Of course we came to share her point of view, our teen years in sync with the farm-to-table movement. The grassroots lobby to produce and consume locally harvested foods was no revelation to us; we’d eaten at this table our entire lives. Babcia was the original pioneer, the Alice Waters of Polish grandmothers.
When she died in her sleep, heartbreak blindsided Sam and me. Foundering under the weight of trying to bear such a loss, we broke down, we grieved, we grew up, we grew older. I compulsively checked my calendar, counting the Sundays the three of us met to cook—seventy-eight slashes in my timeline. I would give anything to fall back into one of those Sundays. All of those Sundays still weren’t enough.
One Sunday in particular stands out in my mind. It was during the time I was dating Graham Palmer. I was wrecked—my head pounding, rode hard from the prior evening’s partying. That morning I’d awakened in a room I didn’t recognize surrounded by stoned-out strangers, powder-smeared mirrors, and needles. There were more drugs spread out over the carpet than ground into the floor of a Nirvana tour bus.
Graham was nowhere to be found, so I called a cab and returned to my apartment. In an attempt to mask my shame, I patched myself up with a hot shower, Visine, and lipstick. But when rolling out the pierogi dough, I burst into tears, retreating into my Babcia’s arms.
I broke up with Graham just in time. Two weeks later he was busted for possession of heroin and dealing coke. Michigan has some of the most draconian drug-sentencing laws in the country, and he was sentenced to prison. No amount of his daddy’s money could buy him out of sixty-two grams of powder sold to an undercover agent—a Pakistani-American Ann Arbor detective posing as a party store owner.
Staring at the letter, I pinch my lips between my teeth, trying to make up my mind. Is whatever he has of mine worth my calling him? It’s a coin toss. I record his number in my smartphone, shred the letter, and bury the paper bits in the recycling bin. I’ve never told David about Graham. He’d wonder about my character if he’d known I’d dated such a thug.
Massaging my temples, I sigh. I slide open my desk drawer and pull out last week’s employee time cards to get started on payroll.
Sam
Sweat trickles down the sides of my face and dribbles in between my breasts, sliding down my stomach. I loosen the back ties of my apron strings, which are chafing my waistline.
The six burners of the stove are working overtime as the blue flames lap the bottom of pans. Paul, our new hire, is beside me, placing a pot filled with water, vegetable scraps, herbs, and bones on the back burner. With his athletic build and clean-shaven, conventional demeanor, he looks like a professional soccer player. The fan’s not doing much good—eighty-six degrees outside must equate to ninety-six in this kitchen. We shouldn’t have spent all available funds on a walk-in cooler when what we really need is air conditioning.
I untie the bandanna around my head and mop my face. Every window is open in the diner, fans are whirring, and gospel singing filters through the screens. When the weather cooperates, the windows and doors of Detroit Tabernacle are flung open, and music fills the air. Church is a powerful force in this community, and the hymns infuse me with yearning. It’s as if within the stanzas lie answers to questions I’ve long forgotten to ask.
But there’s no time for contemplation now. Today’s special is Lamb Burgers with Tzatziki and Beetroot Relish, and their popularity has not shown signs of abating. In the prep area, Quiche is flipping the burgers on the grill while Braydon stands beside her, spreading the tangy yogurt-dill sauce and relish on potato buns. They’re running low on buns, but we’ve enough lamb patties and accoutrements to feed an army.
“Paul, I’ve got a bag of potato rolls in the freezer. We’ll switch the special from burgers to sliders. I can’t leave these eggs. Can you take the rolls to Quiche? In this humidity, they’ll be thawed in no time.”
“Pas de problemo,” he replies. After reducing the flame under the burner of his now-bubbling brew, he strides toward the freezer. The smell of his stock perfumes the air and comes alive in the back of my throat as I imagine the sauce it will soon become.
A familiar twinge of irritation tugs on my emotions. Addie. Our division of labor isn’t fair. I sweat it out in the back of the house while she works the front. All she does is clear tables when business demands, be charming to our customers, organize schedules and bills, and promote the diner on social media.
