Kyara looked around the empty room. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the windows to illuminate blocks of the polished, wooden floors.
Dust motes danced in those sunbeams. The tables scattered throughout the center of the room looked lonely and barren, like they were abandoned, rather than waiting.
Why doesn't this look right, yet? wondered Kyara. I've poured almost everything I have into this, and it still doesn't look right. If I don't get it right by the opening tomorrow night....
Kyara didn't let herself finish the thought. Instead she pulled her attention back to the food pass, making sure everything was set up. The pass was polished, the clip for the tickets tight. The heat lamp had worked the last twelve times she'd checked. It still did.
The fresh ingredients wouldn't come in until the morning, of course. Her father never would have forgiven her if she cooked with anything other than fresh ingredients. A surge of sadness traveled through her as she thought of her father, and again she had to push it away.
Oh, Papa, I wish you could be here to help me. I’m so lonely here.
She had tried pretending to talk to him at night. Sometimes she could almost hear his voice and what he would say. But with his grave so many hundreds of miles away back in Atlanta, doing so mostly just hurt. She'd had to stop after a while so she didn't cry herself to sleep every night.
Again, Kyara pulled her attention back to the problem in front of her. She made herself go check the tables, the checkered linens flapping gently as she moved past them. The silverware was rolled and ready to go out. The lights worked.
It was while looking at the lamps on the walls that it finally clicked.
The walls are too bare. They need decoration. Kyara shook her head at herself for having missed it. Not that she could really be blamed with everything she'd had to do, but it seemed so obvious now.
Maybe the general store has something? I've got to at least check.
Kyara turned, relieved to finally have something she could actually do to improve her little restaurant. She walked out the door, letting it swing closed behind her before she turned to lock it.
The street outside was bright, sunny, and muggy. The lazy AC unit in the restaurant may not have seemed to be doing much, but apparently it was. Kyara looked down at herself ruefully. Her cute little scoop-neck, a clinging royal purple which Kyara thought looked great against the dark chocolate of her skin, would be covered in sweat if she didn’t hurry.
Not that I want to attract attention, but it never hurts to look your best.
Kyara bustled down the street, taking in the view of her new hometown as she did so. The whitewashed houses stood out against all the green of the grass and the trees behind them. There was a hint of breeze down off the hills, but not much of one.
The river, a large stream really, which ran next to Main Street filled the afternoon with the sound of running water. The Methodist church, another whitewashed wooden building, was the tallest in town, its skinny bell tower stretching all the way up to three whole stories.
Kyara suppressed a sigh. The tiny Vermont town was quaint, beautiful really, but it just wasn’t home. She missed Atlanta. She missed the riot of colors from the buildings and fountains. She missed a good Baptist service. She even missed the noise of the cars and crowds. Life here was, in a hundred thousand little ways, different.
Kyara made herself walk down the street. That wasn’t home anymore. This was. However different it felt, at least here nothing would happen like had happened to her father.
Kyara picked her way past the single gas pump in town and into the store. The store itself was an honest-to-God general store. Up front was the usual assortment of gas station snacks and candy as well as some basic cans and white bread. Farther back were bigger items and hardware. Rakes and gardening implements stacked carelessly next to hammers, boxes of nails, and even a small supply of lumber.
By now, Kyara knew just where to go. Right near the counter were the tourist things. Stuffed animals cows sat on top of Ben & Jerry stickers and wildly overpriced cheese. There were also postcards, some of the town itself.
Behind them sat the woman who owned the store, Ruth. She squatted on her stool, every part of her sagging and spilling over. Only her hair, pulled up in a tight, gray bun on top of her head, seemed to do anything but droop. She watched Kyara through half-closed eyelids, her eyes following everything Kyara did.
“Afternoon!” Kyara said, trying to put as much happiness into her voice as she could.
Ruth grunted and sort of nodded in Kyara’s direction, her jowls wobbling. Kyara kept her smile pasted firmly in place. They’d gone through this every time Kyara had come in since she moved in – Kyara trying painfully hard to be polite, Ruth barely acknowledging her existence.
Kyara flipped quickly through the rack of post cards, grabbing a few of the town and the surrounding countryside. She pulled them out and paid Ruth for them, all without exchanging another word.
Kyara walked back down the street with her smile still in place, but trying not to grind her teeth. Over a month of this. Basic conversation, minimal interaction. It wasn’t just Ruth. It felt like the whole town had decided to shut her out, and she’d just got here.
Maybe they’ve just never seen someone who’s Black in person before. Kyara let the joke turn the smile on her lips from forced to real. It was probably closer to the mark than anyone here would admit.
