Decency

by Rex Fuller

  Empty booths lined the left wall. Two of the regulars were at the bar. The others lounged back, legs spread, in small, vinyl covered, steel chairs scattered around tables between the bar and the front window.

  From a long opening behind the bar came a hiss, probably hamburgers, sizzling on the grill. There was a faint smell of grease and a little tobacco.

  Pick a booth where you can slide all the way in, rest your back to the wall.

  A woman in her sixties, or maybe older, came out of the kitchen, filled a tumbler with water - they must still do that here - and brought it to the booth. She was attractive, auburn haired, hazel eyed, and when younger must have been striking. She had a clean, well-pressed look, and an air of responsibility, as if you should not mistake her, the owner, for a waitress.

  “Would you like a menu, Ma’am?”

  “Please. Why is everyone so quiet?”

  “Corn’s down.”

  She turned back to the bar, took a menu and laid it on the table.

  “Corn must be down big.”

  She paused, then glanced out the window at the car.

  “You must be from out of state.”

  “Yeah. Washington.”

  “The state, or D.C.?”

  You quickly forget people ask that, without realizing someone from Washington state almost always says “Seattle” or their town and adds that it’s near Seattle, or Spokane, or one of the borders.

  “D.C., the Virginia side. But my grandfather had a farm south of here.”

  She softened just slightly, cocking her head of gray-touched hair to one side.

  “Must’ve been a long time ago.”

  “Too long.”

  “Well, you were too little then to get some idea about the price of corn.”

  “I guess I was.”

  A look, quizzical, and a bit unforgiving, crossed her face, like a cirrus cloud brushing past a cold moon. She lowered her voice.

  “We’ve had three years of near drought. Still, they say, the market won’t support this year’s crop. These men are all thinking about whether to try to stay in business another year.”

  She turned away, leaving her point too well made. She did not have to add that if they decided to go out of business, or their bankers decided for them, she would likely be out with them.

  The menu was a classic. Typewritten in Courier on plain bond sheets cut to size and slid into a plastic window pocket formed by sewn-on black borders. It listed what most people think of as real American food under “Breakfast,” “Lunch,” and “Dinner.”

  Breakfast.

  Two eggs, over easy…$2.98.

  Pancakes, stack…$3.10.

  Bacon, 2 strips…$.99.

  Steak and eggs (2)…$7.99.

  Toast (2)…$.89.

  Lunch.

  Hot Beef Sandwich…$5.99.

  BLT…$4.99.

  Soup of the Day (Bowl)…$4.99.

  Hamburger…$3.99.

  Dinner.

  Chicken Fried Steak…$8.99.

  Spaghetti…$6.99.

  BBQ Ribs…$7.99.

  Fried Chicken…$6.99.

  Chicken Dinner…$8.99.

  Steak Dinner…$10.99.

  No marketing effort here. Just trying to hold down prices. Nothing like, “Light, Traditional Curry Sauce,” or, “Raspberry-Thyme Glaze,” or some such come-on listings you find in the city. Of course, most people coming in here probably don’t need to even look at the menu, having grown up reading it.

  It would be nice if the menu specified a few things like whether the “Toast” was white, wheat or rye, and the “BBQ Ribs” were pork or beef. Then again, if you individually type the menus, maybe you minimize detail so you don’t have to redo them very often.

  The woman returned, order pad and pencil at the ready.

  Slightly smiling, she acknowledged, “Not very complicated is it?”

  “No, but that’s okay. It’s what I was looking for, actually.”

  “If you want something not listed, we can usually whip something together.”

  “Any recommendations?”

  “Yes, the most popular item we have is deep-fried catfish. We just haven’t changed the menus to add it. Most people say it’s the best they ever had. There is a secret to the coating. If you try it and like it, I’ll even tell you what it is.”

  This woman knows where to put her marketing efforts and how to sell.

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Fair enough. It’ll be $9.99 for two pieces, with french fries, and either green beans or a green salad. The green beans are a house specialty made with Vidalia onions, cream of mushroom soup and a little fil’e powder. I keep a big pot it’s so popular.”

  “Green beans, and if the fish is as good as advertised I might want a double order.”

  She let genuine warmth seep into her smile as she took the menu and turned for the kitchen.

  This was supposed to be a… what? A gathering of strength, or freshening of vision? A precious chance to see real people, to forget gamesters and the get-them-before-they-get-you mentality of the endless paper war of the courthouse…such as still exists for me.

  The poor souls here are, if anything, even more trapped in the down-spiral of forces beyond themselves than any litigant normally is. You would hope that the atmosphere in an out-of-the-way café would be…neighborly, maybe lilting laughter at the minor challenges of the day jumbled in with lyrics of a song playing on a jukebox in the background.

  Here, there’s no laughter. It’s deadly serious. Only an occasional murmur commenting on the latest, war-depressed, grain market news that lays another lash across the backs of these hard-working people. No different than the coal-mining towns of Appalachia where we worked the black lung cases.

  The owner returned with the table setting, a heavy beige plate, plain flatware, and paper napkin.

