An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 8

  When Suzette lifted her chin to look at us, a broken, thin voice escaped her lips, “I think my baby is dead,” was all she said, and then moved her eyes in a blank stare to the floor,

  Both Ms. Potts and I looked down. We didn’t see anything, except the blood from her arm. When Ms. Potts pulled up on Suzette’s emerald green dress, we saw that Suzette was standing in a tiny puddle of blood. Thin lines of bright red cut through the white of her long legs. A new line of blood ran from the insides of her thigh, and then covered the gemstones of her right shoe. Another line formed, and ran past my fingers. It covered the top of her other shoe, washing out more of the gemstones with her blood. We wasted no time. I yelled to Clark to call for an ambulance. Suzette saw the blood, too, and began to tremble all over. From her head to legs, she shook, and grabbed at her middle.

  “Girl’s in shock,” Ms. Potts said as we took hold of Suzette’s arms, expecting her to faint. But she didn’t.

  “My baby,” she murmured, and then began to scream. She continued to scream until the ambulance arrived. By then, Suzette lost any of the remaining strength she’d used to get to Angela’s Diner, and collapsed.

  A day later, we learned through some of our regulars that the official report from the hospital named a Suzette Wilkerson as having sustained injury after falling down a set of steps. Of her injuries, none were life-threatening. In addition, Suzette Wilkerson suffered a miscarriage; she was three months pregnant.

  Ms. Potts and I looked at each other, and considered what the report said. Could she have fallen? Certainly a fall down some steps could cause a miscarriage. But, if she had fallen, then why did she come to the diner? Why didn’t her husband rush her to the hospital? And her hair, what had happened to her hair? The debate lasted just a minute. We looked at each other. Although we didn’t know exactly (we’d learn that later), we knew her injuries were by the hand of her husband.

  We didn’t see Suzette again for almost a month. By then, she was well enough to stop in for coffee. A few injuries remained, some puffiness and scratches and bruises, but nothing we weren’t already familiar with. She pulled and pinned her hair over to one side in way that anyone who didn’t see her that night wouldn’t know that she was hiding a shallow patch of new hair trying to grow in. All of us greeted her at the door. Even Clark came around front and gave her a peck on the cheek, and a big hug. The three of us stood there with Suzette, and we circled around the same comments about leaving him that had been said a hundred times before. Suzette started nodding her head. She nodded, and then said I know, I know, at least a half dozen times. As we continued to spout more of the same, she finally hollered a stern I know, and then followed it with a quick smile. She was ready.

  Unlike other times, she didn’t defend her husband. She didn’t stick up for him, or justify what he’d done. If anything, she sounded cold, maybe callous. She was different. It was easy to understand why. Who wouldn’t understand that? She was different because the life she was carrying inside her for more than three months was gone. A new kind of pain was in her eyes. It was loss. She made a decision that night. She was ready.

  It was a fairy-tale evening. We were witnesses to the start of it, and to the end of it. Suzette and husband were the handsome couple at the party. It was a high-society invitation-only gathering of some of Philadelphia’s most influential people. Suzette’s husband, Jim, had been made partner at his law firm earlier that week. This was a celebration for him.

  The celebration with her husband felt fresh and new, like it had when they first met. Jim was a gentleman, attentive, touchy, and loving. He wanted to dance with his wife, and he told her how much he loved to hold her. The evening took Suzette back to when the two of them were first falling in love; when it was simple and easy, and when a kiss from him carried her heart for the evening, and sometimes into the next day. He showed a side of him that she remembered falling in love with. They were twenty stories up in the sky, looking out across the Philadelphia skyline, when he held her and told her he loved her. She wanted to get him home and into bed to make love to him all night, the way they used to.

  Driving home, she’d saved the biggest news of the evening for her husband. She waited until they were alone, when it could be more intimate, and so that they could remember the moment for the rest of their lives. They were driving down Frankford Avenue, and had just crossed over Pennypack Park. Suzette unbuckled her seat belt, leaned over the car’s center console, and whispered in his ear that she loved him. When he smiled, she leaned in closer, and pressed her lips against him with a kiss. She whispered that he was going to be a father. His smile disappeared. His expression went flat, and then his face erupted. He shoved the car’s brake pedal to the floor, throwing Suzette into the dashboard, and the windshield, which spidered a web of cracks that stretched and bulged.

