In the meantime, here I sit, settled into the chair at my desk, gazing through the office window. Braydon, who was our first hire, is in the kitchen garden, harvesting lettuces that we’ll use for tomorrow’s menu. A tall, thin man with a quiet manner and perfect teeth—white, shiny, and square—he possesses an air of gravitas. At this moment, however, his motions appear broad, his gesticulations wild. What could he be saying to Sam and Sandra—nicknamed Sun Beam—that would arouse such passion?
I straighten with a jolt, my smartphone jarring me out of my reverie. Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch” ringtone alerts me it’s David, my live-in boyfriend. Feeling his presence in the room, I smooth my hair and moisten my lips. Dropping my voice an octave, I answer in a whisper.
“Hey, sweetie. Whatcha need?”
“Baby girl. You know what I need.”
“Haven’t I taught you the rewards of patience?” My inflection captures the purr of a promise.
“All work and no play makes David a very sad boy.” He clears his throat. “Why was I calling? Oh yeah. Could you bring home the electric drill I lent Braydon? He was using it to install the soap canister next to the hand sink.”
“No worries. It’s already in my bag. Before you get going on the bathroom, you need to secure the shelf above our bed. The next time the headboard rams against the wall, the shelf might fall down. It will kill me before you do.”
“God forbid we let that happen.” I can see him smiling that rascal smile.
After our good-byes, I slump back into the chair and push aside a stack of cookbooks. Placing several grease-stained prep lists into the recycle bin, my gaze wanders back through the panes. Sam is my first cousin on my father’s side. She and Sun Beam are harvesting the first of the late-May crops. Now that school’s out for summer, Sun Beam will be coming into work with her mother, LaQuisha.
A burst of beaming light, Sun Beam wears braided cornrows pulled into ponytails that trail down her back. Her round glasses magnify her brown eyes so that they appear owlish—solemn, shiny, and believing. She is nine years old. Her molars are loose, and new front teeth are coming in crooked.
Lella, a young woman we recently hired to wait tables, walks toward the trio, a woven basket in her hands. She has the long, muscular frame, flat waistline, and chest of a thirteen-year-old gymnast. Her pale complexion and gleaming face are topped with an asymmetrical haircut, which is dyed in streaks of tangerine and strawberry, the colors of the poppy tattoo on her upper arm.
She bends down, hands the basket to Sun Beam, and throws back her head, laughing at something the girl says. At Lella’s arrival, the group’s tension seems to melt away. She has that effect on people. She straightens, then returns to the diner.
Braydon resumes cutting off the scalloped lettuce leaves at soil level. Afraid of bruising the tender fronds, he makes sure his motions are gentle as he hands them to Sam, who places them in the basket. In the few months he’s worked for us, he’s made himself invaluable. He was part of a volunteer group loosely organized to help revitalize the area. Helping us update the diner prior to its opening was his first project.
In fact, Braydon pointed out how the electrician screwed up the furnace wiring by running a 120-volt line into a 220-volt circuit. After the worker left, the motor wouldn’t run. Braydon corrected the mistake, but what galls me is that the electrician claimed that he checked, and the furnace was in working order. We paid him hard cash from our closely guarded funds, while Braydon worked for free. I took solace in giving the guy a bad review on Angie’s List. I hope no one else has to suffer from his inefficiencies. A place could catch fire from bad wiring.
With the savory leftovers Braydon brought the volunteers from his home kitchen—the delicate, crumbling biscuits, smoked pulled pork, and creamy chess pies—we discovered he was also an excellent cook.
Counting out the singles, I watch as Sam rests her hands on his shoulder. Their discussion appears to carry weight. Perhaps that upsetting customer returned for lunch—the guy who offended Lella with his vulgar and derisive teasing. We’ve been brainstorming ways of handling situations such as this, but it’s not the sort of discussion they’d be having with the child.
Distracted by the scene in the garden, I lose track of my counting. I recount the singles, secure them with a rubber band, and place them into the money bag stamped WELCOME HOME. Then I tap my computer and review the employee schedule for next week. That’s when Lella’s moving, and she requested the time off, so I’ll ask Braydon if he can, once again, work overtime.
