Taller than me and a few years older, Jarod was the diner’s handyman. With unkempt brown hair that hung over his ears, and stray locks that fell in front of his eyes, I liked the messiness of his hair. Ms. Potts liked his hair, too – she’d poke fun some nights after he’d left the diner, motioning a whoosh of her hand to mimic him throwing back his thick bangs from in front of his eyes. While she might have liked his hair, she loved his dimples. Don’t you just wanna pinch 'em cheeks, eat 'em up? she’d squeal, and clap her hands, laughing.
Jarod showed up once a week. You could set your clock by him. He was never late, never missed a date. He always came once a week on Thursdays. He’d spend the afternoon fixing whatever needed fixing, and, when our list of to-do work was short, or when we had no list at all, which sometimes happened, he’d fall back on a list of his own. He called it his preventative maintenance list, and, with it, he’d work from corner to corner, and front to back. Angela’s Diner was just one of a dozen of his regular customers. He tended to all the stores on Park Street, and even a few on neighboring avenues.
“Gotta run to the hardware store,” he began, and lifted the empty light bulb box, “So, umm, I’ll see you when I get back?” he finished, raising his brow, as though asking.
“Well, duh,” I joked, and flipped up my waist apron. “I work here. Tell you what, when you get back. I’ll fix you a late lunch, early dinner. A man’s gotta eat, right?”
Jarod’s eyes grew, and his dimples appeared on his cheeks out of nowhere, like a magic trick, “Sure – I’d like that.” I offered a warm expression; not waitressy, but instead, just me. Walking him to the door, I couldn’t help but wonder if he liked my eyes too. When he was gone, Ms. Potts was waiting like a cat, ready to pounce on its prey.
“Mmmm-hmmm, you’re gonna fix my Jarod something? Girl, you like that boy, don’t you? You do, don’t you?” she said, letting out a small laugh. At first I thought she was joking. But then I considered my offer to fix him a meal, and thought of his eyes. Confused feelings stirred in me. I mean, I liked Jarod, but he was Jarod. Did I like him in that way? Years, I heard in my head. Not weeks, or months, but years. I hadn’t looked at anyone, or considered anyone, in years.
“Uhhh, no. Don’t get me wrong, Jarod is cute, but I was only being polite,” I answered cautiously. But hearing the sound of my voice, I wondered if Ms. Potts knew I was lying.
“Gabby, you know that boy likes you. As far I can see, he’s liked you the better half of the year. Didn’t you see the red warming up his cheeks when you was talking to him? So, you got nothing for him?” she asked, sounding disappointed. Heat crept up on my neck, and embarrassment settled deep inside. Grabbing a towel, I took to the counter, and wiped what didn’t need wiping. Ms. Potts joined in, and also wiped what didn’t need wiping. An unexpected rush of emotion squeezed my insides. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, and tried to keep my eyes to the counter in front of me.
Finally, I mumbled, “I haven’t looked at a boy like that in a long time.” And, suddenly, I felt terribly sad and unimportant. I stopped wiping the counter. I had to. Ms. Potts came around the counter to face me.
“Girl, it’s okay. Just thought you keeping company with someone your own age might be a good thing. Might be good for you,” she answered, and then added, “The boy does like you, though,” she finished with a whispered cheer to my ear. My heart thumped, and a warm feeling followed. The thought of a boy liking me wasn’t unknown or alien, it was just something I’d forgotten about until now. Ms. Potts nudged my arm. She nudged it again and again until I broke a smile and nudged her arm back. “Jarod got eyes for you, Gabby-girl… Jarod got eyes…” she sang to me with soft words.
“Do you think so?” I said, delighted. “Really?” I wondered if it was so, and then giggled at the thought, and at the song. We spent the next fifteen minutes talking about boys. Talking like two teenage girls would talk. And we even talked a little more about Jarod, and his dimples, and that hair. Before I knew it, I felt somewhat comfortable – maybe even a little normal.
