Patti opened her front door and waved across the rushing water. Looking out her picture window, Miss Frankfurt cradled Pancake to her cheek. But next door, the Hansons’ house was quiet. Their shades were drawn. No sign of life was seen or heard so we sloshed across the way. When we rang the doorbell, the only sound it mustered was a soggy burp, so we knocked. And knocked again until we were pounding and screaming at the door.
There was a clatter across the street. In his bright orange chest-high waders, Roger stepped out of his door with his chainsaw, another Walmart purchase, in one hand. He raised the other to shield his eyes and took a moment to look around.
Patti pointed him in our direction and, as if he wore a cape, he plunged down off their steps and waded through the street.
“Stand back!” he shouted when he got to us. “I’ve been dying to use this.” And he fired up the engine. With four gritty throttles, he cut a square hole through their door and stepped through. We waited on the Hansons’ dead and flooded lawn.
“Every kid should have a bike,” Hank had said that summer when he had mine upside down in the back of his store. By that time, my bike had become more like a Batmobile. Dotty insisted that Hank give me new brakes, side mirrors, a headlight, and a taillight that blinked when I turned. Every Saturday he greased my gears so that when I pedaled uphill it was easy. And he made sure my tires were always pumped just right so that if I ever hit a bump, I wouldn’t feel it.
The only time Hank talked was when his hands were busy. It was as if the act of moving them unlocked a secret door. He quoted poetry from people I’d never heard of, and he knew every phrase that Jesus ever uttered. And every time he started talking, without fail, Dotty would shuffle down the aisle. “Don’t be yakking her ear off, Hank! For Chrissake, she’s probably hungry!” And she’d raise and rattle a Tupperware container full of cookies she’d baked the night before.
Their grand reopening had generated only a temporary bump in sales. For a while they ran a TV ad, and in July they’d hired a mascot. A guy dressed up as a hammer stood out in front of the store and waved the American flag. But three more departments at the plastic tubing company had moved to China and business everywhere had slowed. And they were tired, I could tell. Every time I saw them, they seemed a little weaker.
When Roger appeared again in the opening of the door, his face was white.
“God’s grace,” Hank said to me that last time I saw him, “is in the wind that whips around you when you’re coasting. Every kid deserves to have that feeling.”
I later learned that the day I saw them leave their house, they’d gone to church, after years of not going, and renewed their wedding vows. When they came home they shared an apple and lay down together fully clothed, as if to take a nap.
Peppered with dead flies, the apple core was on the floor beside their bed. They had peeled it and soaked it overnight in poison.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Redemption
The flood left an ashen pallor. The stench of waste ripened in the sun. A lump settled in my throat. Life seemed to be falling apart. Fewer people were eating out and my mother’s tips began to dwindle.
But for a while, after the Hansons died, a wistfulness enshrouded the town. Hushed tones and sweet words laced every conversation. Arlene took her husband back even though she’d kicked him out again just two weeks before. My mother and I hugged every time we parted and people who hadn’t been to Tiny’s in months came back to share a meal.
Then one day, on my mother’s day off, a 1970 Lincoln Continental pulled into the parking lot. When the restaurant door swung open and Miss Frankfurt stepped inside, mouths dropped. Forks hit plates, coffee mugs lowered. The handful of customers, all of them former students, looked at her and held their breath as if anticipating a scolding.
Miss Frankfurt had not been to Tiny’s in over fifteen years. But here she was standing in the doorway clutching a quilted hen-shaped purse. Her swollen ankles bulged around her shoes. She wore a gray skirt suit with a mauve scarf, just a touch of sensible color. Her hair was twirled into a neat bun and her glasses were the same vintage as her car. They had upside-down arms and the lenses were huge. Her mouth turned down and bracketed the ball of her chin. Her lower lip protruded. She sucked it in and out as she looked around for a seat.