Braydon has been whipping up soul food, which our clientele has embraced. Our most recent signature dish is what he refers to as a “mess of greens” served with potlikker. Potlikker, beloved by all citizenry below the Mason-Dixon, remains a foreign brew to most Yankees. Unless you’re from Detroit, where many locals have extended roots in the South.
Potlikker is the broth left behind after simmering the greens with pork, and is best served with corn pone for dunking. Would that the world were as amicable as our menu. Who would guess Southern soul food would coexist happily with Polish cooking and farm-to-table heartland fare?
I sigh, shut down the program, and stare out the window. They’ve harvested a large basket of greens—plenty for the Heirloom Salad with Blue Cheese Croutons on tomorrow’s menu. Braydon tucks his shears beneath his armpit. The three of them rise, and Sam pulls them into her, orchestrating a group hug. Sam can enlighten me as to their discussion when we return home after work. As the trio enters the corridor through the back door, their chatter now sounds casual.
Everyone warned us, said our going into business together would ruin our relationship. As it turns out, they were wrong. Sam and I shared the same crib, the same bottle, and the same toys. We shared our grandparents, Babcia and Dziadek. If I ever forget a piece of my history, I just ask Sam. It’s only logical we’d share the same business. I could never have wished for a better partner, or a better city in which to build a career.
But, so far, we haven’t attracted the customer base needed to survive. It could be the weather. These past few months, business has been conducted in a fusillade of snow, icy sleet, and rain. When it’s not raining, Detroit’s thinking about raining, and the walls in the kitchen sweat from the heat of simmering pans and humidity. It’s difficult mustering up a smile for those few patrons who don’t mind trading damp socks for a hot bowl of soup.
Aside from that one offensive man, we’ve been cooking for a handful of Detroit-area sympathizers—friendly folks more curious about the crazy women who had the stupidity to open a diner in one of the more dangerous parts of town than desirous of our made-from-scratch flapjacks and pastries.
And then there are the money worries. Some weeks we barely make payroll for our three-person staff, much less ourselves. Sixty percent of restaurants go under in their first year of business; eighty percent fail within five. You gotta know that stat’s higher in Detroit. I worry The Welcome Home Diner might fall prey to next year’s data. I try not to make this concern my mantra.
Nevertheless, Detroit is fertile ground—major corporations are beginning to pour billions into downtown revitalization, betting their money on the city’s recovery. Small businesses such as ours also have a stake in this rally. If we ever get our footing, we’ll hire David’s father’s construction company to build an addition. My eyes scan the empty, hard-packed soil bordering the garden. We have the acreage.
I shove the money bag into the safe beside the desk. Sam’s dad, Uncle Andrew, configured it to be disguised as a laminate panel in the wall. If Braydon continues to earn our trust, he’ll be the next employee we’ll train to cash out.
After closing the office door behind me, I walk through the corridor, which divides the back kitchen from the office, and pass through the swinging doors opening to the diner. The restaurant is divided into three areas. The main floor—which would seat up to thirty-four patrons if filled to capacity—houses two six-tops, four four-tops, and three two-tops. It
’s framed by large windows, which suffuse the area with sunlight, and looks out to the parking lot and East La Grande Avenue.
The second area is the counter space, which is, in effect, a Formica bar, original to the restaurant. A soft shade of wintergreen, it’s embossed with a pattern of tiny boomerangs the color of doves. Pearlescent stools are permanently affixed to the floor and seat an additional twelve patrons. The counter stretches the length of the diner and divides the main floor from the third space, the prep area. This is where the action takes place, and is the highlight of the performance.
The best seat in the house—if you don’t mind being perched on a seat that’s as hard as the head of a nail—is at the center of the counter. Sun Beam’s mother, LaQuisha, works the grill. We call her Quiche, for short. Watching the blur of her arm as she flips pancakes on the flattop, your eyes wander to the stacks of mismatched china and Ball jars filled with pickled vegetables, lining shelves above the sink. When your eyes slide down the counter, you’re mesmerized by the swirl of straws in iced teas and chocolate egg creams.