I stick my head over the swinging doors to see if the rush is dying down. Thankfully, it looks like most of the customers have been served. There’s no need to make sliders after all. There’s Addie, chatting it up with a blogger whose articles about the diner have created a buzz. I’ve got it wrong. Success begins at the front door. Gracious hostess skills and networking are essential to Welcome Home.
I return to the kitchen to garnish plates with pickled carrots and lightly dressed microgreens. A cacophony of bells rings out from the church’s steeple. What a crazy day. Thank God Mom and Dad were forced to cancel their plans to have lunch here today. One of the sheep has bloat and needed treatment and observation. It’s hard for them to leave the farm.
My dad, Andrew, is one year younger than Addie’s father, my uncle Michael. As a teenager, Uncle Michael brought home the exemplary grades and was elected president of the student council. Dad enjoyed championing environmental causes and playing guitar in a local band. You’d never guess the two of them were brothers. The academic environment of a college town suited my uncle. The eccentricities of growing up in a town such as Ann Arbor, complete with alternative schooling, were the perfect fit for Dad.
He met my mother, Becca, in Lansing, where they both attended Michigan State. Their dream was to escape Michigan winters, move out West, and live off the land. Juniors in college, they married and then focused their studies at the Sheep Teaching and Research Center at State.
After graduating, they moved to an Oregon commune to practice animal husbandry, but they were miserable. They didn’t agree with the way communal funds were managed, and the division of chores turned ugly. A vegan couple were in charge of the labor charts, and they demonstrated their hostility to Mom and Dad’s practice of harvesting sheep with passive aggressiveness. Mom and Dad were assigned to bathroom janitorial duty their entire stay.
My parents also missed Babcia and Dziadek. Dad and Dziadek enjoyed woodworking and restoring old tools. Mom appreciated Babcia’s frugality, her hand-stitched linens, her traditional ways of gardening and putting up the harvest.
Mom’s pregnancy with me, six months after Addie’s parents announced their pregnancy, was the final impetus. They repacked their bags and returned to Michigan. The winters, after all, weren’t so bad. Mom could make sheepskin coats and gloves to keep her children warm.
Of course, Babcia and Dziadek were overjoyed and spent much of their time, particularly during the busy summers, at our Manchester farm. Mom turned the dated parlor into a cozy guest room. Addie, lost in the shuffle between her hostile parents, spent weeks at a time working at the farm when she was out of school.
Babcia, Addie, and I planted, harvested, and put up vegetables through the summer. Dziadek helped Dad and my brother with the sheep and the myriad chores involved in day-to-day farm life. I wish we had more family to help run the diner. My brother works in a microbrewery in Denver.
Living off the land reminded my grandparents of their life in Poland before the war, and softened the blow felt by the absence of their other son and daughter-in-law. Uncle Michael and Aunt Teresa’s visits were rare when they were fighting. And, after their divorce, they ceased altogether.
Braydon enters the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. “The rush is over. All the customers are praising the food.”
I wipe my hands across my apron. “Speaking of praise, we should be praising the heavens. If that music isn’t proof there’s a God, then nothing is. It’s a pity they’ve stopped, now that I’ve the time to listen.”
“They outdid themselves today. A dou
ble whammy. Aunt Suella says they brought in a sister choir from Birmingham.”
“Who knew? A gospel choir in Birmingham?” I’m taken aback. The suburb’s only 10 percent black. I don’t, however, voice that statistic to justify my surprise.
Braydon snorts, reading my thoughts. “I’m talking Birmingham, Alabama. One of the couples is staying with us. The Birmingham choir hosts Detroit Tabernacle in March, when their weather’s headed into spring.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s almost two. I’ll lock the doors and put up the Closed sign.”
Walking to the floor, I segue toward the grill and remove my apron. Quiche kneads the knots in her neck with her fingers. She gazes at me as if she’s been through a storm.
“I’ve seen more white people today than I’ve seen my entire life in this neighborhood. And who’d ever guess lamb burgers would be such a hit? Hamburgers I get. But lamb burgers? Yuck.”
