My mood lifts as a woman wearing large hoop earrings and hemp-woven wedges enters and takes the one empty seat at the bar. She swivels in her chair and regards the customers surrounding her. It’s Danita, Quiche’s friend from church.
I greet her with a menu, glass of water, and relieved smile. Even if Quiche is the only reason she’s here, it’s a good enough excuse today. I carry the water pitcher from table to table, refilling glasses, asking patrons if they’d like something else. I’m hoping someone asks for the bill, so I can clear the table and lighten the line. One of the photographers and another young man approach me.
“We’re from the Free Press. We’d like to hear your thoughts regarding the article about you and your cousin in yesterday’s Times. It was quite flattering. We’d also like a picture of you two.”
“Wonderful. Of course, we’re thrilled about the piece. And the Times?” I shake my head. “Incredible.” I make a swooping motion with my arm across the tables. “As you see, we’re really busy. I’ll have our manager take Sam’s place in the kitchen.” I turn from them; then I stop. I’ve a better idea. I walk back to the men.
“Actually, it would be great if you could include our manager, Braydon, in the picture. He’s our main man, essential to Welcome Home’s success, and should be credited. Our prep cook will be able to handle the kitchen.”
“Sure,” the photographer responds. “We’ll take a couple of you and Sam with the manager, and a couple with just the two of you. We know you’re busy. This will only take a minute.”
I trot to the kitchen. At the stainless-steel table, Paul is deboning and gutting trout packed into an ice-filled bus tub. His recipe for Crispy Corn Trout will be tomorrow’s special. I ask him if he can manage the orders so I can steal Sam for a few minutes. He agrees, delighted to be relieved of one of the more odious prep tasks. Lella darts into the kitchen, places several finished plates on a serving tray, and grabs a cloth to clean smudges of oil away from the edges. She places the tray onto her palm, then stretches her arm over her head and retreats to the floor, the doors swinging behind her.
I grab Sam’s hand and lead her into the dining area. The photographer is taking a light reading by the window. Cupping my hand over my mouth, I whisper into her ear. “Before they take photos, let’s position ourselves to ensure the photographer’s lens will capture Danita at the counter.”
She tilts her head to regard me, a question in her eyes. I head outside to get Braydon.
The man with the short, grizzly beard who lives in the house next door to Welcome Home is sitting in his chair, rocking back and forth, glaring at us. He wears the same short-sleeved denim shirt he always wears. When he sees me, his pace quickens, as if he’s ready to launch from his porch. Even from this distance I can read the anger in his eyes. I link my arm with Braydon’s.
“We want to make sure you’re in some of the photos. You’ve earned it.”
“Really?” His eyes widen into saucers. “I’ve never had my picture in the paper before. My aunt and uncle will be freaked.” He dips his head toward the man. “He looks more pissed off than ever.”
“What’s up with that dude?” I shrug.
We just closed the diner for the day. Braydon, Sam, and I are exhausted but elated, basking in our recent successes. Sitting in lawn chairs, iced teas in hand, we admire the vegetable garden. David just joined us, and I’m content watching the dogs stretched beside us in the sun.
“It’s crazy how long the days are in July,” I comment. “It feels as if the sun should be setting now.” I check my phone. “Three fifty-five. We still have five hours until sunset—another six until it’s dark. Maybe we should consider keeping longer hours in the summer.”
“Oh God, no,” Sam says. “Eight hours in a sweltering kitchen is all I can stand.”
“Next year we’ll install air conditioning and hire some more cooks.” I rise and stretch, placing my arms above my head and bending forward. “I need to place orders and restock the perishables before five. Today’s business wiped us out.” Walking toward the kitchen, I stop and turn to Sam.
“Great that the photographer caught Danita in the photos.”
“Why’s that?” Braydon asks.
My eyes meet his. “I hate the thought of the diner being portrayed as just another hip, white-bread restaurant testing the waters of gentrification.”
His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Is that why you also asked me to be in the photograph? To make doubly sure everyone knows the diner also serves pumpernickel?”