In the background you listen to layers of sound: flapjacks hissing on the grill; murmurs of conversation punctuated by the rattle of plates and cutlery being set at a table; hot, sultry bebop jazz tenor saxophonist Lucky Thompson, who grew up in this area—the city’s East Side—killing his horn.
You inhale a tingling blast of aromatherapy when lavender-lime soda is placed between your hands. Taking a cooling sip, you feel a jolt when a child’s hand knocks against your wrist as she reaches for the syrup—tapped from Northern Michigan maples. And then your fork sinks into a tender pile of buttermilk pancakes, pats of melting butter oozing down the stack, apple and walnut islands in the syrup. You slide the morsel into your mouth—mmmmm, this is how food is supposed to taste.
These are the sensorial pleasures we hope our customers feel when dining in our establishment. As if you’re having breakfast or lunch in an anachronism, transported to an era set in the midcentury. Timeless. Floating. Blessedly minus the thorny issues of segregation that plagued the country in those swept-away years—we’re proud of our diverse and talented staff.
It’s a world of our creation, an oasis for our customers. This world, however, is no nirvana for the workers. We must smile when a customer complains about the wait for a sandwich, or comp a check, even if the offending item was licked clean from the plate. We take responsibility and beg pardon to other customers if someone’s kid throws a tantrum, then rush for crayons and paper to placate that child.
But now it’s half past two, and we’re closed for the day. Free from patrons, we’re transported to a place where we can let down our guard. As I cast my eyes around the scene, Braydon, Lella, and Sam are clearing tables. Sun Beam sits at the counter, in front of her a tricked-out sausage. She enjoys experimenting with leftovers after the restaurant is closed. As her mother shuts down the grill, she turns to face her child, gesturing with a knife as she speaks.
“What in heaven’s name have you got on that plate, child?”
“Stop waving that blade around, Mama. You look like a flying ninja. Hot dogs are delicious with mayo and stuffed with fries.” Sun Beam, throat stretched, chirps like a chickadee, twittering nonstop.
“Why, girl, I never,” Quiche replies, scrunching her nose. She returns the knife to the drawer and retrieves a spatula. She scrapes it across the carbonized flattop, glistening with grease, clearing it of burned bits of bread, bacon, and other relics from today’s special. With the palm of her hand, she brushes away her shiny black bangs.
“Fries have no place on a wiener. A hot dog cries out for mustard, ketchup, and relish.” She pauses and looks sideways, casting her eyes over her shoulder. “And who ever heard of using mayo? It’s un-American.” Making tsk-tsk sounds, she turns to regard Sun Beam, her spatula pointing at her daughter as if she were a teacher admonishing an unruly student with a ruler.
“Pasty gobs of goo squeezing outta that bun—I’m queasy watching you eat that mess.”
Her gaze holds steady on her child. They have the same heavy-lashed, wide-set eyes; round as disks, the irises are a coppery brown. I climb onto a stool and sit beside the girl.
“You tell her, Addie. She won’t listen to me. You spend your life trying to get folks to eat right.”
“No worries, Quiche,” I say, wiping a smudge of mayo away from the rim of her plate. “Murray Hills out of Novi hand-makes the links using organic chicken. Sam made the potato buns this morning, and what could be healthier than baked sweet potato fries?” I place a hand on Sun Beam’s shoulder and give a little squeeze. “She’s right. I’ll bet our homemade mayo tastes delicious on the dog.”
“I told you so, Mama,” says the child, adjusting her glasses and giving her mother a solemn know-it-all nod of her head.
Quiche raises her brow at me, seeming to weigh my words. I always get the feeling that she’s not quite sure my opinions are to be trusted. Pursing her lips, she returns to the grill.
“But you need something green,” I say, wiping the corner of Sun Beam’s mouth with a napkin. “And so do I.”
I pat her hand, slide off the stool, and circle back behind the counter. At the cold station, I make a spinach salad with hard-cooked eggs and smoky bits of bacon. I ladle on our lemony house dressing and, with prongs, pull some of the salad from the bowl and place it on Sun Beam’s plate. “Here ya go, hon. A jolt of iron to keep you strong.”