  Dazed, Suzette pushed and pulled her body down, and fell back into the passenger seat. Her ears were ringing, and her vision blurred. She could make out her husband’s voice, and his screaming amidst the low hum stinging inside her head. He was screaming that she’d done this on purpose, that she’d gotten pregnant just when she knew he’d been made partner. But, of course, none of this was true. Suzette couldn’t have known about his promotion – not three months ago.

  “When he took hold of my hair, and pulled, I knew.”

  “Knew what?” Ms. Potts asked.

  “I knew it was over. I knew that I had to leave him. He pulled my head down, and punched, and kicked me!” she hollered, as tears filled her eyes and ran down her face. “I mean, who does that? Who punches their pregnant wife?” She’d told us almost everything, but reliving it was a lot for anyone. All of us stayed huddled at the counter as Suzette recounted what happened that night. Even Clark joined to listen.”

  “Ma-Ma’am, your hus-husband, he know where you are?”

  Suzette shook her head. She wiped at a tear in her eye, and shook her head again. “He thinks I am visiting my family out west. I told him that I needed time, and that I’d call when I call. He was so mad, he’s still mad, and trying to blame me…” she stopped as an errant sob caught her breath.

  “I wish I could smoke in here,” she revealed, and laughed. “Boy, that’d set him off.” Suzette then became very still, and narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what he did? That son-of-a-bitch, do you?” she spat out. “When I saw my hair in his hand, I knew he was going to hurt me some more. He was going to hurt my baby. Our baby. I knew it, and I knew I had to run. When he wasn’t looking, just for a second, I threw a punch and landed my hand on his face as best I could. I’m not strong, but I caught him off guard. I pulled up on the car’s door handle, but it was locked. I bloodied his nose. I bloodied it good, and thought that maybe it was broken. And then he got so loud, he was screaming at me, and spitting blood from his lips. When I got the door unlocked, I pushed and got the door open, and then got my feet under me, and… and he hit the gas. My hand was still on the door! The car pulled me straight up into the air,” her voice faded, and sounded breathy. Ms. Potts motioned for some water, and I eagerly set up a glass in front of Suzette.

  After she sipped at the glass, she nodded, and then continued, “And you want to know what I thought about when my body was flying through the air? I remember this as clear as this glass of water in my hands. I thought about having a husband that I’d give my life for, and for our new baby that I was carrying inside of me. I thought that our child was going to solve us, cure us, and finally make us whole. But, you know what? You can’t cure a man like that. You can’t cure someone who’s broken deep down. That’s what I thought about while I was flying through the air,” she stopped and thumbed the glass of water, pushing the sweat that beaded up on the outside.

  “I landed so hard on my shoulder… so hard. And my baby,” she paused, and reached down with her hand over her belly. “My baby landed so hard, too. I can still smell the tires, the burning rubber. He was racing away like a fucking coward,” she stopped talking, then and sat there wi
th the glass of water, as we did our best to console her. When we tried to offer some words to her, or food, or anything, Suzette waved them off, and only asked if she could sit with us for a while. She stayed with us the rest of our shift.

  9

  Now that I’d come to believe Jarod Patreu was interested in me, Thursdays had changed entirely. First, I found that I was going to the restroom and looking in the mirror a lot. Second, I caught myself sneaking peaks at my reflection in one of the toasters. The bent metal of the toaster played back a funny, warped face, smiling with huge eyes, a pinched nose, and monster lips. I blinked, and the face winked at me. I giggled at the image; it was comical, and I needed the laugh. And third, I was nervous. For the last year, I worked in the diner with Jarod, but didn’t see him: not like a girl would look at a boy. Apparently, he did see me, and my heart swelled at the thought as my palms went clammy.