8
It was my turn to work the newspaper’s crossword puzzle. Mondays are a slow day at Angela’s. They have been every week that I’ve worked at the diner. Just why that is… well, that’s anyone’s guess. As for the crossword, I penciled in a word, and then a second and third. And then, I found the first word was wrong. Annoyance gripped my hand when I found the pencil’s eraser had been chewed off. Gross. I’m partial to word-searches and pencil-mazes, anyway.
The tick and clack of a bug bumping against the front window pulled my eyes. A blur of black and iridescence bumped the glass a few more times before deciding to move on. It was the first bug of the spring season, and it was a big one. I kept to my seat. Most of the Philadelphia winter had melted away. My first major snow storm was just a fading memory. And, like most, I was looking forward to seeing little green spring buds on the trees, and dandelions interrupt the emerging patches of grass.
By now, the snow was gone from the lawns, and the grass was already starting to come alive with brighter colors that seemed to glow in the orange light of the setting sun. A few plowed mounds of winter snow remained in the supermarket parking lots. Eclipsed with black soot from the pollution of passing cars and trucks, they were more an eyesore than playful snowy reminders. But these, too, were shrinking, and I think the entire Philadelphia area was happy with that.
The mercury in the thermometer outside our door was stretching its silvery finger for the top lines. The silver reached past more lines from day to day. And folks passing by the diner were beginning to wear less. One day, the wool hats and thick scarves were gone. Soon after that, the gloves and mittens were off their hands, and their heavier winter coats were put away for the year. Even the teenagers passing the diner were donning lighter jackets. Teenagers and business-types, and an occasional elderly couple passed by Angela’s Diner with the same smiles and focused eyes eating up the warming sunlight. Springtime was on the way.
I saw Mr. Thurmon’s car pull up in front of the diner. He pushed his arms around the steering wheel, and parallel parked in one move. It was impressive and swift. Down in Texas, Mr. Thurmon wouldn’t have to parallel park. There is more of everything, and everything is bigger. I snickered at the thought, and wished to share the joke, but I was working alone this afternoon. Ms. Potts had a doctor’s appointment, and scheduled it weeks ago; we all scheduled appointments and such on Mondays, when the diner was at its slowest. There was Clark and me, and, for the most part, empty booths, counters, and lonely stool tops.
Mr. Thurmon was slow to get out of his car. I watched as he struggled to open the car door. He heaved a push until it was open, and, when he was ready, he swung his legs out and firmed his grip to help pull himself up. When he was standing, his face cramped and swelled to a red shine. He was trying to push the pain away. It was his arthritis. From the history Ms. Potts shared, Mr. Thurmon was following a course that ultimately took his mother.
As the pain passed, an odd expression remained on his face. It wasn’t success, or the triumph of standing, or even pride from having accomplished something. It was sorrow and vulnerability. And I think I understood what he might be feeling – it made me sad when I considered it. From this point forward, every day, that day, was going to be his best day for the rest of his life. Today, as he struggled with living with the pain in his body, today was going to be as good as he was ever going to feel. Today was his best day. Tomorrow, it would get worse, and the day after that, even worse. I jumped when a rush of wind blew up behind Mr. Thurmon as a truck passed within a few inches of hitting him. He jumped, too, and the rush of the truck cleared his expression to one of awe and shock. Today might have been the best day of the rest of his life, but it was also close to being his last.
While the diner was home to Clark, Ms. Potts, and me, I didn’t want to see it sold. I understood why Mr. Thurmon would want to let it go, though. I don’t think any of us would have done differently. When Mr. Thurmon
saw me through the window, he waved and pushed a smile onto his face. The crossword would wait; I was happy to get the door for him. Lasting for just a moment, the sound of cars and people and birds invaded the quiet of the diner. The smell of spring followed Mr. Thurmon, as the bell echoed above our heads. Almost on cue, Clark popped out from the back, and took to his station behind the grill.
“Afternoon, M-Mr. Thurmon,” Clark said, and motioned a wave with his spatula, as if saluting.
“How goes it, there, Clark? Cooking up a storm?” Mr. Thurmon asked, his voice fading, as he glanced around to the empty corners of the diner, and then back to the clean counters. He looked in my direction, his face a bit pinched with disappointment. “Anything today? Anything at all?”