When I saw her across the street working in her garden, she seemed soft and kind, but up close, she terrified me. In class I’d look around and there she’d be standing in the back like a ghost. Her arms crossed at her ample bosom, she’d watch the teacher’s every move.
She scooted into the nearest booth, dragging her purse along the table. When she was squarely in the center, she let her heft drop. Pushing up on her hair, she gathered herself from the effort. She unzipped the hen purse and pulled out a smaller identical change purse and set it on the table. Then she settled the larger hen on the seat next to her.
Peter Pam’s real name was Peter Montgomery. Of all Miss Frankfurt’s former students, Peter had been her most promising. She had no children of her own and she’d pinned her hopes on him, certain he’d be the one to leave this town and make her proud.
But he never moved away or went to college. Peter Montgomery was a natural-born ham. There wasn’t a single thing not to like about him and nobody cared that he wore a dress. But Miss Frankfurt was Catholic. She called it sinful, witless, and foolish and swore she’d never speak to him again.
He stood in front of the counter trembling. His mouth hung open, a half-empty coffeepot shaking in his hand.
Miss Frankfurt pulled her glasses down her nose and searched the room. When she saw him, her eyes stopped. A moment passed between them.
“Well,” she finally said, “don’t just stand there like a dimwit. For God’s sake, pour me a cup of coffee.”
Peter managed to pour her coffee without spilling it and bring her an English muffin without dropping it. Then he burst through the kitchen doors and nearly fainted. “I can’t breathe!” he choked, doubling over. He reached for the upside-down plastic bucket inside the door. Arlene grabbed his arm and eased him down onto it before he fell. She fanned him for a while with a menu.
And I stood watch. Through the round window in the kitchen door I saw Miss Frankfurt drink her coffee. She spread orange marmalade on her muffin so intently she didn’t seem to notice that everyone was watching her.
“She’s done,” I reported when she’d finished her last bite.
“Oh, God,” Peter moaned.
“Okay, that’s enough of this, I’ve had it,” Arlene said, chucking the menu down on the counter. “Get up,” she chided, “and quit being a baby.” She grabbed Peter’s elbow and pulled him up.
She placed her hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Listen up,” she said as if she were his coach. “You are a beautiful person, do you hear me?” Arlene grazed her hand over his forehead. “And God made you, same as her. Now I want you to go out there and stand tall. I want you to look down that big beautiful nose of yours and hand her the check as if she was a speck of dust to you.”
“Okay, okay,” Peter said apprehensively. “I think I can do it.”
“Of course you can.” Arlene clocked him on the shoulder, annoyed.
“Ruthie,” she snapped. Without taking her eyes off Peter she reached behind her where I stood ready with the check. She took it and placed it in Peter’s hand.
“Now go!” Arlene said, shoving him out the door.
Arlene and I each took a window. Peter hadn’t moved. He stood frozen just outside the door. Arlene shouldered it into him, nudging him forward. He finally started, but just before he reached her table, his knees buckled and he had to steady himself on the edge of it.
“Oh, God,” Arlene grumbled.
Peter went to hand Miss Frankfurt the check but his arm shook and the check trembled. Aggravated, Miss Frankfurt reached up and snatched it right
out of the air.
A moment passed.
Peter quaked.
You could hear a pin drop. Arlene and I stepped out through the kitchen door. I looked around. The customers had all stopped midaction. They held their breath, waiting to hear Miss Frankfurt explode. But nothing happened. She opened her change purse and handed Peter a bill. He cowered, hesitating.
“For God’s sake, take the money,” Miss Frankfurt snapped, and waved it in his face.
He inched the bill from her hand, careful not to upset her more, then slowly turned to go.
Miss Frankfurt scooted out to the edge of the booth, dropped her head, and lifted herself up with effort.
“Mr. Montgomery,” she called when she saw him tiptoeing away from her.
His shoulders dropped, resigned.
“Look at me when I speak to you.”
He sheepishly turned around.