  Could I be with a boy? Should I? I couldn’t help but wonder if my new fondness for Jarod was genuine, or if it was because Ms. Potts put the idea in my head. Ideas can sit and fester, and turn into something entirely new and different. I could be annoyed or mad at her, but I wasn’t. I found that I liked to think my affection for Jarod was more about me than anything else.

  I was just a teenager when I last looked at a boy in that way. Just a teenager when I last held a boy’s hand, or kissed a boy, or did anything with a boy, for that matter. After all this time, could I be with a boy? Or better yet, should I? The questions tugged at me like the April chill that was in the air. Bumping the thermostat’s cool setting over to warm, I cursed our loss of the recent stretch of toasty days. Yes, everything is temporary, but I still cursed the spring season setback. The questions bothering me, tugged and nagged some more, and left me wondering if there was a place in this world for me to love again. And whether I deserved to love again. I shook the chill off, and then pushed the questions out of my mind. For now, I decided, the questions weren’t for me to answer.

  As for Jarod, Ms. Potts didn’t think anything of it. She saw a young girl and boy, and let the game of matchmaking begin. But she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know about the Gabby that ran from Texas in the middle of the night, the one who ran when it was dark, when the only other things on the road were midnight truckers, and armadillos, and other runaways like me. And she dug. She knew there was more to me than just someone who’d ended up homeless and on the streets.

  Part of that is true, though, I did run from Texas. I did travel west, and then north, and then due east. And, during my travels, I met every kind of person under the sun. I walked during the days, and worked odd jobs, and ate whenever I could. And I slept on busses, and under bridges, and sometimes in public restrooms. I slept wherever I found I could lay my head without being beaten, robbed, or raped.

  Grabbing a cup and pouring myself some coffee, the cold touch of the ceramic turned warm while I stared into the blackness steaming between my hands. A memory bubble surfaced, like watching someone through a window. I was living in California, and staying in a mobile home that was not so mobile at all. An old shell, a large trailer had been abandoned and left to rust away in a field. A small band of us called it home, and resurrected it, or, at best, we kept it from getting any worse.

  I lived with a group of other kids, most of them had run from something, too. There was a code amongst us: don’t ask, don’t tell. And we never did. The trailer we lived in was under the name of someone who’d died a year earlier. As long as we handed over some dollars to the property manager, nobody seemed to care. Nobody ever cared. Nobody asked questions, and nobody came knocking on the screen door.

  For a trailer, it wasn’t bad – we made a home. Nothing fancy. The screen door was rusted in spots, and hung from one hinge. It made a terrible metal-on-metal clacking sound when you let it go too soon, but it worked, and kept the outside from the inside. The trailer had old wood paneling for the walls that the kids posted pictures up on, or taped up drawings (some cheerful, some not) and, on occasion, I’d even read a poem from a loose page tacked up. Where we stayed and slept was just the one main room – most of the trailer’s walls and kitchen stuff had been taken or stolen. We attached a laundry cord near the ceiling and ran it from wall to wall, hanging sheets in a simple attempt to create some privacy for ourselves.

  I liked it. I maybe even loved it. At night, I’d go in my own little sheeted cocoon, ball myself up in my sleeping bag, and listen to the life going on outside the thin walls of the trailer. And, sometimes, I’d listen to the life on the inside of the trailer. I’d hear a few of the other kids whispering to one another, or hooking up, the way kids do. But sometimes I’d hear crying. The kind that you try to hold back, but can’t; the kind that stops, as if taking a rest, and then gets going again. The next morning, when pulling our sheeted walls down, we never asked who was crying. We never wanted to. We just went on with our day. Don’t ask, don’t tell. It didn’t bother me, especially on mornings when my eyes were still red and sore, and my pillow damp.

  Most of us worked as part of a picking crew for the handful of vineyards in the area. To look at a bottle of wine back then, I would never have guessed just how important it was to properly cut the grapes from the vine. A boy named Steve showed me how to do it. I don’t recall his last name, but that’s not important now. We worked and lived together for a month, and I’d gotten to know him, maybe even liked him a little. He was a cute guy with sandy hair and a dimpled chin. His eyes were sea-green, and I remember him liking to smile a lot. Or maybe he was just smiling when I was around; sometimes it’s nice to think that way.