  “Your fish will be out in a jiffy.”

  “Say, is there any point in the day where folks lighten up a bit around here?”

  “After dark, when it’s a little dangerous to be doing some of the field work. Some more guys might come in. By that time the market news will be a little worn off and some will try to laugh about it.”

  She said this with the slightest smile and a little more resignation than made you comfortable.

  “But not you?”

  She was either surprised that someone would be interested, or embarrassed that her demeanor was so transparent. She hesitated, started to say something, then turned away and hurried back to her kitchen.

  Glancing around, the jukebox in the back corner appeared to be lit. One of the men seemed to make fleeting eye contact.

  “You fellahs mind if I put something on the jukebox?”

  No one objected. The one man gestured mildly as an invitation to do whatever one damn well pleases.

  “Anyone got any preferences?”

  Exchange of looks rippled among the men. The question seemed so foreign to their focus of attention that no one could quite assess it properly. One might as well have asked a convent of novitiates what their favorite dance would be. The same man who had gestured it was okay, stirred. He was in his late sixties or more. Wind-burn embossed his skin the way the patina on an antique does, layered in, textured by years.

  “Thanks for askin.’ It’d be a kindness if you’d play Hank Williams’ Jambalaya with whatever you want.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Sir.”

  At least he kind of hit the nail on the head. What they could use was a little reminder, like Hank’s masterpiece does. Celebration of life is not only more important than its hardships, it is the essence of life itself.

  To keep faith with the old man’s suggestion, and the locale, she added Kenny and Dollie’s duet of the Bee Gees’ Islands in the Stream and Tennessee Ernie Ford’s Precious Lord to the play list.

  The woman brought the steaming catfish and placed it on the table with detectable pride.

  But this time there was a difference.
Her eyes were red and her movements quickened. She left without a word.

  After giving the first bite the chance to cool, the taste was astounding. The “crunch” of the coating was just right and its flavor a kind of nut and pepper mixture, so different from typical flour and corn meal you might expect. The fish disappeared all too quickly. Every bite savored for all it was worth.

  The woman approached with body language suggesting more duty than enthusiasm.

  “Ma’am, you win. I didn’t really think you could make good on the ‘best ever’ part, but you did. I’m not just saying that either.”

  “Thank you. I really do appreciate your saying so.”

  She paused before starting to turn away again. She straightened. Then, surprisingly, she sat down in the booth. She was silent. It seemed a trouble from deep inside her played across her brow, the way a coming storm pushes clouds before it.

  “Ma’am, I confessed this was the best fish I’ve had. You promised to tell me the secret.”

  “It’s a simple recipe. Like all really good ones. You crumble Kellogg’s Corn Flakes for the coating. Add a dash of nutmeg to whatever seasoning. This has Cajun seasoning. You use a diluted egg white wash to hold the coating on.”

  “I have to laugh. If you had told me before, I wouldn’t have ordered it.”

  She tipped her head as if to say, you’re not the first to admit that.

  The woman studied the face in front of her. She searched for some hint, an insight, something. The customer broke the silence.

  “I’m Kelly Hawkins.”

  The woman took the extended hand in hers, firm and country strong.

  “Yes, I know. I’m Kathy Pierce,” she said quietly.

  The statement, “I know,” was like a thunder clap.

  “Wait, wait, wait. You couldn’t know that. I’ve never been here before.”

  “Ms. Hawkins, you’re driving a rented car. The State Patrol will tell me who rented any car that shows up here, if I ask. You’re a lawyer. And, your ad in the D.C. yellow pages says you do employment cases. They can get that in ten seconds at the State Patrol. From the internet.”

  “Okay, I guess it’s not that difficult. But I don’t believe law enforcement agencies are supposed to give that kind of information to just anyone…”

  “They don’t. I’m a part time sheriff’s deputy. It’s perfectly all right.”

  “Well, I guess I’m impressed… Maybe I can’t really get mad at someone who can cook fish like you do.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Now would have been a decent interval for her to leave again. But she remained. She still seemed to search for something in the face in front of her. The old man raised his hand to catch attention and nodded approval of the Islands in the Stream selection.

  “Ma’am…”

  “Please, it’s Kathy.”

  “All right, Kathy, you seem to want something. If you don’t mind my saying so, it’s a tiny bit unnerving.”

  “Ms. Hawkins, you were the one to do something strange first… without knowing anything about me, you said, ‘But not you,’ meaning I was not likely to join my customers’ diversions. That was very observant. Almost uncanny.”

  “Fair enough. This is your business and I apologize if I was too forward.”

  “No apology necessary. Do you mind if I ask what kind of employment cases you do?”

  “Most people don’t know there are different kinds. But, no, I don’t mind at all. About every conceivable kind. In the last years, a lot of discrimination cases. Being in Washington, a lot of cases involve federal agencies. Some are referred in from lawyers who don’t want to put up with the army of lawyers the feds can throw at you.”

  She did not speak, still seemingly searching.

  “Why do you ask?

  She did not answer.

  After another moment of hesitation, as if making an act of faith, she asked, “In your work, do you find that the government tells the truth?”

