Not even a description. Just a name. Ms. Potts’ expression was one of fondness, as she told how they’d met at a church function. She told us how they were smitten with each other from the beginning. He courted her, and she knew he was the one she would marry; the one who she would spend the rest of her life with.

  She told us that he only showed her the good side, the one that brought flowers, and opened doors, and was caring and loving. There was no hint of a man who could hurt her, or a man who was filled with more ugly than any one person should have. He only showed her a side of him that she would fall in love with, and she did. They married in the spring, in the same church they’d met at. They honeymooned like other couples, and set up a home like other couples, and began to build a life like other couples.

  Something changed after their first year. Ms. Potts told us that someone else moved in and became her husband. He was cold and dark, and brooded most evenings. His eyes were different. They were distant one minute, and on fire with anger the next. She told us that she learned to avoid the moods. She avoided the hurtful things he’d say. But she could get him back. She had a plan to get them back to where they were wh
en it was easy and fun, and filled with passion and love.

  A fine dinner she’d prepared: one with a cut of steak that he liked, and a decorated plate of sides that were all his favorites. She remembered cooking all afternoon, and even enlisted the help of some friends to make it a night to remember. She waited eagerly to see his smile as he took his first bite.

  He only nodded glumly, and said it was okay, but that it was nothing special. He said that maybe she should’ve cooked up something better. She told him that it was his favorite, and that is when it happened the first time. Her husband hit her with the back of his hand. She never even saw him lift it. A white light streaked across her eyes, and a low tone of ringing settled in her ears. He hit her a second time, and she tumbled to the floor, where she lay, dazed, blinking at the empty ceiling. She said she didn’t know what had happened until she felt the food on her. He was screaming, and throwing the meal she’d prepared for him from the table down onto her. He screamed for her to eat it, eat it all, if she was so proud of the slop she’d made for him.

  Life changed after that night. There were more attacks, some worse than others. But she stayed. A few attacks left her without the use of her legs. She’d spend a day, sometimes two, in bed, crawling to the bathroom when the need was there. A limp would cripple her walk for a week or more afterward. Other attacks left her eyes bruised and swollen shut to the world. But she stayed. This was her marriage, and her husband, and her vows were for better or for worse.

  “But not for the abused,” Suzette mumbled, her voice lifting angrily.

  “He killed my baby,” Ms. Potts rasped, and looked at Suzette. “He never knew I was with child. Never knew it all. Not sure his knowing would have stopped him from kicking me across the floor, though. He might’ve even kicked a little harder,” she continued, and stopped long enough for the pain of the memory to pass. “After that, I learned you can’t wrestle with a meanness like that. Ain’t no praying it away with a Pastor, when they saying: ‘It’s in God’s hands, deary, now pass the basket’. Whatever gripped my husband and made him who he was, it had him long before I ever met him. He just kept it buried. Ain’t nothing stay buried forever.”