“I saw a few tickets come in this morning, but nothing since Clark and I have been on,” I answered with a shrug of my shoulders. I hated having to tell him we opened this afternoon empty, and had stayed empty since.
As he walked around the counter to the cash register, there was a slow drag in his step; a stutter. Had it been there before, or had it just developed? I could see the tip of his right shoe catching some of the floor. Mr. Thurmon wore his lawyerly best, and looked handsome. I could imagine him twenty years younger – very handsome, indeed. His shoes, especially the right, bore scuff marks from the shoe tips and across the faces. Just how long has he had the arthritis? Maybe he felt something was wrong with him, but was quick to dismiss it. Maybe he pushed off any visits to the doctor’s office in favor of working. Or maybe he knew all along what was wrong, and that there was little to be done about it. He intentionally pushed the inevitable.
From the cash register, he gave an apologetic look, as if it were his fault the diner remained empty. As he stood there, arranging the register’s drawer, he flinched and pulled his hand up. He made a fist, then shook his fingers down at the ground. The same cramped expression showed briefly on his face before passing. My heart gushed, and I wanted to hug him and tell him how sorry I was that this was happening to him. I didn’t know his mother, but I did know him, and he was one of our family, too. I thought of him as our goofy uncle, the one who visits unexpectedly, and gets everyone riled up and laughing before disappearing until his next visit.
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t expect much different on a Monday. The day has never been a particularly good day,” he explained in a matter-of-fact way, and then asked, “Gabby, you alright?” The question was a surprise, and I wondered if I was just staring. I sometimes did that, not on purpose.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Thurmon. I’m fine, just a little tired, is all. Been cleaning, you know, time to lean, time to clean,” I answered back, and offered a grin that I hoped didn’t look as goofy as it sounded.
“Okay, then. No need to tire yourself,” he began, and gave the diner a once over with his eyes, “Does look good and clean enough to eat off of.”
“C-Can I fix you something, a q-quick meal?” Clark offered from behind the grill.
Mr. Thurmon paused, as if considering when he last ate, and looked at his watch to maybe confirm it.
“Ya know, Clark, yes. I think I’ll do just that. Thank you. How about a grilled cheese and some fries? And I’ll get my own coffee. And, Gabby, you have a customer,” he finished, and motioned to the door.
What I saw next was like something that had walked clear off the front of a magazine cover. A beautiful woman entered our little diner, wearing an emerald green evening gown. A glamorous figure with white skin and red hair draping around her shoulders with piercing green eyes that matched her gown, the woman looked stunning. I had to admit to being glad it was any day other than Thursday, and that Jarod was somewhere else – anywhere else.
Insecurity tugged at me, and I pulled my hands around my collar and waist apron, and tried to tidy my outfit. Next, my hands were in my hair, pushing back what might’ve strayed. I felt uncomfortable and frumpy standing in the same room with someone so lovely and radiant. It was a struggle to stay where I was. I wanted to go to the back, but Ms. Potts wasn’t here. Shuffling my feet, I watched and waited for the magazine cover in front of me to realize she’d entered the wrong building.
The woman seemed to float across the floor, her green dress hovering just above her feet, as glimpses of expensive heels peeked from beneath. A pearl necklace hung around the nape of her neck, their colors and sheen reminding me of the early spring clouds pushing out the winter. A foot in high heels appeared briefly through the dress’ slit, her shoes gave her a few inches of height, and were adorned in tiny gemstones, which reflected all the light in the diner.
Mr. Thurmon and Clark were both stopped, and standing in fixed poses – their eyes wide, mouths open. At some point, I began to wonder what in the world a magazine cover was doing in Angela’s Diner. But then the magazine cover was approaching me. She was looking at me. Lips the same shade of red as her hair filled my view, as the woman leaned in and kissed my cheek. Smells of herbal shampoos, and perfume, and expensive bath soaps filled my nose. She smelled as beautiful as she looked. And I thought I must smell as frumpy as I looked.
“You believe this looker, here? A real stunner. Mmmm!” I heard a shout from behind the magazine cover. It was Ms. Potts’ voice. Stepping back from the woman, I peered around the emerald green evening gown to find Ms. Potts standing behind her. Shaking her head, she eyed the magazine cover up and down, and repeated, “A real stunner, Suzette. You cleaned up good. Real good!” It was Suzette, and, yes, as Ms. Potts stated, she cleaned up good, real good.
