Suzette nodded and fixed me a look full of humiliation. With her eyes watering, she ran the white linen over her trembling lip. She cleaned her mouth of the blood, which revealed a split in her lower lip. It was beginning to swell. Ms. Potts pulled another napkin and filled it with ice. The chunky sound of ice cubes thumped the counter as she placed it in front of Suzette.
“Need to get some ice on that lip – cool the heat that’s pushing the blood to swell. Cold will help keep it from bruising you,” Ms. Potts offered. Lifting the large frame of her eye-glasses, she glimpsed the purple and red skin rising around Suzette’s eye, and continued, “Can’t help much with the shine on your eye, though, but may bring down some of that bump.”
Wiping more blood onto the napkin, Suzette cringed and said, “I’ll never get used to the taste of blood.” When she reached to pick up the ice-pack, Ms. Potts took Suzette’s hand in hers and held it there. Suzette lifted her chin.
“Hunny – you shouldn’t have to. Nobody should,” Ms. Potts answered in a soft tone, and placed the ice-pack fully in Suzette’s open hand. Suzette looked as though she’d start crying again, but then she caught one of the sobs and choked it away before lifting the ice to cradle her chin.
“I know…” Suzette started, and then stopped to settle the shudder in her voice. “He’s not a bad man. Really, he’s not. I can’t even remember the last time…” she continued, but her voice faded and her stare dropped to the coffee in front of her. Ms. Potts raised her brow and shook her head. We’d heard the same before. Many times. At least a dozen times, in fact, during my last year of working at Angela’s. I wondered just how many times Ms. Potts and Clark heard the same before I joined them.
There was always a pattern, and I knew what was next. Suzette was going to defend her husband, James Wilkerson. She’d tell us how it was her fault, or how his bad day was allowance enough to beat on her. She was going to try and explain it away. Just explain it away with words she assumed were acceptable. No more questions. No concern. But we couldn’t do that. We never could. We’d listen and console, and, time and time again, we’d give her the phone numbers of folks who could step in and help.
“How long?” I questioned. My voice pulled her eyes up from her coffee.
“What?” she asked. “How long for what?”
“How long since the last time he hurt you?” I repeated. Suzette shook her head, surprised by the question.
“A month, or more? Maybe?”
It was my turn to take Suzette’s hand in mine. Her skin was cold, and her fingers were thinner than they should have been. I realized what I’d missed when she first came in, but now I could see it. She’d lost weight. Her skin was pale, her face tight against her cheeks. As anyone would do, my immediate thoughts were of sickness. A bug, or flu, or God forbid something worse. But then I considered how she lived day to day, every day. The anxiety that she carried inside her was like a hot stone that burned with the rise and fall of her husband’s hand. Just the thought of how she felt inside when hearing the front door open made something stir inside me. It felt like fear, and an odd pressure turned my legs jiggly. Anxiety is eating her up. How can she live like that? I struggled to understand it, but couldn’t.
Four marks, in the shape of flower petals, dressed Suzette’s arm. They were the colors of autumn brown with threads of summer green. Only, the marks weren’t the petals of spring flowers, they were the bruised places where her husband’s fingers had gripped her. They were no more than a week old.
“And these?” I motioned, and then continued, “How does your shoulder feel? If I turn your hand over, will I find one more?” Suzette put on a frown and darted shame-filled eyes to Ms. Potts, then back to me. For a second, I was tempted to turn her hand in mine and reveal the larger thumb-print bruise, leaving nothing to question. Suzette pulled her hand back and tucked it away under the counter. Please, she asked with her eyes. Ms. Potts brought over more coffee and refreshed Suzette’s cup.
“It’s okay, hunny. It’s okay. Just sit a while longer,” she offered. And before I could say a word more, I saw, from the corner of my eye, a coffee mug hanging high above a booth. With fingers looped on the cup’s handle, an older gentleman wearing a grime-stained Keep on Truckin´ baseball cap motioned for some fresh coffee.