The waning afternoon sun streamed in through the windows. Miss Frankfurt lowered her glasses. The creases on her upper lip deepened as she pinched her mouth. Her gaze bore down on him and the unadorned silver crucifix around her neck caught the light. A long tense moment passed.
“I have prayed on it now for many years. The other day, the good Lord finally spoke. ‘Frankfurt,’ he said to me, ‘stop fussing over foolishness. It’s not what you wear or who you are with, it’s what’s in your soul that matters.’ ”
Peter stood in disbelief. He turned on his heels and looked at us. Wide-eyed, he clutched himself as if to say, Did you just hear that? He turned back to her. I could feel his heart swell. He was just about to throw his arms around her when she held a hand up to stop him.
“Let’s not get carried away now,” she said.
“No, no, of course not,” Peter said, retreating quickly.
She walked by him, put her hand on the door to push it open, but then stopped. She turned around again.
“I will agree with you on one thing, though.” She looked him up and down. “You look much better in a dress.” Something at his neck caught her gaze. Her expression hardened. “And fix your collar, would you?” She made a gesture at her neck. “It’s all folded in.” I hadn’t noticed, but it was.
When Miss Frankfurt drove out of the parking lot, an empty Walmart bag spun in her wake. Her tires left a streak of dust, and—poof!—just like that, she set the world straight again. Three days later a new pair of mules arrived and Peter Pam was back.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jealousy
Animals are smarter than we are,” Peter Pam declared. “They can predict all kinds of natural disasters. Cows will lie down before it rains and cats and dogs are more likely to run away before an earthquake.”
She and I were sitting in the back booth talking up a storm. Unlike Arlene, Peter Pam couldn’t do a single trick. She couldn’t even whistle. “My lips just don’t purse up right,” she’d explained, puckering them to show me. But I had missed her terribly. It was fall again and I was back in school. I would ride my bike to Tiny’s every afternoon just to be with her.
Our chatter, I could tell, was infuriating my mother. I could see her in the corner of my eye wiping and rewiping the tables around us with an irritated edge. It was Arlene’s day off so there was no one to distract her.
“And a tsunami will drown us all, but the animals will run for the hills. The entire kingdom will empty out.”
I looked out the window searching for the family of squirrels that lived in the tree across the street, but didn’t see a single one.
Tiny’s had been quiet for months. Mel took a pay cut so no one else had to, but our bills were piling up. My mother was beginning to lose all her graceful movements. Things she used to savor, like the smell of McDonald’s, bothered her. Half the time our chairs out back were an eyesore, a reminder that we didn’t have a pool. And Arlene was getting on her nerves.
My mother pushed the chairs in with loud, angry scrapes, but Peter Pam had too much pent-up energy to notice.
“A dog can predict a seizure up to three hours before it happens. Oh my goodness,” Peter Pam said, taking a breath. “I’m all farklemt.” She fluttered her hands in front of her face in an effort to tamp her emotions. “It’s so good to talk to you again.” She reached across the table and held my arm.
My mother’s lip curled and I wanted to disappear. My relationship with Peter Pam grated on her. She was about to snap, I could tell, but thankfully, a customer pulled into the parking lot. Customers were rare these days, so it was enough to stop her. And this customer drove a brand-new BMW.
The driver’s-side door opened slowly and, of all people, Vick Ward stepped out.
“Gross,” I said to my mother. But she was not listening. She chucked her rag down. She ruffled her hair and set it cascading down her face in perfect peekaboo fashion. Then she unbuttoned her top button, shook her breasts down into her bra, and pushed them up again.
When she really wanted something she showed them off like cakes. “You’ve got to think of them as assets. They can be leverage or incentive or payback,” she’d instructed, as if she were a banker. She’d been taking chicken wings out of the microwave when she told me this. She held up her lobster-claw oven mitt, pinched it together, and said, “They can be handy like pot holders!”
