An Order of Coffee and Tears

by Spangler, Brian

  Sandra’s words were mesmerizing. I felt my heart racing, and it wasn’t just the excitement of it, it was the pride. I could hear it in her voice. Amazing.

  “You’ll have to stop back in during your drive home – I’d love to meet your hero,” I exclaimed, almost demanded, and beamed with a smile.

  When the bell over the door rang, another chilly breeze fell inside the diner, as a balding man entered. His face was tired, his cheeks sunken. Dark gray pouches carried his eyes, which were blood shot and wet. He lifted his face just enough to see me and Sandra. Sandra turned, their eyes connected, and he gave a nod and walked toward us. When he reached the counter, he sat down. Tossing his keys to drop on the counter in front of him, he again lifted his chin just long enough to look at me.

  “Coffee,” he said in a voice that was gruff and broken. The smell of whiskey carried with him. I wrinkled my nose to the smell of it when he spoke.

  “Sure thing,” I answered, and poured the coffee. After a taste, he stood and told Sandra he was going to the restroom, and that he’d be back in a few minutes. He told her that they should get back on the road, that they had some hours left in their drive to Delaware. When he walked toward the restroom, I wanted to ask Sandra if he was okay. He didn’t look as though he’d had one too many at the Irish pub down the street, but he didn’t seem right. There was something more.

  “That’s my husband,” she started to say. Picking up her purse, she fumbled through the contents and pulled out a tube of lip-balm. I thought she was going to cry as she squeezed some on her finger and rubbed it across her lips. Her expression changed for a moment, and she cupped her mouth and closed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t mean to intrude… but is everything okay?”

  Sandra opened her eyes, put a hand on mine, and blinked away a tear.

  “My son is a hero. We’re going to Delaware to pick him up today,” she proclaimed. When she sat up, she cleared her throat and pulled back her hand.

  “My son is a hero. He saved that little boy and that little girl. He ran out of that minefield, and missed all the land mines. Except that last one. The girl survived, but my son died two days later.”

  The local news stations in the Philadelphia area often cover what is going on in Delaware. It is there that you’ll find the Dover Air Force Base, and a mortuary for the fallen soldiers returning home from overseas. I’d missed the connection. This wasn’t a visiting trip to Delaware. They were going to Dover to receive their son.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” was all I could think to say.

  “Just wish I had another chance. Just one,” she replied.

  “Chance?”

  “Tom enlisted to please his father. I know it. He wanted the approval,” she started to say, her voice echoing in angry sarcasm. Shifting in her seat, she gave the restroom a hard look, as though she could see clear through the walls. “I blame him, you know,” she continued.

  “Ma’am, what your son did was an amazing and heroic thing.” It was my turn to receive the hard look, and I thought I’d overstepped with my words. Her face softened and relaxed, and she nodded in silent agreement.

  “If I could do it all over again, I’d stand up and scream at Tom. I’d scream at them both, and say, listen, Mr. Thomas Grudin, you are not enlisting. I don’t care what your father says,” she huffed loud enough to turn the eyes of Ms. Potts. Sandra raised a hand to indicate she was okay. My heart fell deep inside as a sudden rush of sadness filled me.

  “Thomas Grudin?” I asked, and Sandra nodded.

  “Tommy?” I asked, and wondered if this was Tommy Grudin, a boy I’d grown up with. The boy who’d been my first kiss?

  Sandra raised her brow and said, “My stars, we haven’t called him that in years. Up through ninth grade, he was fine with Tommy, but by tenth grade, he insisted we call him Tom. But how did you know?”

  Memory bubbles surfaced, including the one I’d pushed down years before. This was Mrs. Grudin sitting across from me, my neighbor from my home town of Fairview, Texas. Was it possible? Could this be the same Mrs. Grudin, who, from time to time, bandaged my skinned knee and treated me to pop-tarts and milk?

  “Ma’am, I grew up in Fairview, Texas. I grew up with a Tommy Grudin. My name is Gabby Santiago,” I told her. Sandra’s eyes opened wide as she reached and touched my face. A large smile blossomed as her cheeks turned red, and she chuckled with a sound of surprise and disbelief.