She was glad her smile was real when she got to her door and found Crystal relaxing in it. The teenager leaned her black-dyed hair against the door frame, her neon-pink bangs hiding her face, including the nose ring. Crystal looked up as Kyara approached, and started to stand.
“Hey, Ms. B. I tried to go in, but couldn’t,” said Crystal. Her voice was the perfect contrast to her all-black clothes, bright and chipper. Her voice matched the bright blue of her eyes and the baby doll curve of her pale cheeks.
“Yeah,” replied Kyara. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so I locked it when I went out.” She stepped up to the door and began to unlock it.
“Why?” asked Crystal, her voice full of genuine confusion. “If anyone goes in there, you have the Jan 3000 system.”
The girl pointed across the street to the squat two-story home, where an old woman sat on her porch, just staring at them and rocking. The empty rocking chair next to her was a mute testament to her long dead husband.
It always made Kyara a little sad to see her sitting there all alone.
“Not polite to point,” corrected Kyara quietly. “And besides, I’m not sure Mrs. Waite would tell me if something actually went wrong. She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
Crystal shook her head, following Kyara into the restaurant. “Oh, that AC is awesome. Anyway, don’t mind Mrs. Waite. That’s just the way she is. I’m sure she likes you fine. People in this town are pretty friendly.”
Then why is the closest thing I have to a friend here my seventeen year old waitress? wondered Kyara, trying not to despair. She was trying hard not to think the whole town was racist, but if they really were friendly to everyone else, it was hard not to think about the obvious difference.
“Anyway,” Crystal continued to bubble, “I handed out all those flier invitation things like you asked me to. Anything else you want from me today?”
Kyara held up the postcards.
“The walls are pretty empty,” Kyara said. “I was thinking of getting these blown up into posters and hanging them.”
Crystal perked up even more.
“There’s a Kinkos over in Bradford. Want me to take it?” Crystal always volunteered to drive the twenty-five minutes into the nearest “big” town. Getting out of town was still
something of a novelty, apparently.
“No, thanks,” replied Kyara. “This may be the last break I get once the restaurant opens. I think I’m gonna treat myself and get my hair did.”
Crystal hesitated a bit.
“Ummmmm,” said the teenager. “You might want to go over to Lebanon and Hanover for that. With Dartmouth there, you might have a better chance of, uh, actually finding someone who, uh...”
“Knows how to deal with Black people hair?” Kyara finished for her.
“Thank you for not making me say it,” Crystal giggled, biting her lip a little.
Kyara sighed. This is what you wanted, she reminded herself. You wanted a town where Black would stick out. That way you’ll know if any of them get close. It was hard sometimes, though. She was getting really tired of not fitting in.
“Alright. Go home for the night, Crystal. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’ll be a busy night, so come ready to work.”
“OK. Have a great night, Ms. B. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Me, too, prayed Kyara. God, forgive me, but me, too.
Kyara peaked out of the service window at her grand opening and tried not to cry. The dining area, small as it was, was still basically empty. Oh, it wasn’t totally abandoned. The local minister, Father “Just call me Eddie” Brinklet sat near the window, sharing a club sandwich “just the meat, none of that other fancy stuff,” with the woman Kyara figured had to be his wife.
The couple was actually pretty perfectly matched – their beady little eyes taking in the room so they could gossip about it later. Kyara missed gossiping with a man after going out somewhere new.
Not like that’ll be me anytime soon, Kyara reflected.
Across the room sat Ms. Waite with a man Kyara didn’t know. She’d had the Caesar salad, he’d ordered the chicken cutlets.
At least there’s one new face, Kyara reflected sadly. The man was facing away from her, but from the look of his strong shoulders, straight back, and nicely tight jeans, he might be young enough to be part of a successful set. He was young and good looking, at least from the back. Maybe he’ll tell his friends to come in.
Nearby, Crystal was standing near a table of her friends, all of whom were sharing a basket of fries between them, the bill counted out in change. Kyara felt like she should scold Crystal back to work, but what was there to do? No one new had come in in an hour. These weren’t her only customers of the night, but it was pretty close.
Honestly, she was probably just jealous watching the teens laugh and flirt with each other. It had been a while since she felt carefree enough with someone to perch on their lap.
It will be OK Kyara told herself. Word will get around, and business will pick up.
It has to, another traitorous part of her mind whispered. Papa’s life insurance money won’t hold out forever. Not that there was much of it in the first place.
It will, she told herself firmly. After all, she’d always been a good cook. True, she’d gone with a menu she figured rural Vermont types and tourists would like, rather than her usual. She knew she was amazing with soul food. She had the ribbons from enough cooking competitions to prove that. It didn’t seem likely to appeal up here, though. She hadn’t even seen okra in the store when she went shopping for herself.
Still, cooking was cooking.
This has to work. It has to. If it doesn’t, I can’t go home....