  “Please…Kathy…you don’t seem to be asking a philosophical question. Your reddened eyes…your controlled actions…something is close to the surface with you. I would appreciate it if you would just say what it is that concerns you, instead of interrogating me.”

  “Yes, I suppose so…but bear with me just a bit, please. Do you think the government tells the truth?”

  Her gaze was direct and unflinching.

  “Honestly, there is no way I can begin to answer that question. To put it bluntly, for all I know you could be recruiting me for a cult. I just have to know why you are approaching a total stranger with questions about trusting the government.”

  Something touched the right chord. She visibly relaxed.

  “Ms. Hawkins, that’s what I wanted to hear. If you’d said either ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ I would’ve taken you for a firebrand or a true believer and wouldn’t trouble you any further.”

  She was totally sincere and apparently did not realize that curiosity about her purpose would not survive irksomeness at her presumption.

  “Thanks for the compliment…I guess. You have not been any trouble at all. If you’d give me my receipt so I can be…”

  She raised her palm. She was used to getting her way and wore a sense of command with some ease.

  “Please, Ms. Hawkins, I think what I have to say will be worth your time… Do you have children, Ms. Hawkins?”

  “No…”

  She took a photograph from her apron pocket and laid it on the table top, directly in front. A confident, beautiful young woman engagingly looked directly into the camera lens. Her copper hair and blue eyes would have passported her as a native in Edinburgh, Scotland.

  “This is my daughter. She worked for the government. I think they might have killed her.” Sorrow and anger competed in the pitch of her voice.

  …this is getting too involved. For all of her self-assurance, this proud woman is really beaten down. She suspects everything and can’t accept the simplest explanation, however likely to be true. Nonetheless, she is touchingly sincere.

  “Your daughter is lovely and I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  “Ms. Hawkins, you probably think there is something wrong with me… that I can’t see facts for what they are…because I’ve lost a child. I’d think that way too…of someone else if I didn’t know what I know.”

  Every nerve end was screaming, If you don’t leave now you will never be finished with this. Against every instinct the conversation went on.

  “Kathy, I must be honest. I’m shot from…constant work for several years. I’ve needed to get away for a long time. Part of me will begrudge anyone or anything that gets in the way of this trip. That may sound terribly crass or selfish to you but…”

  Kathy raised her palm once again. With barely concealed anger and tears welling in her eyes she whispered.

  “Why do lawyers always have something more important than my daughter?”

  …she is obviously right…can’t tell her it’s money…they don’t want to be stuck with a loser after investing their time…but a few minutes will not make that much of a difference…

  “Please, Kathy, don’t misunderstand. I only mean that you know nothing about me and there is no real reason for you to seek my help in the first place.”

  “We both may be able to decide that better if you know the story.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ms. Hawkins, do you know what the NSA is?”

  “Yes, I know they do worldwide electronic surveillance, but not the cloak and dagger stuff like the CIA. And that makes it hard to think that they might be involved with, as you say, ‘killing’ anyone.”

  With a bitterness that made it unforgettable, she almost hissed, deliberately emphasizing each word.

  “That…is…exactly…right. ”

  11

  All of the men, except the old man, had drifted away, gone to the private hell of contemplating bankruptcy, or worse, more debt.

  The woman signaled the old man. H
e came to the booth and sat down with her.

  “Ms. Hawkins, this is my husband, Harlan Pierce.”

  Pierce offered his hand. Shaking it was like grasping a small tree. His palm bore the rough surface of years of heavy work and, underneath, there was no give.

  “Harlan, Ms. Hawkins is a lawyer. She’s handled employment cases against the government. I think she’s a good person. And I think she might be able to help us.”

  The old man’s eyes burned fierce blue, bracketed by crow’s feet etched into the walnut patina on his cheekbones. This was a man who has seen much, probably too much, but would not shirk from looking where he must. The eyes searched the guest’s face, as his wife’s had before.

  “Ms. Hawkins, my wife’s instincts about people never miss. We know you might not be able to do anything. But if she says so, then that’s it. It’s worth the try.”

  “Mr. Pierce, I’m terribly sorry for your loss. But I have to tell you, as I’m sitting here, I doubt there is anything that I can do. But I don’t know that for sure. I would need to know what happened.”

  The couple looked at each other a moment, then the woman began.

  “Our daughter, Samantha Pierce, was an only child. We had another daughter, Anne. She died of leukemia before Samantha was born.

  “When your child dies you cherish the next one. You know it is a great gift and you shower love and time on her. She flourished beyond any hope. She was bright. Very bright. She could read by age four. She quickly learned anything that caught her attention. We encouraged her to try many things.

  “She learned to love the piano. She won calf breeding championships in the 4-H Club and led her high school basketball team to the state tournament finals.

  “She went to Duke on scholarships and majored in computer science. After graduation she worked in the DoD and ended up in NSA. She was a star there, too.

  Kathy gave Kelly the entire sequence of events surrounding Samantha’s disillusionment, referral to psychological evaluation, decision to leave, visit home, and sudden death.