An Order of Coffee and Tears Read online

  “How we doing back there, Clark? Getting all your cooking in before you go back to prison?” Detective Ramiz yelled. The diner went quiet as people sought out the source of the loud words. I watched heads turning, their wandering eyes furrowed by concern. Mr. Thurmon and the potential buyers of Angela’s were standing outside. I didn’t realize till then: the buyers had no reason to look inside. They were tearing down Angela’s. They hadn’t heard Detective Ramiz. None of them looked through the glass into the diner.

  “A man belongs in prison when he’s done a thing like what you’ve done. I’m getting close, you know. Very close. Not long, now…” Detective Ramiz pulled a napkin over his mouth and pushed out a phlegmy cough, “… not long now, at all.”

  “S-Sir, why don’t you just leave? J-Just leave,” Clark stammered.

  “Now, now – look who has a voice, all of a sudden. All this time, I’d thought prison had got your tongue,” the detective shot back, smiling. I hated that smile. He looked around the diner, and then back to Clark. “I heard in prison, they knock your teeth out – if you’re prone to biting while on your knees, that is. But never heard of them taking your tongue. Ain’t that right? Guess you best get ready for more of the same!” Detective Ramiz laughed, and finished his coffee. Ms. Potts approached, and stood next to the detective. Her face was fixed in a scowl, anger thinned her eyes, and she pressed her lips until there was just a thin line above her chin.

  “I know you think you have business with us, but you don’t. We trying to work here, and, as you can see, we full. Now, I suggest you finish up and leave, or order yourself somethin’ more than coffee. You’re wasting a seat at the counter.” The detective raised his hands, and waited until Ms. Potts took a breath.

  “Oh, but Ms. Potts, I don’t think I have business, I know I have business. Look out that window,” he started, and pointed toward the front. “Who do you think those men are? They are bringing a wrecking ball with them, and they are going to destroy this place. And when they do, I’ll be here to see it happen. I’ll be here to see what is under that floor, over there, where Clark is standing. Ain’t that right, Mister Clark?” Detective Ramiz yelled some more, taunting the cook.

  “Sir, you got someplace else to be?” Keep on Truckin´ interrupted. While he asked the question, his tone was more of a demand, telling the detective that he should listen and leave. Keep on Truckin´ stood up next to Ms. Potts, towering over the detective.

  “Got some fine people, here. I don’t much appreciate anyone messing with their business. And, mister, from where I’m standing, you’re messing with their business.” Detective Ramiz’s smile grew into a sneer, as he moved his eyes to Keep on Truckin´. His smile was long, with the corners of his mouth pulling back heavy lines of skin below his eyes. He looked like an evil clown, smiling, and enjoying the challenge from Keep on Truckin´. The detective pulled his badge from his hip, and held it out just long enough for most in the diner to recognize it before tucking it away to hang from the front of his belt.

  “You might want to sit your trashy ass back down. As part of serving the law, seems my business is wherever I need it to be.” Keep on Truckin´ gave the badge a once over with his eyes, as a smile peeked out from beneath his mustache.

  “That’s fine. Just remember, if you didn’t have that badge, we’d have ourselves more to talk about,” he finished, and took to his seat. Keep on Truckin´ stayed on the edge of his stool, close to Ms. Potts. His expression stayed bright and wanting, while he kept his eyes fixed on Detective Ramiz. The detective’s grin went flat, and I could see he took to the truck driver’s words. Ms. Potts forced a straight face, but I could see she was trying not to laugh. The strain of the moment lifted, and I gave Keep on Truckin´ a warm thank you with my eyes.

  “Good boy,” Detective Ramiz praised sarcastically, and then added, “Badge works, but, given the time and purely coincidence I assure you, I do have to run. Clark and Ms. Potts, I’ll be seeing you.” And, as Detective Ramiz left the diner, I watched as he pulled up one of our napkins and cupped his mouth. As the door closed, I could hear a burst of coughing and choking, and saw Mr. Thurmon and the potential buyers of the diner turn a concerned eye. For them, the detective was just an old man struggling to breathe. But to Clark and Ms. Potts, he held their future in a manila folder.