In the parking lot, Vick Ward straightened his tie and then looked down at his shoes. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, bent over, and with two quick flicks of his wrist dusted the toes. Then he shook the cloth out, folded it up, and replaced it in his pocket.
He walked in, stood in the doorway, and looked around. When he saw my mother, he tipped his hat in her direction, then slid into the nearest booth.
My mother was sassy and rude to him like she’d been the day he first came to our house, but things had changed since then. We were broke again, so she did what she thought she had to. She reached over him extra close and flirted while she served him. And it paid off like it always did.
He left my mother a ten-dollar tip on pie and coffee—the only decent tip she got all week.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Betrayal
Across the street, Roger lost his job and Patti found part-time work at Walmart. She stopped coming by and they stopped eating at Tiny’s. We never thought we would, but we missed them.
In October, the trucks were back, but instead of bringing stuff in, Patti and Roger were selling things and moving it out. This sent my mother further into panic. And when she panicked, it frightened me. She became quiet and removed. Her jaw muscles tightened. I could never tell what she was thinking and I was too afraid to ask.
One night that fall, she was really late getting home from work and I began to worry. So I hopped on my bike and rode to Tiny’s.
I pulled into the parking lot and around back. Pop! The gravel crunched beneath my tires. I heard Madonna—“Holiday! Celebrate!”—my mother’s favorite, playing on the stereo as I headed toward the kitchen. The screen door was propped open with a can of tomato sauce.
I stepped in. The overhead light above the grill was on. The mop sat in the sink in a pool of dirty water. I ducked under the handle and walked by. There was an empty bottle of wine and a couple of glasses sitting on the counter. One of the glasses had toppled over and landed against a plate with a lipstick-stained napkin and a few leftover fries. The plate next to it was licked clean. I walked through the kitchen and stood behind the counter. The restaurant was dark but the neon hot dog still flashed in and out of its bun. Then I heard something. A cough. A gag. And it wasn’t coming from Madonna. The sound was coming from the bathrooms, so I stepped out from behind the counter and followed it. A slick of light seeped out from under the door of the ladies’ room. I pushed it open and walked in. Madonna’s voice followed me. “Oh yeah, oh yeah,” she grunted through the speakers on the wall.
I heard a heavy sigh then a low whispery moan from ins
ide one of the stalls. I slowly pushed the first door open, but it was empty. The handicapped stall was already halfway open so I took a step forward and peered in.
I could recognize my mother from a million miles away—by the way she swung her arms when she walked or the way she crossed and hugged them to her body when she was cold. I could hear the subtle shift in the tone of her voice before and then after she’d had her coffee. I knew almost everything about her.
But that night, I didn’t recognize her until I saw her purse. She was kneeling on it. She was facing the toilet and her head was bobbing up and down, to the rhythm of Madonna.
He was easier to identify—with his hat on backwards, Mel straddled the toilet. His pants were down. His eyes were closed. His lids were white. His mouth was half open. He gripped the grab bar on the wall. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck.
He must have sensed me standing there because his eyes flew open.
“Jesus!” he yelled over Madonna when he saw me.
My mother lifted her head and turned. Her lipstick was smeared—her mouth glistened bloodred like she’d been eating prey.
A single overhead light flickered. A second passed—not even—and I was out the door, flying through the night. I landed on my bike with my legs already in motion. I pedaled so fast, the sweat on my forehead dried in seconds. A truck pulled up behind me. I stood in my seat and pumped harder. A piece of gravel shot up and ricocheted off the frame of my glasses. But I didn’t flinch. I turned my wheels and took the shortcut—a path that led into the woods—just dodging the cloud of dust the truck stirred up in its wake.
The woods were dark and the crickets were throwing a tantrum. I slowed down, tried to catch my breath, but my heart pounded and swelled as if it might burst right through my chest.
The moonlight fell between the leaves in patches and flickered like scratchy film. The ground beneath me shifted. I stopped, got off my bike, and braced myself against a tree.
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