“Does he really go there every night?”
“Every night,” she replied, “for an hour at least. When Lempi was still alive, they would walk for an hour every evening, hand in hand. I guess it’s the closest he can get to her now, and he just can’t let go of that hand.”
We stood there quietly for a moment watching the crouched figure in the shadows, his form up against the granite gravestone, the fluffy snow gently falling to land on him and on her memory. We turned and began walking toward the town square, toward the warmth of my cafe. But I was drawn to look back, again and again, to stare after that sad figure, tied to his love, trying to hang onto a disappearing happiness in the cold reality of the falling snow. And what could I say? We all need to find our own way of letting go of lost loves.
chapter TWELVE
As the weather grew colder, the Loon Town Cafe menu begged for a transformation. The lower temperatures of fall and winter demanded substance in your stomach: warm porridge in the morning, hot soups in the afternoon, hearty roasts at night.
“So what should I add to the menu?” I asked Thelma. My faithful trio perked up.
“If you ask me,” began Bromley, even though I hadn’t, “I would vote for potato pancakes. Not that many can make them like I want them. Too many people think they should be a pancake. Flour and eggs and all that. God darn nonsense. No, what a potato pancake needs is lots of grated potatoes.”
“With fresh apple sauce,” Claire burst in, “you know the kind where the apples are still all chunky and it’s warm and you just let it flow all over the pancakes.”
“I like mine with sour cream,” said Cynthia.
“No,” Claire said firmly, “it has to be home-made apple sauce, made from Macintosh apples, not those tasteless Red Delicious. All Red Delicious are good for is a crunch.”
“What about Granny Smiths?” asked Thelma.
“What about sour cream?” protested Cynthia. She flounced her hair and marched off toward the kitchen. “You never listen to any of my ideas.”
Over the last few days, Bromley had been trying to curry the good favors of the Trueheart family, and Cynthia’s reaction gave him pause. “Poor girl,” he said. “School must be getting to her what with that Kip Van Elkind always fawning about.”
“Back to potato pancakes,” I said, “They could marry well with roasted pork loin. Maybe grate a lot of potatoes, mix them with a little minced onion, some flour and egg and fry them crispy brown.”
“Sounds more like hash browns to me,” pointed out Mr. Packer.
“Nonsense,” broke in Bromley, “he’s describing potato pancakes just the way I like them. Add them to the menu and I’ll be here every night.” In the five months since I had opened the cafe, Bromley had yet to come for dinner, and I didn’t expect potato pancakes to be the winning lure. Of the regulars, only Mr. Packer ever bought dinner in my place. Perhaps Bromley and Claire frequented some other spot, or maybe they huddled over a hot plate in their barren rooms in the Thread Grand Hotel.
The two of them lived a strange life. As long as anyone could remember, each had been a tenant at the hotel. Often, their two rooms would be the only ones rented in the deteriorating building. The hotel never had been very elegant, but by now, any town larger than Thread would consider it a flophouse. The shabby lobby that faced the town square had two large bay windows above the street. In each window, overgrown but sickly maidenhair ferns sat on high Victorian carved plant stands. The lobby also held some late 1950s sofas upholstered in the favored indestructible fabric of the era, with a few cigarette burns here and there to show the passing of the decades. At times, Bromley gave the impression that he owned the place. But it actually belonged to Red Trueheart, like nearly every other business in town. Claire, they rumored, had once been a chambermaid to the establishment, as well as the town floozy. Now both she and Bromley survived on small Social Security checks, along with Bromley’s occasional real estate commission.
Mr. Packer’s story was more of an unknown. He lived in a large house one block in from Little Sapphire Lake. Every room was filled with items that Mr. Packer had collected. He liked to find items of value in people’s trash and bring them home, turning his home into a bulging stuffed piñata of other people’s discards.