  Keep on Truckin´ looked a little agitated from the rush of adrenaline, but shrugged it off with a snicker. I thanked him for stepping up like he did. Ms. Potts patted his back with gratitude of her own, and tended to her tables.

  “On the house,” I started. “Name the slice of pie you want. All fresh and homemade,” I added.

  “Homemade!” he scoffed, “You get them from the Food Mart up the road, and then charge three times over cost. Who you fooling? I recognize the boxes.”

  “Shhhh… how about two slices?” Keep on Truckin´ giggled, and winked his eye. “How about one of them rhubarbs, there, and an apple? Thanks, Gabby. Oh, and whip, lots of whip. Love that whip.” I nodded and returned the smile.

  I fixed Keep on Truckin´ his slices of pie, and then fixed a slice of rhubarb for Clark. It was his favorite, and I’m sure he needed it. When I went back to hand it to him, he was gone. When I went to his cot, I saw that his book was gone, too. Clark had run.

  15

  It was official: Suzette had joined our family at Angela’s Diner. Three days had passed since that night when Clark grabbed his book and left the diner. Where he went to, we didn’t know. Where he lived, we didn’t know. Nobody knew anything about Clark outside of the diner. Even Ms. Potts had to shrug her shoulders when Mr. Thurmon pressed for some answers. I’d begun to suspect that Clark may have lived here, in the diner, all this time. He had a cot to sleep on, he had plenty of food to eat, and he had his book to read. And when he needed to shower, there was the city’s YMCA, where nobody asked your name. It was just a small walk two blocks over and one block up. He could easily have visited the Y while Ms. Potts and I were busy with crosswords and word searches. I suspect that Clark was living at Angela’s and standing guard, watching over their secret that he and Ms. Potts had buried twenty years earlier. I suppose, in a way, he might have considered this his penance for killing the husband of Ms. Potts. What would the penance have been for Mr. Louis Elmore Potts if he’d killed our Ms. Potts? This was Clark’s burden to bear, and if that meant living in Angela’s Diner, then that was what he was going to do.

  For now, all we did know was that Clark was gone. I missed him already, and felt afraid for him. Ms. Potts kept her feelings close to her heart, and my prying only got me a sentence or two, followed by a waggle of her finger while she choked back her concerns. I could tell she hurt with Clark not being with us, but something told me he was okay; I’d like to think that he was, anyway. While Ms. Potts wouldn’t say it, I wondered if she thought he was okay, too. Clark could stay gone. Stay hidden. Just disappear, like I had. After all, how much time could Detective Ramiz have? The detective looked worse with every visit to the diner. The color of his skin was fading to a light gray, while his breath grew shallower and wheezed more loudly. He was running out of time. And he knew it, too – he knew there was a race between his own demise, and the demise of Angela’s Diner.

  Mr. Thurmon was in a bind – he was all knotted up. He kept worrying about who he could get to take Clark’s place behind the grill. No cook and a near full diner can make for a hectic afternoon service. Being short-handed couldn’t happen at a worse time. The misfortunes of the fast-food restaurant, the one that had been draining away our customers since opening, left us with a full diner for my shift.

  A sudden flood of faces had made Angela’s Diner the hot spot after school again. Some included new faces, while others were old. And then there were my personal favorite faces: the teenagers. The crowds kept us busy well into the evenings. And all it took were a few roaches, a couple of mouse droppings, and the sightings of a mammoth rat named Bertha: I’d learned the name from the teens. Bertha was an overweight tame
and docile thing that may very well have been someone’s pet once. My guess was that Bertha had escaped her owner, or maybe had been let go to fend for herself. In her travels, she found the back of the fast food place and started feeding on fast-food scraps from the trash. The teens told us the rat was bigger than some of the city rats they’d seen around the trains, but that it was tame, and did little more than wander around outside the dumpsters, its big belly hanging from the middle and dragging on the ground.

  Once the sightings inside began, everyone laid a claim to seeing Bertha. First, it was a run under the tables and over shoes and the tops of sandaled feet. Then it was a run across the tables, where some even said a French fry was hanging from Bertha’s mouth. I dismissed that last claim, but laughed as the teens told the story. Eventually, Bertha was trapped and taken away, but not before the damage was done.