I freeze, at a loss for words. He’s never spoken to me like this before. “No, Braydon. Of . . . course not,” I stammer, feeling my face grow hot. What did he mean by that comment?
“Sorry, Addie. When you said white-bread, I couldn’t resist.” He shrugs. “But seriously. I’ve been thinking about our neighbor. Maybe he dislikes us because we ignore him.” Wearing an unreadable expression, he pinches suckers off the tomato plants. “None of us have even bothered to introduce ourselves.” He glances at me over the side of his shoulder. “I’d wager he judges me to be Welcome Home’s token black. A hire made to fill a quota.”
My pulse races and my response is quick. “By this time, Braydon, you must know that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“I know that, Addie. I know. I’m talking about our neighbor’s perceptions, not my own.”
Clutching my hands together, I take a deep breath, trying to settle myself.
“Braydon has a point,” Sam says, shaking the ice cubes that remain in her drained glass. “Trying to paint this so-called community of color seems forced. That photograph was contrived. It doesn’t reflect reality and makes me uncomfortable. It’s a different sort of discrimination, which is hard to articulate.”
“That’s too simplistic, Sam. It gets us off the hook. Dismissals are like a teacher who limits the number of questions that can be asked. We need to ask questions. We need articulation.”
“Perhaps the diner’s customer base should evolve without our meddling,” she replies, looking into her glass.
Now I’m upset. I slap my fist into the palm of my hand. “Our meddling? Welcome Home’s more than a diner, Sam. Remember? We had a vision. We operate in a culinary wasteland. Besides us, the only edible options are to be found in gas stations, liquor stores, and that godforsaken burger joint. We wanted our neighbors to have something better to choose from. Our dream was to shape an old-fashioned neighborhood gathering spot—authentic and welcoming to all races and creeds—where everyone has a seat at the table. Not some trendy, shabby-chic, elitist establishment.”
“I haven’t forgotten our mission statement, Addie. And I am asking the questions. For example, what have we done to integrate ourselves into the community?” She places her glass atop an overturned produce crate and stands to face me. “Just because we rehabbed a decrepit diner, should we expect our neighbors to fall at our feet in gratitude? And try this one on for size: Is it wrong to open old wounds? Maybe that will cause too much pain for everyone.”
“But, Sam, most of those wounds never healed. Prayers and hopes won’t make them disappear. Detroit is being shaped and changed by actions, not wishful thinking. Wishful thinking is just another way of worrying.” I place my hands on her shoulders and peer into her face. “And we’re spending too much time worrying about the wounds, worrying about relationships that have broken down. Pressing the bruises, prodding at the sore spots, ironically, just might be the sweet spots for healing our community.” The muscles along my jawline clench. I drop my arms and turn to Braydon. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” he asks, looking startled, as if he thinks I’m planning to gag and stuff him in the back of David’s truck.
“You’re right, Braydon. Of course you’re right. Let’s introduce ourselves to the neighbor. We should have done this a long time ago. I’ll grab some food. Make him a goody bag.” I dash to the kitchen before Sam and Braydon can make further comment.
Walking to his home, I
never realized how close we were to him. The edge of our garden can’t be more than ten feet from his lot. We climb the rickety stoop, pass the empty rocking chair, and Braydon knocks on the door. A minute goes by, and he raps the door again, with a heavier fist.
A voice from behind the door. “Can’t you read? The sign says No Solicitors. Get outta here before I call the cops.”
Braydon clears his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re your new neighbors. We want to introduce ourselves.”
“You’re the last people I want on my property. So get going.”
“Sir, I’m sorry to hear that. My name is Braydon. I manage the restaurant, and one of the owners, Addie, is with me.”
“I said get outta here,” he shouts, his voice rising to a threat.
“You may know my aunt and uncle, Sam and Paula Stokes? They live a few blocks away. My aunt sings in the Tabernacle Choir. The choir director, Laurice, your neighbor down the street, is one of their good friends.”