Babcia (a Polish endearment for grandmother) would have approved of my nurturing. I regard her portrait, a black-and-white photograph of her when she was in her early thirties. Sam and I consider this picture our most important piece of decor. Sacred, in fact. It was taken in the late forties, after she had arrived in Ann Arbor. The photograph is crooked, so I slide a chair under her portrait and climb on top, stretching to straighten it.
Her white-blonde hair is twisted back into a bun. She wears a floral dress and the hint of a smile. What isn’t apparent is her complexion: a delicate alchemy of ivory and pearl; the color of her eyes: crystal blue; the sound of her laughter: clear and light; and her fragrance: a delicate whisper of crushed violet I always smelled on her collar.
I push the right edge of the photograph up and then wiggle the top edges of the frame so that her eyes are parallel with mine. No one could ever guess her courage by gazing into those eyes, so gentle and sweet. I can’t imagine the strength of character it would take to suffer through a war, leave all that’s familiar behind, and forge a new life in a strange, new land. Our eyes lock and I smile before hopping off the chair.
Braydon picks up my chair and takes it to the side of the diner. Sam, leaning into a mop handle, watches me, her eyes soft and thoughtful. We share the same memories of our grandmother. Then she bends above the bucket, returns the mop to the water, and swishes the gray ropes in the suds.
Sam
Lunch rush—if you could call it a rush—is over, and the diner just closed for the day. I glance at Addie’s profile shining through the office window as she cashes out. She turns her head to watch us we collect the greens.
Braydon sits on his haunches, tearing yellowed leaves away from a bunch of arugula. He places them on a pile of compost and swivels to face Sun Beam.
“I must have told you this story half a dozen times. You’re still not tired of hearing it?”
She shakes her head, a solemn expression on her cute little face.
He sighs, a smile playing about his mouth. “That dog was a sight. Poor little thing. She’d made herself a nest from rags and lived under the expressway. I’ll never forget the day I found Bon Temps.” He digs out a dandelion that’s invaded the garden.
“A tornado struck Detroit the day before. That twister cut a four-mile path of destruction.” Forehead lined, eyes stretched wide, he raises his arms, swirling them about his head. “Almost one-hundred-mile-an-hour winds, the city’s never seen anything like it. I was twelve years old.”
“That’s the most terrible story I’ve eve
r heard. I hope a tornado doesn’t hit town when I turn twelve.” Through the thick frames of her glasses, Sun Beam gapes at Braydon in goggle-eyed admiration.
“Her fur was soaking wet,” he continues, “clinging to her ribs, which stuck out in angles.”
I wrap my jacket tighter around my shoulders. His words and the damp chill in the air are causing me to shiver. We’re taking advantage of a cease-fire in the rain to harvest the first of the cold-season crops.
His dog lies next to Sun Beam, holding her muzzle high in the air. Her snout expands, as if relishing the smells emanating from the diner. Braydon brings her to work, and she often hangs out with Hero, my dog, in the garden. As our conversation loops around dogs and tornadoes, Lella brings us the basket we had trouble locating.
No one can dismiss Bon Temps in a glance. In the world of unusual dogs, she stands alone. Judging from her short, stubby legs, extended body, and wavy coat of hair, Braydon guesses her to be a spaniel-dachshund mix. Her tail points to the sky in a flash of gold lightning finished off with a fluffy pom-pom. Long wisps of fur dangle from the tip, like ribbons festooning a parade float. Identical tendrils dangle from the summit of her long, upright ears like an ancient Chinese headdress.
Lella returns to the diner, and Sun Beam rubs the tip of Bon Temps’s cotton-ball tail between her thumb and forefinger, which she says helps the dog relax.
“How’d you find her?”
“I didn’t find her. She found me. I didn’t know she was following me until I stopped to tie my shoe. She trotted up and licked my fingers. Her fur was so wet it seemed glued to her bones.” Braydon puts his hand under Bon Temps’s chin, lifting her head. “And look at those eyes. How could I say no to those big brown eyes?”
“Her eyes look like yours,” says Sun Beam.
She’s right. Braydon has large eyes, the color mirroring his skin, the golden ash brown of forest wood. He’s only twenty-two years of age, but those weatherworn eyes seem to have many stories to tell.
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 3
