An Order of Coffee and Tears Read online

  “What do you want?” The words just spilled out of my mouth. It was all I could think to ask. He cupped his hands around his coffee, and placed it on the table.

  “Look at you, Donut, look at how grown up you are,” he said in a lilting Texas accent. The sound of his voice and the sound of home in his words touched my heart with a guttural volley of emotions. My tongue had lost the sound of Texas some time ago during my journeys across the country. It may have been the travels on the back roads of Colorado, or the rain-soaked walks in Seattle. And, like everything else from Texas, I buried the memory of it.

  “What do you want?” I repeated, and then scolded, “My name is Gabby! Just Gabby!” He winced when I said that. But could he have expected anything different? Should he have expected anything different? In my heart, Donut died in a motel room ten years earlier. I buried Donut and my baby, and the bloodied motel towels. I buried them in a field behind the motel, five miles north of the Texas border. The winds whipped tall grasses around my body while I cried and dug with my fingers. I clawed at the hard dirt and stone until the hole was deep enough, and then put the towels in the ground. I remember staring into the hole, staring at the towels and the blood. Donut laid in the ground, too, and I covered them up. I stayed on the ground next to them until the fading stars and reaching sunlight told me it was time to go; to leave this place and never come back. I told myself that Donut died so she could watch over my baby. She stayed there, and I never saw her again. Fury was what I felt next, and I thought I might pick up the hot coffee from the table and throw it in his face.

  “I hated you. Did you know that?” I yelled, and didn’t care if the few in the diner heard me. My Daddy winced again, and raised his fingers to try to say something. I wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t listen. He put his hand down and said nothing. Words tripped on my tongue as I tried to say something mean and hateful. Rage stole my voice. Thousands of confused words raced around my head. They felt like hurtful bees, stinging my mind and feeding on my fury, spewing sour honey.

  “Gabby, I am so sorry. I see that day at the demonstration in my head all the time, and wish I could do it over again. I wish I could have acted like your father, and not like that man you saw. I’m not that man anymore; haven’t been since the day you disappeared.” He explained, but then his expression changed. “Where did you go? How could you disappear? We thought you –” he stopped to catch a shaky breath. “Your momma and I thought you were dead. How could you let us think that? How?” More bee stings followed, and the sour honey poured into my mouth. I wanted to hurt him, but then I considered what he’d said, and thought of my momma. And then I heard Detective Ramiz’s voice. Be civil to your parents. Be civil.

  “You don’t get to ask me that. You never get to ask me that!” I spat at him.

  “But… but Gabby, your momma and I spent years looking. How could you let that happen?” Shock staved off the bee stings, as I realized my Daddy was angry, too. His Donut disappeared, and they thought she was dead. He might’ve even hated me for disappearing. But didn’t I want him to think that? Did I care what he thought?

  My emotions twisted into a knot, and turned my insides. I sought out the faces of my family, Ms. Potts and Suzette. Their eyes were welcoming when they found mine. Suzette blinked an “I love you” while Ms. Potts nodded, and brought us over some more coffee. She didn’t say a word, just poured the coffee, and rested her hand on my shoulder before returning to the counter. The warm touch of her hand settled me and gave me strength.

  “I had to leave – and I never wanted to see you or anyone from home, again.”

  “Your friend Jessica told us everything. We saw her days after you disappeared. She told us that you didn’t go through with it. She said that you changed your mind and that the two of you were trying to leave, when…” he stopped then, and I thought it was because of my expression.

  “Go ahead and finish it – say what happened next! I want to hear you say it!”

  “… when you two were confronted by the demonstration,” he finished in a breath that was choked and tortured.

  “They killed my baby, Daddy, they did it! Did you know that, too?” I screamed at him, and the swarm of bees stung me as the pain and hate poured from my eyes. The brief stoic expression my Daddy held disappeared in that moment, as he took in the realization of what had happened.

  “No, no, no,” he mumbled, and shook his head. He fell apart and cried. We both cried, and, before I could stop it from happening, I reached for him. I reached for him like I did that day at the medical center, and this time he reached back. I hated myself for doing it, but I needed my Daddy. I fell into him and held him, and let myself love him.