  “Gabby? Gabby Santiago?”

  “Yeah. It’s me,” I answered. My heart warmed, and I could feel a little glow of my own beginning to surface around my neck and on my cheeks. Mrs. Grudin pawed at my face, her smile stretching as she repeated my name a few more times. Memories rifled through my head, and a reservation doused my heart. This was the first person from home I’d had contact with since leaving Fairview. I’d lost my way, and there was a reason for it. I saw Tommy’s face in my mind, and the heaviness in my heart took all my thoughts.

  “Tommy is dead,” I heard myself say, and wished I could have rephrased it.

  “He was always so fond of you, Gabby. He really was. And look at you, now. Oh, my girl, such a beautiful young woman you’ve grown up to become. Oh, and your parents, they must be so happy and so proud,” she said, but then stopped, and I could see the questions forming. I knew what was coming. Mr. Grudin came back to the counter to collect his keys and drink down more of his coffee. Mrs. Grudin’s manner changed almost immediately. The questions she had were gone. Her face went without expression as she gathered her things. I considered what she’d said earlier: “He won’t finish, till he drowns it.” I’d wondered what she meant by that, but by now, I think I understood.

  As I waved a hand to Mrs. Grudin, she broke her empty expression, and said, “We split our time between here and Fairview, and I see your parents a few times a month. I’ll make sure to mention seeing you,” she told me, and before I could tell her not to, she was already headed out the door.

  6

  Philadelphia didn’t see its first snow storm until we were well into February. By then, the weather thermometer mounted outside the diner’s door struggled to crawl out of the single digits at night. During the day, the feeling of the sun on your face was just a memory as the cold held the thermometer somewhere in the twenties. But on this particular week, the thermometer’s silvery finger stretched to reach almost thirty degrees as a new front came up the coastline. Having passed through the Gulf, it’s a Nor’easter, I heard a few say. At first, I thought I’d heard “North Easter” and even repeated it to a few who were interested in listening. A stout correction was quick and firm. It’s Nor’easter, I was told, and was sure to phrase it correctly the second, or maybe third, time.

  Till now, we’d only seen a couple of small clippers that delivered a coating of the white stuff. There were also a few storms that spilled rain and caked everything in a thin sheet of ice, but we hadn’t seen anything like this. The latest forecast came with its own set of severe winter warnings and advisories. At first, I’d dismissed the warnings as just some news. Soon after, a small flutter of excitement woke in me, and it had an appetite for more. Two feet of snow was expected to fall over a period of just twelve hours: a fast storm with a lot of snow. Now, who doesn’t like that?

  Growing up in Texas, I saw my share of spring storms. Some were the heaviest you could imagine, with lightning skating across dark skies, and thunder that rattled our windows. We even had a few tornadoes touchdown in our town, and felt the western reach of a hurricane’s hand. And once, we survived a flood that carried off one of our cars. But this was my first snow storm. I hated to admit it – I was a storm junkie, and I could hardly contain myself. A smile stayed fixed on my face, and the flutter of excitement grew warmer, keeping my feet moving. As I worked each table and met new faces, the same conversations were just a word or two away.

  Did you hear about the weather coming? What’s the latest? When is it going to start? I couldn’t get enoug
h of it. When new faces sat down, I was sure to work the weather into the conversation. First, I’d take their orders, of course, but then it was my turn. Heck of a storm coming, did’ya know? I’d ask, and if they hadn’t heard, or wanted to know what the latest forecast was… well, I was more than happy to oblige and spill all that I knew. Sometimes I’d get clever and engage the neighboring booths. A real provocateur I was, churning up the excitement like a chef cooking for a king. Necks stretched and turned, elbows and arms cradled the back of the booths, amateur forecasts volleyed back and forth in a burst of heightened speculation. I heard three feet… well, I heard snow will fall up to four inches an hour. Delicious. I ate it up. Why wouldn’t I? By now, I’d seen some snow, but this was a storm – a massive storm.