“Better tend to your table,” Ms. Potts said, handing me the coffee. I turned back to Suzette and stopped. In that moment, a pang of guilt bit me as I considered how I must have made her feel. I didn’t mean to make her feel worse. I just wanted her to see the truth.
“I’m sorry, Suzy – stay a while?” I pleaded. She nodded and pushed a smile, but then quickly reclaimed it as the swollen cut in her lip caused her to frown. When I reached Keep on Truckin´, he pitched his hat and lowered his cup.
“Ma’am,” he said, and gave an appreciative look as I poured the coffee. He was a regular, and still called me “ma’am.” A dozen times I’d told him he could call me Gabby, but he never changed his ways. I thought that was sweet.
“My apologies, and thank you for being patient,” I said, and gave him one of my better waitressy smiles.
“No problem. I didn’t want to call out, given the circumstances,” he started, and brought the cup up to his lips. “Fresh smell of coffee got the best of me, though. Always will,” he chortled, and sucked in the steam dancing just above his cup. Another sip, and he rested his cup back in front of him.
“Your friend gonna be okay?” he asked, his smile fading to concern.
“If we can get her to stay a while, then I think she’ll be fine, and –” I never finished what I wanted to say. The bell over the door interrupted, sounding twice as the door opened, and then closed. Suzette didn’t wait. She didn’t stay. Another pang of guilt bit me, regret beginning to join it. I should have let the petal-shaped bruises go. I didn’t need to prove a point.
When I looked over to Ms. Potts, she only offered a shrug of her shoulders. I’d hoped this time that maybe Suzette would have stayed. I’d hoped this time that she’d let us make some phone calls for her. I’d hoped – we’d all hoped – she wouldn’t leave again, only to come back broken and sad, or possibly not come back at all.
Turning back to Keep on Truckin´, I finished, “I suppose we won’t know, now.”
“Shame, such a pretty girl, too,” he started, and then picked up his coffee and continued, “I’ll pray for her. We can do that much, can’t we?” he said with a shallow smile. I returned a polite enough smile, but didn’t want to. The regret was replaced by frustration, which was an all too familiar feeling. Walking back to Ms. Potts, I considered the past year. We’d see Suzette from time to time. Some visits came with smiles and talk of going back to school and moving on. Other visits were like today, where the bruises cried for her. How many times had Suzette sat on the same stool, bleeding? How many times? I’ll pray for her. We can do that much, can’t we? I heard in my head.
3
“An order of coffee and tears!” Ms. Potts sang out, as the bell above the door rang, and echoed over our heads. A few girls – maybe thirteen or fourteen years old – pushed in through the door, and stood at the center of the diner. Shaking off the cold and wet snow, they clutched their arms in a hug to try and warm themselves.
We don’t always call out “Coffee and Tears.” I’d come to learn that we save that call for special occasions. Working at the diner from the late afternoon through the early hours of the next day, you see a lot of things. Some of them are funny, some sad. But most of all, you see those who, by chance, or by luck, find themselves at Angela’s Diner, ordering coffee, and, soon after, crying. Might be a bad breakup, or a lost job, or even the death of a parent or child; we’ve seen and shared a lot of stories. I’d like to think of ourselves as the diner restaurant equivalent of a five-cent therapy. We’ll give you the coffee, you supply the tears, and, in return, you’ll get an ear that will listen.
I recognized the uniform the girls wore – dark maroon skirts that came all the way up and o
ver white blouses with blue jackets dressed around their shoulders. The girls were from the all-girls school a block or so away. And, just a few blocks in the opposite direction was their partner school, the all-boys preparatory school. The two schools collaborated a few times a year to hold dances. As the only diner within a few blocks, we had the privilege of getting the school rush after the dances. On those nights, we’d need twenty hands to help us with the wall-to-wall teenagers swamping the diner. I’m not sure what the occupancy limit is for our little place, but we never counted. It was always work, but I enjoyed the kids. And I always felt a little sad when the night ended, as though I were trying to reclaim a little of something I missed.