  The vines holding the cluster of grapes had a rough feel, and getting used to the shears felt awkward. One slip, and I was sure to cut more than just the grapes. Slow was good. I’d already cut a few grape clusters, and was working on another, when a man came running from between the vines. He was stout, and was wearing an orange vest. He had these tiny bean-shaped eyes that were set all the way back in his head. He was yelling something at me, and I dropped my arms. When he reached me, his round puffy face jiggled while he hollered some more. He took the grape clusters I’d cut out of my hand, and threw them to the ground.

  He started darting his tiny bean eyes between the clusters on the ground, me, and the shears in my hand. And when his puffy face began to jiggle again while he shouted, I remember thinking that I was going to laugh. Just burst out laughing. And I think I sort of did laugh a little, but I stuffed it in a mock cough. He scolded another minute, or more, and I tried to apologize, but I think he just liked yelling. Finally, I grabbed another cluster of grapes and began to cut.

  Steve approached me from behind, and wrapped his arms around me. I was startled at first, but then felt comfortable. I could feel his heart on my back, and his breath on my neck. He was close. He cupped my hands in his, and with the shears in one hand, we held a cluster of grapes in the other.

  “Gentle,” he said, and then he showed me how to cut the stem. I liked that his hands were big, and covered mine. They felt strong. Safe. I leaned my body into his, and pulled his arms closer around me as we picked up another cluster of grapes.

  “Like this?” I asked, and he breathed a soft reply in my ear,

  “Yes, like that.” By the third cluster of grapes, puffy face had moved on to yell at someone else, leaving me and Steve to work the row of vines alone. I didn’t mind.

  That night when we’d all gone to bed, Steve climbed into my sleeping bag. Was I surprised? Maybe a little. But I think I wanted to be with him, and certainly my body was telling me to. I remember how good everything felt. He held me and moved his hands, touching me, as he kissed my neck and my mouth. We helped each other pull our clothes off, and kicked them to the bottom of my sleeping bag. My body was wrapped in his, sweating and heaving, and then it happened. Memories of Texas, and why I had to leave stole the moment from us. I had to push him away. I told him I was sorry. I told him that I couldn’t be with him. Steve was a good guy, a gentleman. He didn’t call me a prud
e or a tease. Instead, he kissed my cheek and said that he liked me – that he cared for me, and that he could wait. I kissed him then: a good, hard kiss with regret on my lips. That was the last time I ever saw him.

  The next morning, before the day stirred everyone awake, I was back on the road. I’d bundled and packed my things after Steve left my sleeping bag, and waited until I could see the first light reaching up from behind the mountains. I didn’t wait until I could see the sun; I only waited for the darkest of the night to start lifting. Leaving the trailer, I remember the cold hitting my face. With a cloudy breath whispered from my mouth, and only a thin jacket to cover me, the first miles were going to be cold. By then, I’d learned to cope with the weather; warm or cold, you wore what you had on you, because that was all you carried. There was no going back inside to change, or to pick up a sweater, or thicker socks and a heavier coat.

  Walking that first mile, I was on a road that was just two lanes. I could see the outline of mountains to the left of me: ominous figures that stayed fixed in the horizon, and would scare me if I let them. Sometimes it was the moon that did it, too. On my right, I could hear the wind rushing over the long grassy fields of the farms and the vineyards. An owl startled me when it screeched a call over my shoulder, and picked something off the road in front of me. When the moon was highest in the sky, the smaller animals liked the warm blacktop of the road. The sun baked the asphalt during the day, and it stayed warm through the night, feeling tepid to the touch by morning.

  When the first rays of the sun were a sliver in the horizon, I’d already walked a few miles. It wasn’t my first sunrise walk. Might have been my fourth or fifth. It’s easy to leave early in the morning. Leaving at night only invites the people you are staying with to try and stop you. Everyone is awake, half of them baked on something, or drunk on something else. But, in the morning, nobody wants to know, or cares to know. Even when they hear you rummaging around, or hear a door open, they might ask what you’re doing – you only have to tell them to go back to bed, and they always do.