Loud laughter at the door signaled the entry of Josh Gunderson and Kip Van Elkind. Josh was short, dark-haired, slim and slender. He had the looks and moves of a model. His clothes were stylish and distinctive, and he carried himself with a certain peacock self-assurance. Kip moved with a dull slowness. He had acquired a strange pumped-up look as though he had been working out without regard to what he built up. Unlike the neat cut of Josh’s hair, Kip’s was stringy and in need of a wash. As usual, his clothes were dirty and tattered, pinned together more for value than for any punk look. Josh’s eyes sparkled with wit; Kip’s burned dully. A more unlikely duo was hard to imagine, yet in the days since Josh’s return, he had befriended the outcast rich kid. And already Josh seemed to know more about the goings-on in Thread than even Bromley.
“Wally man,” Josh called out, “you got any champagne in this place. I feel like celebrating. I got two people bidding on that worthless swamp my folks left me. I might just be able to head back to Los Angeles with real cash in hand.”
“Maybe it’s a little early to start celebrating,” I said, thinking of not only the time but also the likely bidders.
“It’s nearly noon,” he replied. “Why don’t you have that cute young waiter of yours . . . what’s his name . . . Danny, yeah that’s it. Let him bring it out.”
“Nah,” objected Kip with a goofy grin, “I want Cynthia.”
Josh smiled expansively, “You heard the man. Let the lovely Cynthia deliver.”
Kip was stoned, and Josh was amused. Eleven o’clock in the morning and both were out of control. “Sorry,” I said. “You have to be twenty-one to drink in this state. And since Kip can’t have any alcohol, I think it would be best if I didn’t serve either of you.” Josh smiled his acceptance of my verdict.
“Tell me, is that Danny here? I’d like to admire his looks before I have lunch?”
Kip flopped down by a table that hadn’t yet been cleared. “You’re such a fag. You just can’t help yourself.” He started giggling. Cynthia peeked out from the kitchen and quickly beat a hasty retreat. Cynthia wouldn’t want to leave the kitchen until Kip was out of the room, and Danny hadn’t yet shown up for his shift. I guess I would be handling this table. “But don’t help yourself to me. Don’t even try. Only Cynthia’s gonna get to see what I can do.”
For my benefit, Josh raised his eyebrows. “So much for trying to convert Kip. Takes a few favors, but his true colors always shine through. What’s a guy to do?” He sat down next to Kip and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Kip. Wally, can I see the menu?”
I deposited a menu and began to clear away the remnants of the earlier breakfast crowd. The funeral glitter was gone from Josh’s eyelids, as was the mascara. He looked like a clean-cut young man, good-looking in fact—not at all the flirtatious, mourning son of the funeral. One thing for certain, Josh’s appearance brought some life into town. Pastor Paul Mall had thundered from the pulpit on Sunday about big city’s sins and man’s depravities. His eloquence painted a seething lake of brimfire in hell reserved for anyone who dared to think of any acts between those of the same sex.
“He’s too hard on Josh,” is what Officer Campbell had told me later that day reflecting on the sermon and the funeral. “The boy has had a tough life. And he was always trying to shock his parents. Why not do it one last time?”
And as long as you were doing it, you might as well shock the whole town. Unfortunately for Josh, few in Thread were really shocked. Everyone had pretty much deduced that Josh was gay by the time he was a sophomore in high school. It was probably a draw as to who knew it first—Josh or the rest of the town. Prone to flamboyant overstatement with a flair for the dramatic and a keen ability to tell a funny s
tory, Josh was always well liked. He still was. The town folk didn’t care what a fussy pastor had to say.
“Sit down with us, Wally,” Josh said. “The place is nearly empty. Besides if you’re not working, Cynthia will have to come out of the kitchen and take our order. We’re just helping my friend here achieve his fantasy.”
“She wants me, but she won’t admit it. The bitch is playing hard to get.” Kip’s mood was shifting.
“Maybe she’s interested in someone else,” I said.
“Yeah, who? Show me the son of a bitch who would try to take my girl away from me. Someday, she’ll realize it.”
“Delightful town, isn’t it?” Josh said to me. “I can see why you left a dull place like Manhattan to move here.”
“It has its attractions,” I replied.
“I think I could recite them all to you. First, good old Claire. I think they put a bat in her belfry every time she slept with someone. She still does, you know. Her little men probably tell her to.”