Today was different. It was cold and turning rainy, and the shortest of the three girls looked to have been already crying a steady run of tears. She was a pretty girl with ruddy freckles across her nose to match her brown hair, and a row of braces I could see as she argued with the tallest of the three girls.
The tallest girl was the one they followed. She was the first to enter the diner and to pick a place to stand. I knew the type, and I think almost immediately that I didn’t much care for her. Looking around the diner, she caught my eye, and I expected she’d give a nod for some seats and menus. But she didn’t. And I thought there must be one more. As the leader of the group, she wasn’t ready to sit down. There was someone they were waiting for.
The third girl, a red-head who I thought looked a little like Suzette, didn’t seem to be engaged at all in the back and forth of the first two girls. Rocking on her feet, heel to toe, and gripping her school backpack, she seemed almost bored. Her eyes wandered around the diner with an interest in looking everywhere, but without looking anywhere. When the bell chimed and the door opened, number four came in to join the first three. Number four wore straight jet black hair, and if not for the loss of an inch or two in her height, she could easily have been the girl that the others followed. Soon after joining her friends, all four girls were together, and Blonde looked over to me and Ms. Potts.
“You want this one?” I asked, almost pleaded, with Ms. Potts. She gave the girls a quick look up and down, and then shook her head a stout “no.”
“Coffee and tears is all that’ll be there, fairly certain of it – I’m not up for teeny-girl storytelling. All yours, go get 'em,” she answered.
“Really, are you sure? Are you sure you’re not interested?” I joked and laughed. But Ms. Potts held her face firm – eventually I saw a smile and heard a giggle as I picked up some menus and started walking toward the girls. By now, they’d selected their own booth and seated themselves. Or, should I say, Blonde did the seat selection, pointing out who should sit where.
“You sit here. And you sit there, and I’ll sit here – of course, and, well… you can sit next to me,” I heard her say as I approached.
“Afternoon, can I get you girls started with anything to drink?” I asked as I handed them each a menu.
“Four coffees, please,” Blonde ordered for the group. Red, who looked the youngest, crinkled her nose and put on a face that told me she wanted something else.
“Is there something else I can get for you?” I asked, directing my words to Red. She raised her eyes and started to smile, but then turned in Blonde’s direction. Blonde fixed a thinly veiled frown on Red, and while the glimpse lasted only a second, I recognized the power of it. Growing up, we’ve all had one of those friends. Black toyed with her hair, running long fingers through it, and snapped her gum, which cracked and popped as she chewed the air out of it.
“Oh, stop –” Black started, “How about four coffees and two chocolate milks? Please.” Black gave Red a smile.
“That’s fine – four coffees, and some chocolate milk,” Blonde followed in a tone that sounded condescending and mean.
“And two straws, please,” Red insisted.
“Really? Again with the two?” Blonde scolded. Red straightened her shoulders defensively.
“Has to be two, otherwise the first one will be lonely.” When Red finished her explanation, Black began laughing, and didn’t seem to care that Blonde gave her a look that said to stay out of it. Black’s lower lip pooched out as she shook squinted eyes at Blonde. I felt like I was going to start laughing right there – but I didn’t.
“Can we get three chocolate milks?” the girl who was crying asked in a sparrow-like voice. I had to lean in close to hear what she asked when she repeated her order. Blonde rolled her eyes, and by then, I expected no less. Blonde passed another disapproving look around to the three other girls before her eyes settled on me.
“We’ll have four coffees and four chocolate milks,” she requested, a smile of her own breaking through. I guess the truth is in the order.
“I’m gonna mix some of mine together – like an iced mocha coffee,” Red said to nobody in-particular, and giggled. “How about you, what are you going to do?” Red asked Brown, who’d already lost interest, and turned her eyes back to the table.
That is when the crying started again. Almost without pause, Brown began to bawl. Her freckles disappeared in the red that lifted through her cheeks. I looked over to Ms. Potts, but by now, she’d gone to the back to work with Clark, or watch Wheel of Fortune with him. And I wished I could, too. I’d seen my share of shed tears in the booths, but never from someone this young. I hated to admit it – I was nervous. There were no words that came to me. No wisdom or clever sayings. Nothing.