  The moment was brief, and when he was sitting across from me again, I told him, “This doesn’t change anything. I left home – had to leave home, and won’t be going back.”

  “Tom Grudin was looking, too,” he started to say, and the image of Tommy came to mind. “He never knew about what happened.”

  “Is that how you found me? Tommy’s parents?” I asked. A dull ache touched my heart when I saw images of Tommy and the baby chick. My father nodded, and added,

  “His mother stopped in to tell us about her son and her trip to Delaware. She told us she didn’t recognize you. I never knew you and Tom Grudin were close. Not a couple, anyway.”

  “Only one – ,” I told him, then breathed, “Just once.”

  “I was sorry to hear he died. He was a hero, saved some lives, his mother told us.”

  “Did you and Momma go to the service?” I’m not sure why I asked him that, but it seemed right for one of us to be there. I felt a pang of guilt thinking about Tommy. My Daddy nodded.

  “You said you hated me. Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

  I considered his question. Ten years had passed, and every day since made the next day a little easier. I told myself I stayed away because I hated him, but wondered if I stayed away because it just got easier than thinking about going back.

  “I don’t think I ever hated you, I hated who you were that day. But you’re my Daddy…” And then I couldn’t finish what I wanted to say. The emotions of it all knotted my insides until my words were gone again. He reached across the table, took my hands, and finished for me.

  “Maybe we can be okay again one day. I know that isn’t today, and don’t know when that might be. I just couldn’t live with you hating me. I love you, Gabby. You’re my daughter, and there is nothing you can do that will ever change that.”

  At some point, I think we both realized what had happened that day at the center. What had changed who we were, who we all were, wasn’t something we could make better in a conversation. After all, how do you fix, in a few words, something so terrible? I suppose the only thing he could do next was to tell me he loved me. And he did.

  17

  Hours disappeared, but it seemed only minutes since my Daddy left Angela’s Diner. He went back to his hotel. Before leaving, he insisted that we meet for a lunch the next day, where we could talk some more. The emotional drain of seeing him and reliving some of what I’d buried took its toll. My lungs didn’t want to fill – I couldn’t catch my breath, and my legs and arms were heavy and clumsy. Exhaustion is a funny thing when it is in your head. It’s even funnier when your brain turns to a mass of oatmeal without rhyme or reason to the thoughts being produced. That’s how I felt, and no amount of coffee seemed to shake the tired out of me.

  Jarod stayed around. He was a week behind on his work schedule, and decided that he would like to take me up on the quick meal I offered. I was happy he had to work late; I was happier that he worked in the back while my Daddy was here. But what I liked most was when Jarod asked if I was going to sit with him for a while. I’d brought him some coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich with fries, and, as I walked away from his table, he reached out and took my arm. I felt gentle kisses of his fingers on my skin, and then I felt them drape over my hand. My heart fluttered, and I told him I
’d be right back.

  “Sit, Gabby – I’ve got your food, and have things covered,” Suzette chimed from behind the counter. She was joined by Ms. Potts, and the two of them stood, huddled up like spectators. I threw a stern glance at them, and they hurried to move like bugs in the dark when the lights come on. A moment later, and Ms. Potts was showing Suzette how to drain the ketchup bottles. Ketchup, for the most part, drains itself – all we do is stand up the bottles. The two of them continued to watch and talk the way I would have done with Ms. Potts. I tried not to laugh, but could feel my cheeks pushing up against my will.

  My smile stayed; I could feel it fixed on my cheeks as I sat across from Jarod. I couldn’t stop smiling, it was almost funny. Suzette brought over my sandwich and some coffee. She planted a wink of her eye, and giggled a school girl laugh before saying hello to Jarod, and asking him if there was anything else he needed.