“Broaden your horizons, Quiche. But then again, maybe not. We’ve enough trouble keeping the lamb in stock.” The lamb we use is harvested at our family farm. Mom told me Welcome Home is their best customer. We refused their offer for a discount—profits for everyone are marginal enough.
“You told me to remind you the teacher is stopping by around three. Remember? He was Sun Beam’s math teacher last year.” She grabs the grill brush and begins scraping burned bits off the flattop.
“Oh, right. He wants to bring a class to the diner for a field trip.” Sun Beam attends Detroit’s Boggs School, a reimagined education model that focuses on academic as well as practical life skills. A charter school, it’s an oasis in the midst of other schools operating in third-world conditions. “I’ll give them some vegetable seeds to plant.” One day we plan to expand the plot. We envision inner-city kids learning how to grow, harvest, and utilize fresh produce in cooking classes geared to children.
“Growing vegetables is not what interests him—the garden is going to be an example for a math project when his class resumes in September.”
“Math? Really? I won’t be much help in that department.” I shrug. “But, whatever. Of course, I’m delighted to have the class pay us a visit.”
Quiche puts down the brush and appraises me, head to toe. “You may want to rinse your face and pull a comb through your hair. His name is Uriah. And I’ll wager there’s a long line of women waiting in line to buy a ticket on that ride.”
I stop, surprised. Unless she’s praising Sun Beam’s grades, Quiche rarely doles out compliments. Especially in reference to men. With her wide, full lips and svelte waist, no doubt she’s had her share of suitors. But try engaging her in conversation about one of our favorite topics, the male species, and the woman shuts down. Heaven forbid we ask about Sun Beam’s father. For all we know, it was an immaculate conception. Who knows the sort of man she’d find attractive?
I put up the CLOSED sign, go to the restroom, rinse my face, and remove my bandanna. I linger at the mirror a moment longer than usual. On impulse, I unknot my braid and run my fingers through my hair, flecking out bits of flour.
Returning to the prep area, I fish today’s sales from the register and take the wads of cash and receipts to the office. Placing the bag into the safe, I hear a ruckus on the floor—Sun Beam’s high-pitched squeal and a man’s deep voice. The teacher must have arrived. Returning to the floor, I see a large man kneeling down with Sun Beam in his arms, the muscles of his broad back shifting beneath his shirt.
Quiche’s forearms rest on the counter, and she chuckles. “You’re gonna smother him, honey.”
“But what a great way to go.” His vowels are relaxed and rolling, a snatch of Southern accent in his words.
He unwraps himself from Sun Beam, stands, and removes his backpack, placing it on a chair. Hands on hips, he swivels, regarding the panorama. He removes his baseball cap, revealing dark hair cropped close to his head. When he sees me in the doorway, he stops. Smiles.
My pulse flares, and my legs soften beneath me. Just looking at this man—who is a good four inches taller than me and built like an ox—makes my teeth rattle. I’m tumbling into a lake with stones tied around my ankles. Sinking. Drowning. Inescapable and inevitable.
He saunters toward me, takes my hand, and shakes it, pulling me back onto the shore.
“I’m Uriah. And you must be Sam. I’ve heard so much about you from Sandra.”
Who’s he referring to? At a loss for words and clearly confused, I glance at Quiche, hoping she’ll rescue me. “Sun Beam, Sam. He’s talking about our Sun Beam.”
My face grows hot. One minute with this man and my mind is mush. Hormones have me in a vise, and it’s impossible to escape. I push my hair behind my ears. Braydon glances my way, a quiet smile playing about his lips. He and Lella roll the mop and bucket to the center of the room, I’m sure to get a better view of this performance.
“Of course.” I turn to Sun Beam. “Sandra.” My face must be radiating heat, and my smile’s so wide my cheeks ache. Swallowing hard, I try collecting myself.
“Well, I see—”
“I’ve just gotten used to calling her Sun Beam,” I stammer, interrupting him, talking in distracted spurts. Then my eyes travel back to his face, his clean-shaven jawline with the whisper of an afternoon stubble. I feel like an animal shaking off the effects of a long hibernation.
