An Order of Coffee and Tears Read online

  I liked leaving before the sun came up. It was somewhat symbolic, I thought – a kind of rebirth. In my travels, I learned that the sun doesn’t come up like it does on cartoons. There is no funny pop sound as a glowing yellow orb vaults into the sky with a little bounce. Instead, a deep red light bends around the horizon, and reaches into the fields and mountains. As the sun rises, enough of the deep red turns orange and yellow, as the light begins to replace the dark sky. I love the watching the colors change, and sometimes sit on the warm blacktop and stare into the sky. The stars begin to fade, along with the blackest of black. Eventually, there is enough light that you can see your hands and feet, and make out the details of the mountains. When my timing was good for a symbolic rebirth, I could walk a full hour before finally seeing the light turn golden and sharp, and, best of all, my favorite thing: warm.

  Texas. There was no wishing that away. There never could be. What’s done was done, and I’d moved on. Shaking my head, I pushed memories of home out of my mind. I forced myself to think about Jarod, and felt my cheeks warm. My eyes wandered to the old clock on the wall, where the hour hand approached the number four; only, it was spelled out in the letters. He’d be showing up soon to do his run around the diner, fixing what was broken. He never had to stay for more than an hour or two. And when he did have to stay, he would sometimes come back and finish the next day. A thought crossed my mind… maybe I’d break something that would bring him back tomorrow. I wanted to be closer to him, and see if there was more to this than just Ms. Potts’ imagination.

  Walking around the counter toward the back, I glanced around the diner, and considered my idea. It was farfetched, and I laughed at the silliness of it, but it wasn’t a bad one.

  “Help you, G-Gabby?” Clark asked. I flinched, and spun in the direction of his voice. He was quick to raise an apologetic hand, and chuckled, “D-didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s okay, should’ve been paying attention. What do you have, there?”

  Clark was resting on his cot, his back against the wall, a blue book in his hands. I’d seen him with the book before. Many times. In fact, it was the only book I think I’d ever seen him reading. The corners of the pages were turned up and out – worn down to mere feathered remains of the paper. The book’s binder was creased, and the blue color emptied from it, exposing some of the amber-colored glue, and yellowing threads that held his book together. I tried to read the title, but that, too, had been aged, or rubbed away. I wondered how many times he’d read the book, or leafed through the pages? A quick look around the table, and his cot, and the shallow wall shelf above him: there was just the one book with blue covers, and worn pages.

  “J-just reading. Did the b-bell ring? My hearing might be off. Happens sometimes,” he asked, and motioned a hand to his ear.

  “No, I was just wandering and waiting,” I began, and peered out to the front to take a count of tables. “Ms. Potts has just the one table, but they look to be finishing. It’s okay; probably won’t see anything for another half hour. So, what’s your book about?”

  “You was j-just waiting,” he looked at me with a smile, “I know it’s Th-Thursday. J-Jarod been crushin' on you.” A sudden rush of warmness filled under my collar as I waved off his teasing. Was I the only one who didn’t notice this about Jarod? To help push away the embarrassment, I asked again about his book.

  “Tell me what you’re reading. I’ve seen it before.” A moment passed, and the smile on Clark’s face changed. He leaned the back of his head against the wall, and put his hand atop the book, and closed his eyes. At first, I thought he’d fallen asleep. Crazy as that may sound, you come to expect crazy sometimes, when working in a diner. I pushed the thought out when I saw his lips moving. He was saying a small prayer. I couldn’t hear it, but that is what I think he was doing.

  When he opened his eyes, he glanced at me, and then back to the book. Then he began to speak, and it was different. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, but it was different. His stutter was gone, or almost gone.

  “First half of this book is about someone I knew a long, long time ago. A sad story – a painful story. So much hurt and despair. It’s a wonder they were able to survive it. The second half of the book shows how they recovered, a g-guidance to living, you might call it. Gabby , this book saved my life. Spent a lot of my early years in and out of trouble. Ended up doing some time, locked up with more of my kind. I was a mad and hateful person.”