  In all, the sightings of Bertha did wonders for our small diner. We watched the story unfold from Clark’s TV. It was an eager, tell-all news-story by an ambitious reporter standing in front of the fast-food restaurant. With long blond hair, she was a pretty girl wearing square glasses and trying to look more studious than she was. She told the story of the rat that ran through the dining area, and of the food inspector’s visit that followed.

  We laughed watching the little television. It wasn’t just the misfortunes of the restaurant that had us going. It was the kids huddled up behind the reporter, some with Free Bertha posters. The news-story was live, and they must have known it. All at once, they lined up and yanked their pants down, drawers and all, shooting a moon into the camera. We could hear one of the kids yelling, “Kiss my Bertha!” The camera man started to laugh, and the screen jostled up and down while the reporter, her blond hair blowing in front of her eyes, yelled into the microphone. And then the screen went black for a second, maybe more, before returning to the anchor desk. The anchors were laughing, too.

  How long the fast-food restaurant would be closed to the public was a mystery. What it meant for Angela’s Diner was a springtime run of full booths and busy counters every day, every hour. I wouldn’t say it out loud, but I liked it. I liked the rush of people, and the sounds of the dishes clanking, and the constant smell of food. It made my heart feel good. It reminded me of those first moments when I walked through the door and saw Ms. Potts and her big glasses and blue hair.

  As for her, she worked the grill in place of Clark, but did so with much reluctance. She hated working the grill, and made sure to complain about it every chance she got. And when Mr. Thurmon was in earshot, she expressed her dissatisfaction even louder. When it was quiet, and there was a moment for us to get off of our feet, she said nothing. Not even a smile. And sometimes I’d hear the sound of crying coming from the back, where Clark would normally be sitting in front of his TV. Later, she told me that she cried for the trouble she’d brought to him. She cried for the trouble that was to come. Mostly, however, she cried because Clark was missing. He’d picked up and disappeared. And, sure as rain was falling during our April afternoons, the detective would find Clark, even if we couldn’t.

  While Ms. Potts worked the grill, I waited the tables and the counter. Mr. Thurmon continued to help, and thankfully he did know what to do. But his arthritis kept him slow, and he struggled to keep up. Our regulars didn’t mind, though. More than a few times, I’d see them get up and help themselves around the counter with an appreciative smile from Mr. Thurmon. They’d even clear a plate or two for him, and set up linen and silverware after a quick wipe of the towel hanging from Mr. Thurmon’s shoulder. But a few were rude, and sometimes they were mean. Under their breath, they’d call him names. Who does that? And for what purpose? He’d chuckle a feeble apology, and offer them ten percent off their bill, or a free piece of pie.

  After a few days, I could see how the hours wore on Mr. Thurmon. And then the time came when he just couldn’t spend another day away from his law offices. With a glum look and a shake of his head, he told us we had no choice, but we’d have to shut down during the afternoon rush; at least until another waitress or cook could be hired. Only one waitress and one cook was too much to ask of anyone.

  “What if I work the counter?” Suzette beamed, and immediately ran around the counter to survey her idea. Mr. Thurmon wiped at the sweat over his eyes, and flexed the pain out of his hand as he watched Suzette race around him. He stood, quiet, as she glanced over the shelves behind her and under the counter, and rested her hands on the register. Her eyes glinted light from outside, adding a sparkle to the excitement in her step.

  “I can work the counter – me and Gabby!” she hurried with an enthusiastic grin. Mr. Thurmon raised his eyebrows, and nodded a shy grin to her idea before turning to Ms. Potts for her approval.

  The image of a magazine cover entering Angela’s Diner that one night crossed my mind. I saw Suzette dressed in her emerald green evening gown, ample cleavage teasing all the eyes within reach of her. I also saw her wearing a waist apron and taking an order from Keep on Truckin´, the corners of his bushy mustache jogging up and down. The images playing back in my mind made me laugh aloud, which caught Suzette’s attention. It caught everyone’s attention. An uncomfortable spotlight made up of collected curious eyes was on me. Suzette stopped her survey behind the counter. A hurt look in her eyes squashed the enthusiasm that was waiting for an answer from Mr. Thurmon. She frowned, and pushed her shoulders back to face me.