“Of course, we’re the only ones who call her Sun Beam,” I continue. “I guess we’ve made our own little family here.”
He looks around the room. “This place is unique. Like it’s trapped in another era.” He picks up a vintage teacup, painted with pale-pink roses. “A gentler time.”
His eyes meet mine. I swallow hard. “You must be thirsty. Can I pour you a glass of iced tea?”
“That would be wonderful. It’s blazing out there. I’m parched.”
Walking to the fridge, I can feel his eyes sliding down my body. I try imagining how Addie would act at this moment. I stop, turn sideways, catch his eyes, and smile. I’m glad I wore my blue T-shirt, as the shade matches my eyes. Placing my hand on my hip, I cross my right foot over my left. Addie instructed me on this pose, which improves posture and is the best way of giving full attention to curves. “Instead of tea, perhaps you’d prefer our Lavender-Lime Soda.”
He gives a little smile, a nod.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” I add, lifting my brows.
Alerted to the play in my voice, he walks to the counter, his eyes on my face. The air feels electrified. Am I emitting sparks? I walk around the counter, a sway in my hips, and fill two tall glasses with ice.
I’ve now become an actress behind a bar in an Old West movie. The cowboy was just cued to stride up and take a drink from the little lady. Quiche, Sun Beam, Braydon, and Lella are quiet, pretending to be occupied with their tasks, but not missing one beat of this show.
“Quiche tells me you want to use our vegetable garden to teach your students math.” I pour us each a soda and slide one his way. Imagining myself as Mae West, I tilt my head to the side, batting my eyes furiously.
“I’ve found the only way of teaching that sticks with students is learning through practical life-skill exercises. Do you have paper and a pen? I’ll show you.”
Without moving my eyes from his, I grab an order pad from under the counter. As he takes it from my hand, his fingers linger on mine a second more than necessary. A thrill shoots up my spine. I pull a pen from my back pocket and give this to him, as well.
He sits at the counter, tapping the pen on the pad. “For example, in a traditional classroom, a student learns a formula—say, area equals length times width—does the practice problems, and then takes a test. After the test, the kid forgets what they’ve learned. But if the formula is made relevant to their life, demonstrating something useful to them, they retain the information.”
At the moment, arousal for this man has trumped all knowledge. I take a sip of soda and try to summon an articulate sentence. Listening to him speak, I feel as if I know only a sliver mo
re than nothing. Thankfully, a fragment of that sliver rises to the top.
“That’s similar to the Montessori approach, right? Where students learn concepts from working with materials, rather than by rote memorization?”
“Exactly.” He gifts me with a beatific smile, and I admire the shape of his full lips, the gleam of his teeth, and the cleft in his chin. “What I’d like to do is have my students take the measurements in your garden and show them how to do the formula, which would demonstrate how much soil they’d need to fill it.”
He draws a rectangle, and I rest my elbows on the counter to observe his calculations, cupping my chin in my hand. He smells of sap and perspiration, like a pine forest after a downpour. Pheromones. Delicious and intoxicating. I wish they could be bottled.
“See,” he says, tapping the pencil on my wrist, and catching my eyes. “I multiplied the width and length of the garden. That gave me the square footage to calculate the amount of soil they’d need to fill the plot.” He scribbles numbers on the pad and slides it under my eyes. “Since the garden is forty-five square yards, and we want to cover it in four inches of soil, we’d need five cubic yards of dirt.”
“Fascinating.” I lean my head toward the pad. I don’t have a clue as to how he came up with his final number. I’ll make sure to assist Sun Beam with her next math assignment. I tip my head to the side, looking up into his eyes. “Consider taking it a step further and having your students plant vegetable seeds.” I straighten, looping my hair, which has fallen into my face, across my shoulder. Mae West blossoms into a honey-blonde Nigella Lawson. I imagine myself fresh from the garden, wearing a sultry smile while admiring my basket of eggplant, tomatoes, and spinach. “You know, I grew up on a farm. I could teach your students how to utilize their harvest. Give them a cooking class.”
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 8