  “Is this what the detective was talking about?” I asked, then wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want to push, especially when he was sharing. Clark raised a hand, and I understood.

  “When I was holed up in prison, full of hate, and spite, and wanting everyone t-to feel the same, I done some bad things a man shouldn’t do. But I liked feeling that way. It was like wearing a favorite coat. The hate gets on you like a skin, and you carry it with you, with very breath. I thought it was n-normal. But it wasn’t. I was a broken man. You understand?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. I nodded. I didn’t understand all of it, but I understood enough. “Gabby, I was the kind of guy you wanted to stay away from. The kind you crossed to the other side of the street when you saw me coming. Shit, I’d trip your grandmother if I thought she’d spill a dime bag. And, if nothing spill, then maybe I’d beat on her, and take what I wanted.” He stopped, and I suppose maybe my expression gave him reason to pause. The person in front of me wasn’t the man he was describing. Not our Clark. And I couldn’t understand how he ever could have been that person. Or maybe I didn’t want to understand.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized, and nodded for him to continue.

  “You sure?” he questioned, and raised his brow. I nodded again.

  “Please.”

  “Six months I spent turning my cell block inside and out, running schemes to help get a fix. I did things I ain’t never gonna be able to take back. And then a man come up to me in the yard one day, and asked if I was ready. Just like that, asked if I was ready. I braced for a fight, a shiv to my belly, something. When nothing happened, he asked if I was tired of being me. And if I was ready to change. Till that day, I didn’t know you could change. Thought n-never crossed my mind. So, I told him sure. Be honest, thought he was holding something – thought he’d be offering it up; a quick fix I could take to pass another couple of hours. He told me to write a list. He said to write down everything I’d done, everything I hated, and everything bad that’d been done to me. And when I was done writing, to bring the list to him.

  You ever try and write a history like that? I didn’t get it done that night, or the night after. A few weeks it took before I had what he was asking for. But I did it, and I gave it to him. That was the last I’d seen him in near a month.”

  “Did he work for the warden?” I felt suspicious for Clark, and wondered if there was something more to the list. Clark’s eyes widened as he nodded.

  “Th-that is what I thought. After a month, I was fixing to hurt him. Hurt him for holding what I’d written down. And when another week went by, I’d decided I was going to go after him. Was going to hurt him bad first, and then stick him. Man come to me a day later, grinning ear to ear. He gave me back my list, folded, same way I gave it to him. He told me he never looked at it – said he didn’t need to, he’d seen his own once, and didn’t expect much different. He gave it back, and said I needed to take it, to keep it. And he said that, when I was ready, I was to read it. I thought he was practicing some kind of voodoo shit, you see all kinds of weirdness inside them walls.

  That night, I pulled my list from my pocket, and opened it slow-like. Had me just enough light to see my scribbles. I was expecting something to drop out, maybe some reefer rolled up in ass paper, or a stamp with the goofy glue on the back. There wasn’t anything in my paper – nothing but my pencil scratches. Had just a thin reach of light peeking into my cell, not enough to read by, though.

  This is the part I’ll never forget. A moonlight finger come in from somewhere
up the cell block. It crept across that cold floor of my cell, and then up the cell’s wall, and onto my paper. The light landed on the very first thing I’d written down. Later, I come to know that it was God’s finger pointing the way for me to see. And, by moonlight, I read my list, but had to stop halfway. It was too much for me to see all at one time. I cried that night. Was the first time in my miserable life I cried.”

  “Is that the list?” I asked, pointing to the folded paper sticking out of the book. He lifted the book, and rested his hand back on the cover. Touching the paper, he answered,

  “Yes. That’s it. I ain’t never read it again. Not since that night.”

  “But, why?”

  “I keep the list to remind me who I used to be. Time ain’t on my side – not up here in Clarksville,” he said, tapping his fingers against his head. “Time for me erases everything. Without something to remind me, I’ll forget. Can’t afford to forget. And I don’t ever want to be that person again. After that night, I went to that man, and asked him what he’d done. Man just looked at me with his silly grin again, and asked if I’d read my list. I told him I had, but that I had to stop. He put his hand on my arm, all gentle-like, and told me to meet him later. That afternoon, he gave me this book. He said you ain’t never have to feel the way you’re feeling. Not ever again. I read this book at l-least once a year.”