“She does not,” I protested.
“Wake up, Wally boy! Even in Thread, she couldn’t live on her Social Security—at least not as long as you make her pay for breakfast every day. My father said she was the first person he ever went to bed with. Back then, it was rather like a senior class trip for all the boys to head down to the hotel for an evening with Claire. Sort of like The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, except I don’t think the boys ever danced naked in the showers as they got ready. Now that would have been a tradition I would have enjoyed.” Josh noticed Cynthia taking another peek out of the kitchen. He waved comically, and motioned her forward with his index finger.
“I think you’re exaggerating,” I said. “People in this town develop reputations which have nothing to do with reality.”
Cynthia walked up to the table, looking straight at Josh and deliberately avoiding eye contact with Kip. “Would you like something?” she asked with no sign of her usual happiness.
“Just some coffee for my friend and me.” She turned. Josh yelled after her, “Thanks.”
“Man, she don’t even look at me,” Kip moaned. He thought for a moment. “She’s so fucking hot for me, I drive her crazy.”
For a moment, I wished that Chip Frozen Bear were eating here today. I was convinced he had started eating at the cafe just to help promote rumors about the mining companies coming into the area. But last week, he had come to Cynthia’s defense when Kip had been in a particularly offensive mode. On the other hand, it seemed Chip was mimicking Bromley’s tune and catering to Cynthia’s moods to somehow influence her father.
“Take Kip’s reputation,” continued Josh. “Is it an exaggeration to say that he is a dim-witted little hoodlum? A petty thief who would be in jail today if not for the money of his extremely wealthy father?”
“Leave my fucking dad out of this.”
Josh raised his shoulders, spread his arms out, palms forward as though to include the entire town. “I rest my case.”
“You have a quite a reputation yourself,” I said.
He laughed. “And quite deserved, I assure you. I work hard at it. Any sensible person knows not to wear mascara in an ice storm, but I was going after my Tammy Faye Bakker look. I thought a famous preacher’s wife would appeal to the Reverend. I guess I was wrong. Such a sin.”
“So why are you sticking around?” I wanted to know.
“Why not? I’m a land tycoon with property to sell. My father always wanted to turn his swampland into cranberry bogs or wild rice marshes. He never had the money to do it. Maybe I should hold on to the spot and realize his dream. On the other hand, my father believed in life insurance. Mom and him have left me quite comfortable. It doesn’t really matter what I do.”
“I don’t think you’re sticking around just to sell that property. Barbara Trueheart is a realtor. She could handle it for you,” I said.
“Wouldn’t that be like having the wolf protect the sheep? I think the Truehearts are behind one of these insistent offers to buy. Besides Barbara has such atrocious taste. I could never do business with her. The only person in town with poorer taste is Amanda Manny.
“Now, there’s another example of a reputation that’s totally deserved. She drove Jack Manny to attempt suicide. Too bad he was too stupid to do it right. Did you ever wonder who pays those hospital bills for him? He’s in a private hospital you know. Still can’t eat a thing after all these years.”
“No,” I replied, “I never wondered.”
“Kip,” Josh turned to his greasy friend, who was looking vacantly in the direction of the kitchen, apparently awaiting the return of Cynthia, “I hear your father is very philanthropic about paying the hospital bills of some of Thread’s poorer citizens.”
“What ya talking about?” Kip asked, not turning to look at us.
“That seems unlikely to me,” I replied. “And quit trying to avoid telling me why you’re hanging around. Why not take the money and run?”
Rueben Cord, the butcher at the Piggly Wiggly, walked in for lunch. He waved over to our table, and said, “Hi Josh. How ya doing?”
Josh waved back. “I like being the big fish in the little pond where everyone knows your name. Isn’t that how it goes? I’ve only been gone six years. I’ve done a lot in Los Angeles. Sold real estate. Designed dresses. Even worked as a stand-in for Charles Nelson Reilly. What a crazy guy. But I’m nothing special in L.A., just another gay boy in West Hollywood. Here though I’m something special. A unique commodity. A flower in a field of weeds. Why not stay?”