Kyara sighed again, and turned back to her station. It’s not like there wasn’t always cleaning to do in a kitchen.
* * * * *
Kyara tossed and turned. The dream was back.
Dream Kyara wound her fingers through the mass of hair in front of her. Her fingers twisted and folded, pulling the hair into neat little braids. The head in front of her bobbed back a little with each tug.
No, no. This isn’t happening. Not again.
"Oww," said Keisha, pulling forward against her hands. "Why you hav'ta pull so hard?" Keisha's voice was high and whining, but Kyara just smiled.
"To make sure it stays," Kyara told the six year old. "Don't you want to look pretty for your daddy when he's done?"
No, Not her dad. Don’t make me look at her dad.
Both Kyara and the girl in front of her looked towards Keisha's father. The man stood hunched, his back to the street. He could have been kind of cute, but his narrow face was pinched with concern. His jeans sagged down, and the bandanna around his head declared his gang allegiance to anyone who cared to look at him. Kyara's papa stood talking to him.
Papa was older, gray hair now taking over the distinguished hair framing his light caramel face. He stood straight, compared to the hunch of the younger man, his suit falling in perfect, crisp lines.
No, Papa. I miss you, but don’t make me see it again. Don’t make me....
In the dream, bits of their conversation drifted over to Kyara and her young friend.
"I'll bring this to the police for you, Darrell. They can get you out. For now, we're just a young man talking to his preacher. It'll be fine." Papa’s voice was rich and powerful, just like it had been in life.
* * * * *
The blaring of the alarm pulled Kyara from sleep, and she sat up with a start. She could still see the fall of his suit, always so neat. She could still hear her father’s voice.
“It’ll be fine.”
Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Kyara wiped her face and rolled over, crossing her painfully empty bed to swat at the shrieking alarm clock. It wasn’t even light out yet, but restaurant prep started early.
Kyara shuffled through her morning, trying not to let last night get her down. The opening was slow, sure, but it was a slow kind of town. Once word gets around, it will be better. Plus, I opened on a Friday night, but this was still a working town. Farmers don’t really care about Friday nights, do they? They’ll take tonight, though, since they’re going to church tomorrow.
Yeah, tonight will be better.
Kyara managed to go downstairs into the restaurant with a spring in her step, if not a big one.
She unlocked and met the morning delivery. She thought she saw Mrs. Waite’s curtain’s twitch when the truck pulled up, but it was hard to tell in the early morning light.
Jan-3000 system, armed and ready, I guess, Kyara mused.
She kept herself busy with prep for that evening. Even for a tiny place like this, there was a lot to do, and it wasn’t like she had a sou chef. She let herself get caught up in the rhythm of the work, the careful chopping and labelling forcing away the remnants of her nightmare, at least for now.
When Crystal came in hours later, Kyara looked up in surprise. Time had gone by faster than she’d thought.
The perky teenager slid her backpack, black, of course, into the corner and came to stand by Kyara.
“I’m sorry you didn’t make much money last night,” said Kyara, still chopping. Crystal snorted.
“Pastor Eddie tipped me a pocket bible.” She favored Kyara with a smile. “It’s OK, though. I got to hang out with my friends instead of at home with my mom. Plus, air conditioning. Do not underestimate the value of your air conditioning.”
Kyara returned Crystal’s smile with one of her own. Crystal studied her face for a moment, then nodded.
“I’m glad you’re in such a good mood, considering the review,” said Crystal. “I was worried you’d be all sad, the way you get sometimes.”
Kyara paused, and took a deep breath.
“I’m not going to let an empty restaurant on one night keep me down,” she said. “Once people try the food, they’ll come around.”
There was a long silence from behind her. Kyara stopped working long enough to turn around and check her young helper. Crystal’s face was even paler than usual, her blue eyes wide. Kyara turned fully to face her, waiting.
“You don’t know yet, do you?” said Crystal slowly.
Kyara stared at the teen.
“Know what?”
Crystal bent do
wn, carefully pulling a newspaper from her bag, and handed it to Kyara. It was the local paper. Even covering Bradford and all the surrounding towns and counties, it was barely big enough to stay open. Most of the news came straight from the AP. The page it was folded back to, though, didn’t. It was local, and it was a review of her restaurant.
Patrons Don't Care for New Cafe
By Jay Hardison
When Alice Tylden passed away six months ago, the whole county went into mourning. Not only were we losing a remarkable woman who had been a pillar of the community for over thirty years, but we were losing the best cook in the state.
Naturally, when someone new moved in and took over, the town was bound to be a little skeptical. I resolved to give it a chance, however, and went to its opening night. Sadly, this new cafe lived down to my expectations.
The Ranger's Passionate Love Page 1