  Questions about the detective and what happened with Ms. Potts were popping up in my head, and I wanted to ask. Even though this was Clark, I still felt nervous. Anxious.

  “Did going to prison have anything to do with Ms. Potts? Or Detective Ramiz?” When I asked, Clark didn’t say a word. He stood in silence, and put his book back on the shelf. The sound of the book sliding into place seemed to last forever.

  Finally, he said, “W-was sharing something with you, Gabby, was all I wanted to do. B-but, I can’t share nothing about that,” he answered with a look of disappointment. I’d hurt his feelings. Clark opened up to share something so very personal, and instead of listening to him, I went digging, like Ms. Potts had done with me. The nervous rattle inside kicked, and grew into guilt. I know what it is like being on the other side of questions. Questions that you don’t want to answer. There is a time to ask, and a time to listen, I heard in my head.

  “Clark – I’m sorry. I am,” I breathed with guilt pressing on my words. He moved, and took a step forward, and I put my hand on his arm. I expected he might push past me, but he didn’t.

  “Gabby, I wanted t-to share with you with a hope th-that one day, you might share with us. Your family.”

  “I just wanted to know about Detective Ramiz, and what his interest is in you and Ms. Potts.” He sighed, and gestured a brief no.

  “C-Can’t share that with you,” he repeated, and then went to the front.

  10

  Regret and guilt can be a lethal combination. As I stood by Clark’s cot and glimpsed his old book on the shelf, I wanted to kick myself for having opened my mouth. Had I just waited, even for a few minutes, then there would have been time enough to ask what I wanted answered. But I didn’t. I sometimes did that; I interrupted conversations, and pushed what was sitting on my tongue and pressing on my lips. And, while I didn’t always interrupt, I found that I almost always regretted it when I did.

  I heard the bell sound its metal chime from the front, and, before leaving Clark’s nook, I heard it ring a second time. One of them belonged to Jarod, I was sure of it. My heart leapt, and worry took my breath as I realized I couldn’t do another check. No running to the restroom to check my hair, or finding a toaster to see if I had anything between my teeth. A quick glance around Clark’s nook, and I discovered he didn’t keep a mirror. Not a one. Was that odd? I considered it for a second, and then saw the empty screen of his TV staring up at me. That would work.

  The little white box sat precariously on a makeshift table: a turned-up vegetable crate with ashen gray colors showing the wood’s age. The screen was dark, and the face reflecting in the glass was more a silhouette than someone I recognized. But, in the dim gray screen, I could still make out enough of my teeth and my hair, and felt better about the reflection after tucking away a stray lock behind my ear.

  My heart bumped again, and I hesitated. What if this feeling was just Ms. Potts putting a bug in me? What if I was growing her idea and feeding on an imaginary crush that really didn’t exist? I dismissed the thoughts, and straightened my outfit. Real feelings or not, I didn’t think I cared – this was fun.

  An air of tension was immediate as I walked to the front of the diner. I felt the grin I’d rehearsed with the RCA’s reflection disappear. Two booths were occupied, and a few folks were seated at the counter and getting their first sips of coffee. The inside of our diner felt electric. It was filled with the static air of a storm that rumbled threats and echoed warnings. I thought at any minute lightning would strike down on someone if they moved suddenly, or spoke up too loud.

  Somebody called my name, and, when I looked, I saw Suzette at the counter. Nearly healed of all injuries, she looked beautiful; a healthy beautiful. Maybe too beautiful. A twinge of jealousy fueled that last thought. Her cheeks were fuller, and flush with color. The dark circles that hung under her eyes were gone completely; their absence forgave five years in her age. And her hair: no more torn patches from her skull to hide – it was a new style for her, and it looked trendy and sexy. It was a new Suzette – maybe she really did leave her husband.