  “Just a drop more of coffee – thanks,” he answered politely. I liked the sound of his voice. I know that might seem strange, but it was true. Suzette leaned in to pour his coffee. Images of her wearing the beautiful green evening gown came to mind, and that frumpy feeling found me again. I tried to push a smile, but it was forced, and I felt uncomfortable. What I saw next made my heart swell. Jarod didn’t look at Suzette. He didn’t look at her like the other men in the diner. When she poured his coffee, his eyes didn’t fall past the opening in her shirt. When she smiled at him and walked away, his eyes didn’t follow. He didn’t see Suzette; not like that.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said, breaking my gaze. I nodded, and he asked, “Would you want to maybe go out with me sometime? I mean, on a date, with dinner and a movie.” Jarod fixed his eyes on me again, his lips pursed with an expression that was both sincere and vulnerable. I tried to swallow, but felt my heart in my throat as my skin turned warm around my neck.

  “Gabby?” he asked, and his expression began to change to one of embarrassment. Had I waited too long? I was quick to raise my hand to tell him to give me a second. I’d just been asked out on a date – a real date. Grabbing for my coffee, I felt nervous and giddy at the same time.

  “I’d love to,” I gushed, and felt my smile stretch from ear to ear. I didn’t hold it back, or push it away in an attempt to look less interested. The embarrassment that was settling on his face disappeared as he sighed into a full smile.

  The bell above the door sounded. Habits are habits, and the sound pulled my eyes up away from Jarod. Detective Ramiz walked in, and brought with him the smell of a cold spring night with storms resting for the evening. He shook off the remains of the day, and plodded toward a seat at the booth next to mine.

  “Well, Miss Gabby, nice to see you again,” Detective Ramiz began, and tilted his fedora. “And, I believe, this is Jarod – the diner’s handyman. In fact, the handyman for the entire block. Sir, my name is Detective Ramiz,” he ended with an outstretched hand. Jarod shook his hand, but said nothing – offering only a short nod before turning back to face me.

  The glassy sound of something rolling interrupted as a ketchup bottle fell over onto the counter. Ms. Potts grabbed the bottle before it left the edge of the counter.

  “You have some more business here this evening?” She asked. The detective bared his nubby teeth, and hissed a wheezy laugh before answering.

  “Why do I have that reaction with people?” Whether he meant it to sound funny or not, nobody answered.

  Waiting for a reply, the detective finally resigned, and took a seat in the adjoining booth. Sitting, he wheezed a few laughs into a napkin. And, as before, when he was done, he opened the linen to reveal the squashed butterfly remains of phlegm and blood. He was getting worse. Did his color look grayer since the last time I saw him? I think it might have.

  “Ms. Potts, no need to fret – this visit is purely a self-serving one. I’m here for a late supper. Nothing more,” he answered, and plunked the napkin in front of him, while collapsing his body to rest against the back of the booth. The detective was dying. Thoughts of the diner’s secret crossed my mind, and a small feeling of hope rested in me. I shook the thoughts away, and felt guilty for thinking such things.

  “Then we b-best get you a m-meal so that you can be on your way,” I heard from the counter. And then I heard Ms. Potts squeal, and saw her drop everything in her hands to run to Clark. Coming in from the back, his book in his hands, Clark stood at the opening, his large frame a familiar silhouette. I could make out his smile. As I stood up, I took Jarod’s hand in mine, and moved next to him. His eyes filled with surprise, and he eagerly moved so that I could sit next to him.

  “Jarod, I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a while… just didn’t know how to say it, or show it,” I stammered, trying to rush my words. He raised a brow, his lips turned up in a grin, and then my hands were on his face, and I kissed him. It was a good kiss – his lips felt velvety soft and supple. I was glad I kissed him, especially when he began to kiss me back. The kiss lasted longer than I thought it would. And I loved that it did.

  When I pulled away, I went back for another short peck, and then told him, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a long time. I have to go and see Clark. And, yes! Yes, I would love to go out to dinner and a movie with you,” I beamed, and then ran off to the back room.

  Clark settled back in behind the grill, and, while he griped about how unkempt and filthy Ms. Potts left his work area, we were just happy to hear his voice.

  “Took me a small vacation,” he began, and shouldered a spatula onto the metal of the grill to scrape away the remains of Ms. Potts’ cooking. “Took me a p-pilgrimage, of sorts. Went to see an old friend.”