Two bolts unlock and the door cracks open. A yellow eye threaded with red veins peers at us over the brass chain. The man behind the eye unlatches the chain and opens the door. For a minute he examines us, mute, before pointing his forefinger in my face.
“You and your restaurant are turning my neighborhood into a three-ring circus.”
He turns to Braydon. “I quit going to church a while back. But I do remember your aunt and uncle. And of course I know Laurice. He keeps pestering me to come back to service. My name’s Angus. You can stay.” He turns to me. “But she goes.”
My throat tightens, and I hold the bag toward him. “We’ve brought over some food we thought you might enjoy. It’s raining cherries in Northern Michigan right now. So we made cherry pie. The house-smoked chicken is also tasty—I could bring over some sauce if you like.”
“I smell that chicken smoking every Saturday morning.” His voice is at least triple the volume of mine. “How can I avoid it? I smell everything that goes on in your place. Most times it stinks.” He grabs the bag from my hands. “But not that chicken.”
I emit a shaky breath, feeling the moisture collect under my armpits. I don’t know if I’ve ever been faced with such rudeness.
I turn to Braydon. A shadow crosses his face. “Like I told you, Braydon. I’ve got to place orders for tomorrow.”
My head bobs at Angus, and I stumble down his porch steps, restraining myself from breaking into a run. The group remains in the garden, in the same position where I left them. I couldn’t have been gone for more than five minutes, but the emotional roller coaster I just exited made it feel more like five hours. Plopping on David’s lap, I feel one of the vinyl pieces beneath our weight dislodging from the aluminum frame. I jump up, afraid the seat will collapse.
“Whoa, baby. You look like you just met the devil.”
“That man, David. His name is Angus.” I pinch my lips between my teeth. “He hates me, David. He doesn’t know a thing about me, but he really hates me.” My jaw and hands are trembling, out of control.
David stands, brushes my hair away from my face, and peers into my eyes. “What did he say?”
“That we’ve turned his neighborhood into a circus. That our place stinks.” I raise my voice, my breath catching in my throat. “He doesn’t get what we’re trying to do. He was yelling in my face.”
Sam approaches and rests her palm on my shoulder. “Where’s Braydon?” she asks.
“He was invited in, but the old man demanded I leave. What have I . . . what is it about Welcome Home that could have made him so upset?”
Anger swells in my chest, and I stomp my foot on the ground. “For God’s sake. Billions of dollars are being invested in midtown and downtown, but they’ve left out the neighborhoods. So we’re busting our butts trying to improve the area, but our neighbors want us to leave.” I burst into tears, emitting long, rattling gasps as I try to compose myself.
“Black, white, rich, poor—we all have problems to deal with,” David says, gathering me into his arms, wiping away my tears with a corner of his sleeve. “And face it. Change is inevitable. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a disintegrating house around here. You and Sam have made significant improvements to the East Side, and it’s catching on. I’ve had my eye on those two dudes down the street who just purchased a home. They replaced the windows, began scraping paint away from the siding, and last week they tore down the porch. You guys are inspiring change already.” He shakes his head, stroking my hair as if trying to settle a spooked mare. “I don’t know, baby girl. I don’t know. Don’t cry. He’s just one old man, and we’ll fix it with him.” He turns his head toward Angus’s house. “I don’t know how—there’ll be some heavy sledding up ahead—but we’ll fix it.”
“What if we’d turned the old diner into a strip club? The action would have gone on through the night. Pimps. Prostitutes.” I lift my arm, fanning it across the landscape in a shaky arc, before bringing my fist to my chest. “Would the neighborhood be safer then? Would he have preferred that sort of clientele?”
Shaking my head, I grab my phone from the table. “Yikes. I’ve only forty minutes to place the orders.” I look at David, a surge of love bubbling to the surface. My man is here, right now, exactly when I need him to comfort me. “I love you so much, David. Sorry to get all histrionic.”
His mouth brushes against my ear. “It will all be fine. You’ll see.”