  There were those who saw the storm as a nuisance, or who thought the forecast was just hyped up news. Admittedly, there were some reservations, but I dismissed their commentary. How dare they spoil my excitement? Of course, I didn’t say that aloud. For most of them, like Ms. Potts, I thought they were putting on a front. I told myself that, deep down, they were stifling any excitement and waiting to see what happened. Maybe when there were a few flakes in the air or an inch or two, on the ground to kick your feet through, I’d see the enthusiasm, and they’d join in.

  When my tables were all served and I had nobody waiting for me to seat them, Ms. Potts waved an okay for me to take a break. There was no hesitation; I couldn’t wait any longer, and grabbed my coat. A snowflake wandered past me as I left the diner. Another followed, and I reached my hand out and plucked it from the air. Standing on the diner’s stoop, an older gentlemen walking with a cane offered a polite hello.

  “Smells like snow, doesn’t it?” he asked in a voice that whistled as he spoke. I wanted to laugh. How can anything smell like snow? But I answered, “Sure – we’re gonna have a heck of a good storm, aren’t we?” He agreed, and continued on his way. But there was something different in the air, too. It was fresh and damp and very cold, which pinched my chest when I drew in a deep breath. I suppose it did smell like snow. Sure, I’d heard the expression before, but I’d never experienced it.

  More snowflakes fell. They were the smaller, fluffy kind that didn’t turn or stray. The snow flurries hurried as more appeared around me. White fireflies – the bigger snow flurries – reminded me of the slow wandering of the glowing bugs as I plucked another from the air. The ground was cold, and the snow didn’t melt when the flakes landed.

  Within a few minutes, I could make out thin white drifts that gathered on the black asphalt and swirled over the street as a cold breeze pick up from behind me. The sight of it was new, and it was beautiful. When I stretched my eyes as far down the street as I could, a wall of snow filled my view. The snow was falling fast, and at a steadier pace. It was happening. The storm was here. Pockets of white stretched and pulled and slithered across the road like a snake racing to catch its prey. Only, the prey was the cars jockeying along the street’s curb, looking to park and hibernate during the storm.

  Most of the stores were closed, or were in the process of closing. Other than our diner, I expected to find one other place still open: the Irish pub across from us. Both of our places would do well tonight. After all, what a way to celebrate a good storm!

  By the time the first orange glow of street lights could be seen through the diner’s front window, Philadelphia had over six inches of snow. This was officially the most snow I’d ever seen at any one time. And Angela’s, well… we stayed open, and I was the happier for it. Let’s face it: we lived just a few blocks away, and our night would have been filled with the same activities – watching the latest forecast on the news, and staring out the window.

  A handful of our regulars stayed with us, and I liked having the familiar faces around. There were at least a dozen of them; a snow party, I liked to call it. Keep on Truckin´ was one of mine who’d stopped in for a meal. I could almost always expect to see him on Mondays and Thursdays. He ordered his usual, and kept an eye on the falling snow through the window. He told me he was trying to decide if getting on the road tonight was such a good idea – I didn’t think so.

  At one point, Clark brought his portable TV to the front and placed it on the counter so that everyone could watch and listen to it. As small as that screen was, I doubt many could see more than a blur of flickering gray light coming from that little white box. But that didn’t stop those in the furthest of booths from straining to see the screen.

  The TV painted dim white light on the faces of those who’d moved in closer to watch. A few thanked Clark for bringing his portable out to the front, while others gave a nod and a wave in his direction. I saw a smile on Clark’s face. It was brief, but I saw it. The different shades of gray light danced a funny jig as the screen went bright and dark. Everyone’s eyes widened to eat up the images from the screen of the TV when the forecasted snow totals were shown.