  “The list!” I blurted, and he stopped scraping the grill long enough to lift his chin and smile at me. He waved his spatula toward me.

  “You were l-listening.”

  “I listened to all of it. Was your friend still there?” I asked, and heard the bell ring out from the front. Suzette pressed a hand on my arm, and said she’d get it. Ms. Potts seemed to hear nothing as her eyes were moist, and stayed fixed on Clark. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or relief, or a combination of the two that was stewing in her eyes.

  “He was there. Old n-now… very old,” Clark paused, and straightened his shoulders and continued, “Ma’am… told him I d-done something. Told him I’d done something that made me want to run. I told him I was running, and that I’d never go back, ‘cause I was afraid.” I heard shame in his voice. He did plan to run. He was scared, and he ran.

  Ms. Potts’ eyes widened, but only for a moment. “You stop any worrying. Whatever happens is gonna happen. No stopping it, now. I’m gonna tell 'em I killed my husband. Should’ve told the detective that a long time ago, and freed you of the burden. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  “It’s okay, Ma’am, I think it’s g-gonna be okay,” Clark said to Ms. Potts, and then turned to me, and added, “Old man laughed when I told him I still had my list. He laughed c-‘cause I never read it or throw it out. ‘It’s j-just a list. Read it, and throw it away,’ he told me. When I feel the n-need, I can start over. We can always start over,” Clark finished, and, as he looked at us, I saw a young man in his eyes. I knew that he would be okay, no matter what happened.

  The first scream sounded like something from a movie, and the three of us lifted our eyes, uncertain of what we had heard. I heard Suzette’s voice in the second scream, and my heart dropped when I realized the voice of the man screaming was her husband. My feet were clumsy and heavy again as I pushed to run to the front. Fear weighed on my legs, and I grabbed my arm where Suzette’s husband had held me down. The flower-petals had wilted and gone away, but their memory stayed deep, like the memories I’d tried to bury.

  James Wilkerson stood near the center of the diner with a knife in one hand, and Suzette in the other. A spilled cup of coffee lay on the counter where Suzette liked to sit, leaving me to wonder how it was that James approached her and took hold of her. Her face was a mess of tears and st
eaks of blood. The blood fell over her eyes in long narrow streams, while her husband held her up by the back of her neck. Her feet dangled beneath her – the toes of her shoes skipping over the floor while she struggled to fend off the pain of being suspended.

  Suzette’s husband was powerful. He was stronger than anything I could imagine. I saw no evidence of struggle in his eyes as he held his wife above the floor. His powerful hands gripped tightly, his fingers wrapping around her neck, and an awful thought came to mind: he could snap her neck if he wanted to. He was much stronger than I ever thought a man could be. And I wondered how it was Suzette could have survived his attacks all these years.

  The sound of Suzette’s feet skipping against the floor chirped and screeched amidst the cry of another scream. James towered over Suzette, and, except for Clark, he towered over all of us. His clenched fingers glowed white as he held her up in the air, dangling like a rag doll. Dark spots of red stood out amidst broken skin on his fist, and I guessed it to be the bloody remains from Suzette’s mouth, where he punched her. The side of her face was on fire with a raised lump that crested in purple marks. A tooth and pool of spit and blood puddled on the floor next to the stool. Suzette screamed again. The sound was terrifying, and I heard Ms. Potts begin to beg and plead and cry. And then I heard her praying. She prayed to Suzette’s husband, as if she were in church and seeking answers to make things right.

  “I said, put her down!” Detective Ramiz demanded from the booth where he stood, his hand on his revolver, sitting in the holster on his hip.

  “What are you going to do, old man?” James shot back. His words were mangled and slurred. I didn’t see it at first – I only saw Suzette and what was happening to her, but James had been drinking. On the floor, a bottle of whiskey lay on its side, open and dripping. The bottle had been kicked and left under a stool at the counter. The picture of what might have happened became clearer, but that didn’t matter. James put the knife behind one of Suzette’s ears, and pushed the blade forward. Blood sprayed onto the floor as the knife passed through the back of her ear. She screamed a murderous sound, and my heart pressed against my chest while I grabbed and pulled on Clark’s arm.