“Let’s do the orders together,” Sam says, putting her arm around my shoulder. “Focus on what a terrific day it’s been, not on what just happened.” Regarding me, her brows furrow, and a crinkle of lines crawl around the corners of her eyes. I must look a wreck. I give her a tight hug.
“Thanks. If you do perishables, I’ll deal with the rest. But let me order the trout.” I look at David and summon up the old Addie with a wink. “Our fish vendor has the hots for me.” A collective laugh of camaraderie. Relief.
At least we know the enemy. But that the enemy is our next-door neighbor fills me with a profound sadness.
The orders placed, I hang up the phone. I check myself in the reflection of the windowpane, then grab a cup of ice in the prep area. I’ll rub some cubes under my eyes, which are puffed out like marshmallows. My hair hangs in singular ropes, and my face is oily in the humidity. A vague plum line edges my lips; I’ve chewed off most of my lipstick. I look like a corpse pulled from the Detroit River. Serious repair’s in order. As I head for the bathroom, David enters through the back and grabs my arm.
“Braydon’s back from his reconnaissance mission. Thought you’d want to hear what he has to say.”
“Just give me a couple of minutes. Need to visit the loo.”
I scurry to the bathroom, splash cold water across my face, brush my hair, and freshen my lipstick. No time to ice my eyes, but I rub off the mascara smeared beneath them. Mental note: replenish Visine. With these pink eyes, I look like a frightened rabbit. I scamper to the garden.
Iced tea has been replaced with cold beer. Even Braydon has a brew. Although he’s of age, he’s never joined our after-hours tippling. Today’s put a toll on us all.
David has a small speaker attached to his smartphone. As if aware of Angus’s silent presence, the volume’s half of what it usually is when we meet in the garden. Aside from fifties jazz, our group prefers the songs our parents enjoyed from the sixties and seventies, the era of Woodstock we’ve musically enshrined. David’s mom gave him her record player and original vinyl collection that she’d listened to in high school and college. Jimi Hendrix; Crosby, Stills & Nash; Creedence Clearwater Revival; and Marvin Gaye, to name a few. Although the music is fifty years old, it’s about freedom, revolution, and change. We relate to the lyrics.
“Well, Braydon,” I say, dragging a chair next to David’s. “I hope your interaction with Angus was more fruit bearing than mine.”
“I’m not sure. I mainly asked him questions about his story. His life. How he came to live in his home.”
�
�And?”
“He’s an old dude, Nam vet, Jim Crow in his eyes. What little he’s worked for has been taken away. Except his home. You know his thumb and forefinger were blown off? The right hand, the one he used on the assembly line at Ford. When he returned from the war, he said it was hard to find a job. Said the line was all he knew, and the—”
“That war was such a waste,” David interrupts, leaning back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Such bullshit. Did I ever tell you guys about the trick my dad pulled to keep from serving?” I nod at David, my forefinger at my lips, shushing him. I turn to Braydon, whose mouth twitches, no doubt annoyed himself.
“Did he buy his house after the war?” I ask.
“The house belonged to his folks,” Braydon continues. “It was the home he was raised in and the home he returned to after he served. He was their only living child. His twin brother was killed in the war, and he inherited the home after his folks died.”
“Is there a silver lining in this story? Did he ever marry? Raise kids?”
“He said he never married, but he did have a child. At least one that he was aware of.” Braydon sips his beer, and his back, usually pencil straight, is humped over. His eyes travel around our group.
“He saw his daughter from time to time, but she lived with her mother and was always in trouble. At sixteen she gave birth to a boy. She couldn’t take care of him, so the old man stepped up to the plate. He raised his grandson ever since he was an infant.”
“So where’s the kid now?”
“He asked me not to talk about it.” His lips purse together, and he shakes his head. “But you can guess. A young black man raised in Detroit? He’s locked up—the same ol’, same ol’. Angus said the boy did well in high school and was a good athlete. Two or three Big Ten schools were even considering him for a football scholarship. But apparently the boy also learned to play defense on the streets, by keeping his head down and the focus on his body.”
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 11