  The small figure of a weatherman walked across the screen, pointing to a large map behind him, showing the different areas of Philadelphia. He waved his arms to demonstrate how the storm was moving up the coast and creeping inland. He talked of the expected snowfall amounts, which everyone enjoyed hearing. He told us about the possibility of snow drifts burying parked cars, and said to expect power outages. He even talked about a food-shopping-meter to gauge the strength of the storm. Philadelphia was approaching an eight out of ten. Ms. Potts laughed when the weatherman fixed his own cartoon grin next to the animated food-shopping-meter on the screen. She let out another giggle before telling everyone that Angela’s had more than enough food. It was true, too: Angela’s was full of food. At the last check, I did an inventory count, and didn’t expect we’d work up a food order for at least another week, maybe two. A crazy thought crossed my mind. What if the drifting snow buried us? What if we were stuck in the diner for days? A week, even?

  The collected group in front of the screen sounded a small cheer when our section of the city was mentioned. The cheer grew louder when the weatherman announced that our area was expected to be one of the hardest hit. Butterflies flew and flipped somersaults in my gut, and my heart rose in my chest. More snow. Just for us. I felt giddy. Even Ms. Potts was joining in as I saw her shaking her head with an awed expression playing behind the gray-light reflecting from her glasses. She pushed up on the thick frames and clapped her hands, letting out another giggle when the screen flashed the food-shopping-meter on the screen once more.

  “Turn that up,” Keep on Truckin´ hollered from his booth. “Gotta know if I’ll be heading to Virginia later tonight, or canceling altogether.” He held his coffee cup up in the air and gave me a wink. I filled his mug and asked what time he thought he’d need to leave. He wore a thick mustache and a goatee that was at least a year or more grown out. Coffee dripped from his mustache whiskers as he talked about his trip to Sterling, Virginia.

  “South of us is getting some snow, too,” he said, “but nothing like here in Philly.” He went on to tell me that as long as the '95 Corridor stayed open, he could leave by midnight. Keep on Truckin´ was a solid regular of mine during the last year, a comfortable regular. He was my first regular that I’d adopted from Ms. Potts a few weeks after I’d started. Two, and sometimes three, days a week I’d served him hash and eggs with a side of rye toast. I didn’t want to see him on the road. Not tonight.

  “You’ll be stuck like the rest of 'less you get to leaving before that next foot of snow falls,” someone rebutted from the counter. When I went back to offer more coffee, Keep on Truckin´ had already put his money on the table, and with another wink of his eye, said,

  “Think they might be right. Time for me to get on the road. Just need to get to Maryland, and I’ll be clear from there.” I followed him to the door and wished him a safe drive. I told him Sterling, Virginia would be there tomorrow if he needed to pull over and sleep the storm out. He gave me a peculiar smile.

  “Thanks, Mother, I’ll do that,” he laughed, and squeezed his face un
til I heard the sound of a lip-puckered kiss come from beneath his mustache.

  “Just be safe,” I added and jokingly wagged a finger in his direction as he left the diner.

  When I peered through the door to watch Keep on Truckin´ navigate the snow on foot, it occurred to me just how bad this much snow could be. The street lights, as far into the distance as I could see, told the story of how fast the snow was falling. Looking into their radiant dome shapes, washes of heavy snow pelted down on the streets at an incredible pace. It wasn’t like the flurries that seemed to float and go nowhere. It was practically raining snow. The thought of being here all night, or a couple of days, crossed my mind again. Certainly the morning shift wouldn’t be digging themselves out in time to prep for the rush in the morning. And then I laughed… what rush? Nobody would be digging out of this snow for at least another day.

  A dark figure of a man appeared in the snow. He approached the diner from the middle of the street. There were no plows, no cars. In fact, there was nothing at all. The black asphalt and parked cars and small lawns in front of the shops were all gone. Nothing was outside except a snow desert reflecting the orange-yellow glow of Philadelphia street lights. The desert was barren – empty, except for the figure of this one man.

  When the figure walked into the light of a street lamp, I could see a heavy trench coat hung over his broad shoulders, and a gentleman’s hat, the kind I’d seen at church when I was younger. A fedora, I think it was called. Only, his was pitched down to hide his face. When he was almost directly under the street lamp, a halo of orange light encircled him. The snow reached half the distance to his knees. While the figure of the man was easy enough to see, his face remained a secret, hidden behind a shadow cast by the brim of his hat.