  “What? What, you don’t think I can do this?” she spat, and then looked to Ms. Potts for some support. Ms. Potts raised her hands and shook her head with eyes wide, trying to hold back a smile.

  “Girl, don’t look at me. I didn’t say anything – might be good idea though, I like it. Might be a great one… heck, hunny, you always here with us, anyway,” Ms. Potts finished, and punched her hips with her clenched hands.

  The eyes were back on me. I had to say it. I had to say something. The laugh was innocent enough, but my timing was terrible, and it showed on Suzette’s face.

  “I think it would be an excellent idea. And I’m sorry if I giggled at the wrong time.” Suzette’s expression lifted, as a smile crept to the corners of her mouth. She batted her eyelids, and I wondered if I had really hurt her feelings.

  “So, what was funny… if it’s okay to ask?”

  “I just think Mr. Thurmon should maybe consider charging an extra quarter per cup of coffee with you serving them – just add a little shake,” I answered, and shook my chest with a quick jiggle. I know it was lame, but considering her history with her green evening gown, I went with something less memorable.

  The spotlight of eyes moved off of me when Suzette laughed, and joked, “As long as I don’t have to flash a boob!” We all laughed a little harder at that, and Ms. Potts’ eyes grew, her glasses falling to the end of her nose.

  “Well, mind you, please,” she started, “I sure ain’t jiggling or flashing nothing. Might hurt someone, or break a dish when my pups hit the counter!” she yelled over us, lifting her breasts in each hand. And we all broke out in a laugh that was loud and filled the diner.

  Even Mr. Thurmon gave in with a hearty fit of giggling. Though he tried to stifle the fit with a raise of his hand, he finally joined in until his face turned shades of purple with tears streaming down his round cheeks. When the laughs faded to a whimper, Suzette returned to her survey behind the counter.

  “So, can I have the job? Like Ms. Potts said, I’m always here, anyway. I can work the counter, and Gabby can work the floor.” Mr. Thurmon raised his brow to each of us, looking for an objection. When none was to be had, he extended his hand to Suzette, and welcomed her as part of the family. Suzette pulled his hand in with an eager tug, and moved around the register to hug every bit of him.

  “Okay, okay – just a job, no reason to get too worked up. Might find yourself hating it by the end of the night,” he joked, but with some sincerity in his words.

  “Might not have a job for too much longer, anyway – ain’t that right?” The lig
htness of the moment dimmed as Suzette pulled away from Mr. Thurmon. Ms. Potts stood again with her fists on her hips, stern eyes fixed on Mr. Thurmon.

  “Junior, how long before the suits buy our diner and tear her down? Why you want to let that happen?” she asked, and I realized it wasn’t just about the body in the floor behind her. Angela’s was her home, and it had been Mr. Thurmon’s, as well, for most of his life. Mr. Thurmon pushed one foot and then his other, and fell back onto the stool. He pressed his hand over the counter, and rubbed the top of it as his lip trembled.

  “This is hard. So hard. But I can’t be the owner, anymore. I can’t keep my family and my law practice, and be the owner of my mother’s restaurant.”

  “What if we run it – you know, you own it, and we run it?” I pushed in. He gave me a grateful glance, and then answered, “Because, I’d still be the owner. When the next Clark leaves and we can’t staff a shift behind the grill, then I’d be back behind the counter. When the next shipment from a supplier fails on a delivery, then I’d be back on the phone, asking what happened. Once you’re an owner, you’re always involved.”

  “But what if we kept that part of Angela’s out of your hands? Why not let us do that for you?” He considered what I said. For a second, I thought he would give the one line proposal some serious thought, but he didn’t.

  “I understand, Gabby, but it is easier this way. No responsibilities; I can just walk away.” And I could see and hear the relief in his words as he said that.

  “What about us, Junior? We’s family,” Ms. Potts jutted in, and then pulled a hand to her mouth. Mr. Thurmon’s face changed like it had before. In front of us, we saw Junior, young and innocent and sweet. His eyes filled and emptied as he got up and embraced Ms. Potts. The two hugged for a minute, consoling each other. When he pulled back, he was still Junior, and he walked back behind the counter, surveying like Suzette had eagerly done earlier.