  Another jealous pang grumbled in me as I sought out the owner of the second ring of the bell. I loved Suzette, but didn’t want to be next to her when Jarod saw me. Instinctively, I groped at the front of my outfit and pulled out any bunching, smoothing as much as I could. As a waitress, there wasn’t exactly anything appealing or elegant with what I wore. No sexy outfits. No cleavage to show off, or to help as an attention grabber. And Suzette was the type that could wear anything and still look as though she were modeling it. I felt frumpy again as I grabbed the sides of my outfit and pulled there, too. I hated that feeling.

  “Miss Gabriella Santiago,” a thick and stony voice sounded from a corner booth. “That is your full name, isn’t it?”

  A confused look filled Suzette’s eyes, replacing the excited smile on her face. I am sure the same look must have been planted on mine, and, in my next breath, all thoughts of Jarod were forgotten.

  “Miss Gabriella Santiago from the little town of Fairview, Texas. Disappeared, it says here – disappeared from her home approximately ten years ago. But, what’s this? No missing persons report? So, can it be assumed that you left Texas? And why is that, Miss Gabriella Santiago? A runaway? Come on! You look too smart for that. Certainly you would not have considered such a cowardly act.” The reciting of my history was cut short when the detective threw his hands over his mouth to catch an explosion of coughs. He grabbed up one of the napkins and coughed a mess of phlegm into it. As he wiped his lips, his shoulders shuddered with another turn of coughs. He coughed again until his body fell forward, his hand keeping his balance on the table top. I thought he was going to pass out. I thought for sure we’d see him face down on the table.

  A young couple and child in one booth, and the Keep on Truckin´ guy at the counter looked up and waited. Nobody offered to help. They waited. These were my regulars. They were Ms. Potts’ regulars, too, and the detective had already set a tone. What a way to live; a life where your minutes and hours and days pass with the speculation and accusation of others, filling everyone around you with worry and trepidation.

  When the eruption of coughs slowed, I approached the detective and brought another setup along with a clean napkin. Red rivers and creeks forked paths across the whites of his eyes with agitated tears brimming, and then falling onto his cheeks. He pulled the napkin back from his mouth, and asked for some water. There was blood in the linen. He wasn’t just coughing up the years of smoking his body was rejecting; there was damage he was paying for.

  “So, what is it? What did you ru
n away from in Texas? Was the state not big enough for you?” he joked, and coughed, and then laughed louder while searching for another laugh to join in with his. But nobody said a word.

  “Why don’t you leave her be?” Ms. Potts scolded. The detective turned his head, the curl on his lips gone, and warned her with a narrowed stab of his eyes. When he was certain Ms. Potts was silenced, he turned back and continued,

  “She’s a big girl. Miss Gabriella Santiago can answer on her terms. Isn’t that right?” I answered a quick yes to him, as I placed the glass of water on the table.

  “Truth is, Miss Gabriella Santiago is as clean as clean can be. No felonies, no warrants. Not even a jaywalking charge,” he stated evenly. The detective was looking at me. His eyes narrowed again, as if studying a puzzle. “In fact, there hasn’t been much of you anywhere in the last ten years. Isn’t that right?” he questioned, his eyes widened, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes. I suppose that’s right. And it’s Gabby. Not Gabriella. Just Gabby.”

  The curl on his lips returned, and he eked out a giggle and chided, “So we’re friends now, Miss Gabby? Some pleasantries, and a thank you very much?” The detective sneered, and waited for me to say something. I thought it best to stay quiet. So that is what I did.

  “Very well, then,” he started to say, “and now that we’re all friends, I have something to share.” From his coat, the detective pulled a manila envelope, and placed it on the table in front of him. It was old, and the edges had worn to thin cottony frays, like the corners of Clark’s book. The light-brown buff paper lay faded, with a heavy crease down the middle. Folded, I thought, and guessed the detective liked to fold the cover back. I could still read the case number penned in blue across a white sticker. But the lettering, too, was fading.