“Gabby, do I look that different? I mean, I’ve got some make-up on, and had my hair done. I wanted to stop in and see you guys,” Suzette’s voice sang out in a surprise. And, as I looked at my friend, I found my eyes wandering to study different places. You know the ones. The place where there was a deep cut on her lip. And the place above her cheek that swelled and had blackened her eye. But they were clear. In fact, there was nothing there at all. Even the flower-petal bruises on her arm had disappeared. Like the winter storm, they were just a memory.
I’d seen enough by now to know that the bruises and the cuts healed, but the damage done was deeper. It was rooted in a place that make-up and heels and a nice dress couldn’t cover up. Suzette was my friend, though, and I was happy that she was happy. She was beautiful; a stunner, as Ms. Potts said a few more times.
“Oh my gosh, Suzette, you look amazing! We almost didn’t recognize you walking in here and looking like that. Did we?” I complimented, and turned to Clark and Mr. Thurmon. They continued to stand statuesque, their mouths agape, and shaking an agreeable no to my question. I looked for the drool to slip from their mouths, but it didn’t.
“Okay, boys, you can close your yaps, now.”
Mr. Thurmon blinked a comical flurry of his eyes, and giggled. “You look very beautiful. Special occasion?” he asked.
“We’re going to a dinner party – a celebration. And then later, I have some news. It’s a surprise for him,” she gleamed. “He is going to be so happy!”
Suzette twirled around for the men, smiling with an elegance that was so very fitting for her. There was a glow and confidence that made me happy to see it. She deserved a night to be a queen, a night to be waited and doted on. I was happy for her. We all were.
Suzette was back in the diner later that evening. I’d hoped I wouldn’t see her again. Not tonight, anyway. I think we all hoped we wouldn’t see her again. I’d hoped that the night she told us about would be hers. A fresh memory, a good memory. A memory that she could draw on when she needed to smile. That is what I had hoped for her. But that wasn’t what happened.
When Suzette entered the diner that evening, her hair was a twisted mess. Some of it had been pulled and ripped out. Just above her left ear, a large patch of her hair was missing. The color of her scalp stood out bright against the red of her hair, and was covered with dots of blood that had bubbled and dried. She repeatedly tried to cover her exposed head with some of her longer hair, but, after
a minute, it would fall back into place.
The cloudy pearls that draped across her neckline were gone. The elegance and beauty of Suzette’s dress was lost. The ripped and torn green fabric from below her neck line hinted to us the dress’ secrets of what had happened. From the top of her shoulder and down her left arm, a long patch of her skin was scraped away. Some of her skin remained torn open and bleeding. Blood traveled down, and dripped from her elbow, leaving crimson spots around her feet. It was a huge rash of scratches. Tiny stones sat embedded in her skin, with blood pushing around them. Some of the torn skin was beginning to weep a clear wetness, and scab over.
Suzette wasn’t crying, or telling us that it was her fault. Suzette didn’t say much of anything, at all. I think it was the silence that scared me. We’d seen her beaten before, far worse than this, in fact. But always, she talked to us, and let us talk to her. Her hand trembled, and her fingers felt like ice. It was cold outside, and she had nothing on but her ruined evening gown. I wondered how far she’d walked. She was just a pale version of the beautiful magazine cover that’d earlier come in to say hello. Her lips were a gray shade of blue, and it was then that I noticed how pale she actually was. While her skin was fair, Suzette looked pallid, almost ashen, with an empty stare in her eyes.
“Suzette, girl… can you tell us what happened to you?” Ms. Potts asked in a concerned voice. With a small towel and clean water, I started to wash the blood and what I thought might be road gravel from her shoulder.
“Suzette, are you hurt anywhere else?” Ms. Potts asked again, sounding like one of those shows on television with the emergency room doctors asking twenty questions. “Girl’s hurtin´ the way no woman should hurt,” Ms. Potts mumbled as she worked her way around Suzette.
An Order of Coffee and Tears Page 7