“I’ll be back with your order,” I heard myself say, and felt ashamed that I didn’t say something more. Anything at all that might help Red. On days when Suzette would come to us broken and hurt, I felt that I knew what to say. I knew what to do. But this afternoon, I didn’t know. Not a clue. As I began pulling together glasses of chocolate milk, Ms. Potts grabbed a glass to lend a hand.
“Poor girl’s a mess. So, is it a breakup? Ditched by a boy? What’s the story?” she asked, her eyes eager to hear more, as though this were an afternoon soap we never got to watch. After all, it was Clark’s portable TV – game shows, and sometimes a news show. Nothing more.
“I don’t know, yet. She just started crying.”
“Young girls. Could be anything. We was young once, too,” Ms. Potts laughed, and then continued, “And you still is,” she finished, and patted my back.
The crying slowed by the time I placed the glasses of chocolate milk and cups of coffee in front of the girls. Brown’s cheeks were stained with tears that continued a steady flow, like the rains outside. Some of the tears fell from her cheeks onto the table, leaving behind tear craters that reached out in every direction. I watched as one fell onto her school uniform, where it disappeared into the blue tweed of her jacket.
“Hunny, you okay?” I asked. While the order might have been the usual coffee and tears, the chocolate milk was indeed a better fit. Through the sobs, Brown was eagerly sucking down the chocolate milk. From my count, she saved only a sip or two for the coffee.
“We don’t know,” Blonde jumped in. Her voiced was gruff and meant to sound annoyed. “None of us know what’s going on, do we?” she continued, almost reprimanding Brown for not telling them why she was crying.
“Really?” Black and Red pitched their voices, berating in near unison. “When she wants to tell us… if she wants to tell us, then she will,” Black finished, and pitched up her coffee cup in my direction, asking for more. Unlike her friend, Brown, Black was enjoying the coffee.
Curiosity was getting the better of me, and I didn’t want to leave before hearing what the story was. From the amount of crying, I was already guessing it had something to do with a boy. From the rain pelting the front of the diner’s window, to Clark’s shuffling of spatulas, pots, and pans, Angela’s is a small diner, and sometimes, thankfully, the sounds carry to all corners. As I turned for the coffee pot, Ms. Potts was already standing by my side, coffee pot in hand.
“Coffee?” she asked with a smile that I thought spoke more of genuine interest and curiosity than it
did politeness. Ms. Potts winked at me. She wanted to hear the story, too.
“Thank you,” Black started to say, but then the tears interrupted again, and Brown’s face turned to a mess that she pushed into the palms of her hands.
Blonde leaned up in her seat, and yelled, “You see? This is what she’s been doing all day. And she won’t tell us what’s wrong.” Ms. Potts raised her hand and motioned a polite “settle down.”
Brown dropped her hands hard onto the table. Coffee cups jumped and spilled over, spoons rattled in their empty chocolate milk glasses.
“I’m pregnant, OKAY?” Brown hollered, and pushed her face back into her hands.
I jumped along with the other girls when I heard Brown yell. And when I realized what she’d said, my heart felt heavy, and I thought it skipped for a moment, while I tried to catch a breath that wouldn’t come. Suddenly, I had a memory from a lifetime ago, but it passed as Ms. Potts moved forward to kneel next to Brown. Her knees sounded a loud pop as she made her way down so their eyes were near level. I remained standing. By now, I had the coffee pot in my hand and had refreshed each cup, whether the girls needed it or not. I wasn’t leaving.
“Girl, are you certain?” Ms. Potts asked, as she laid her hand on the young girl’s back.
“Yes… well, I think I am. Jimmy thinks I am, too, and now he won’t even talk to me,” Brown struggled to say, as a stutter of air caught her words. All the girls were listening now. Red stayed busy, her lips pursed on the two straws as she pulled more chocolate milk from the glass. Blonde and Black both exchanged sweeteners and creamers for their coffee.
An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 2