Cynthia was walking over with a fresh pot of coffee and new cups. As I cleared away the old dishes, she gave me a look of disdain that made me feel like a Nazi collaborator in World War II. “I’ll get all of this out of your way,” I said.
She set a mug in front of Josh and poured a cup. Then she did the same for Kip. Kip reached out to grab her wrist, “Don’t run away,” he said.
“Let go right now,” she said, “or I’ll pour this entire pot in your crotch.” He let go.
Right then, Danny hurried into the restaurant. Josh looked up. “Maybe I’ll stick around for lunch.”
“Sorry, I’m a little late Wally. Class ran over.” Danny looked at Josh and smiled weakly. “Hi.” He walked into the kitchen, just as Cynthia was rushing out.
“Now that’s Danny here, I got to be going,” she said.
“But you’re supposed to be here another hour,” I said.
“No, I’m not,” she said emphatically with her eyes giving a sharp dart in Kip’s direction. “I told you I had to go over and see my father before my fifth period class.” Like that, she was out the door, across the square and into the Piggly Wiggly.
“Man,” Kip moaned, “that girl will do anything to avoid me. No way I can get her to pay me any attention. She just don’t know how much I want her.” Kip opened a couple of packages of sugar and poured them into his mug of coffee. Morosely, he stirred and stirred, waiting for it all to dissolve.
Bromley, Claire, and Mr. Packer had all swiveled around on their stools at the counter to watch our table. Bromley, sensing an opportunity to pontificate, raised his ample girth and waddled over to the table.
“You know Wally, I was thinking about your desire to change the menu for the winter months, and I’d like to recommend that you add a few more desserts. Can never have too many desserts.”
“I was going more in the direction of adding some dishes with wild rice or cranberries, sort of to go with the season,” I replied.
“Wild rice and cranberries. What kind of dessert would that make?” Bromley said.
Danny came out of the kitchen, already wearing his apron and ready to take over Cynthia’s role. Josh motioned him over. “What you guys talking about?” Danny asked. He looked at Bromley and me, avoiding the eyes of both Kip and Josh, and yet he seemed hyperaware of Josh. “Something interesting, I bet.”
“Could I have more coffee?” Josh asked.
“Wally’s got same damn fool idea
about making a dessert out of wild rice and cranberries. He asks me my advice, and I give it to him, and then he turns it around into some type of foolishness. Cranberries and wild rice. Sounds more like god darn medicine,” Bromley was attacking his own mistaken idea with all the fervor of a political campaign.
Claire came over. “What are you boys fighting about?” She looked Josh up and down slowly, almost disdainfully. “Is this young one telling tales about us that just aren’t so? He’s got quite the imagination.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not,” Josh replied.
“It sounds like Wally’s going to make leipapurro,” Danny said excitedly. “I haven’t had it since my mother died.”
“Lumps of poodle . . . that sounds good,” Kip pretended to stick his finger down his throat. Danny blushed. Josh stared at Danny intently. I was confused
“Now that brings back memories. Remember Bromley how that old Finnish woman who used to work at the hotel made it every winter.” Claire seemed more certain of her memories than usual.
“What the hell is leipapurro?” I demanded to know.
Danny was excited. “It’s a Finnish dessert that my mom used to always make for my dad. She called it a whipped air pudding, and she only made it in the winter and it was Dad’s favorite. I offered to make it for him, but it’s like he thinks only Mom could make it. Maybe if you made some, he’d try it here.” Danny had been trying to convince his father to come into the restaurant for dinner ever since he started working here.
“So tell me about this Finnish dessert,” I said.
“It sounds kind of weird when you describe it,” Danny made a face that caused Josh to smile. “But it’s really good. It’s like you make a really thin version of cream of wheat using cranberry juice and sugar instead of milk or water. Then you beat it for half an hour with a Mixmaster. It gets thicker and thicker, bigger and bigger, like a big cranberry snow bank.”
“Think of it as a dull pink cloud with little specks of wheat in it,” suggested Josh.
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 22
