Since last night, our text play keeps me craving him. I wipe my damp fingers against my apron, and then my thumbs fly over the keyboard in response and then freeze.
Stay in the shallows, girl, don’t wade deep. A sobering thought crosses my mind. Maybe last night to him was just a hookup. I’m the stopgap until he finds someone more attractive—a hotter, skinnier girl he’d shower with affection.
CTFD—calm the fuck down. Seriously. Chill. I backspace and type:
Look forward to seeing you.
I press “Send” and then check tomorrow’s forecast: high, seventy-seven degrees. Thank God. Maybe the cooler temps will contain me.
Addie
“Nice work at the studio today, Sam,” Lella says, kicking off her sandals. She takes a beer from the cooler and sits in a lawn chair. “The way you threw that bowl made it look as if you’ve been at it for years.”
“Thanks,” Sam replies, as she turns to her new man, Uriah. “Lella showed me how to make pottery today. It was cool. I love the way clay feels in your hands when it’s spinning, all slippery and soft.”
The slight slur in her voice makes her sound as if she’s drunk or talking in her sleep. But she’s had only one beer. She stares, mesmerized, at her outspread hands. Uriah moves his chair next to her so that the handles are pressed together. He stretches his long, well-muscled arm across her shoulders.
“But look at these fingertips.” She wiggles them in front of her, the cuticles of her nails edged in clay. “What a mess. I’ve been scrubbing and scrubbing and still can’t remove the gunk.” She leans into him, wearing her special smile, tentative and wan, which says it all: Sam’s deep in love—or lust. In the early stages of a romantic relationship, the two are often confused.
Uriah grazes the tips of her fingers with his, as if on his way to holding her hand. He gazes into her face, with not so much as a twitch. Her relationship with that arrogant barista, in retrospect, was a healthy experience. Ironically, in the end, it strengthened her sense of self. She now refuses to be degraded and is quick to call out bullshit. Any dude who can look at Sam without shifting his gaze is as fearless as a tightrope walker.
This aura of hot, new passion electrifies me. I glance sideways at Kevin, who is pretending to be interested in Lella’s description of a sushi set she’s glazing. But his face is pale, and he coughs, as if the air is suffocating him. It irritates me that Sam would rub Uriah in his face. Why did she invite her new boyfriend to join us? Her behavior’s insensitive.
A good friend enters the garden from the street. Hero jumps up and barks, and Sam gives him a biscuit to settle down.
It’s Tim, who works in the tasting room at Two James Spirits downtown. He pulls a couple of bottles from a brown bag. Two James is Detroit’s first licensed distillery since Prohibition and produces an array of spirits.
“The rye,” he announces, wandering to each of us, showing us the label of the Catcher’s Rye whiskey bottle. “As classic a whiskey as the novel is a read.” He unscrews the cap, pours shots into glasses, and passes them around.
“Smell the rye from Michigan’s heartland as it swirls into the waters of the Great Lakes.” We obey, lifting the cups under our nostrils and sniffing. “Now taste. Ummmm . . . spicy, with the taste of sweet fig at the finish. Delicious, right?”
I take a sip of the amber liquor, swish it around my mouth, and swallow. A fire lights up in my chest. “There is a God, and she,” I say, winking at David, “lives in Michigan.” He smiles at me, strumming his guitar, as our glances flit up and down each other’s bodies.
Uriah’s fingers spider up Sam’s shoulders, and she cuddles into his arms. We take tiny sips, but Kevin finishes his in a gulp, requesting his next be a double. David and I trade glances.
“My man,” Tim says, pouring a hefty amount into Kevin’s cup. “What’s the occasion?”
“Does a man need an occasion to drink a fine whiskey?”
“A fine whiskey, like a fine woman, should be treated with respect,” Tim says. “Be mindful. This stuff’s close to one hundred proof.”
“Just paying my respects to the heartland, bro,” Kevin replies, taking a long, deep swallow.
“Good thing I brought an extra bottle,” Tim remarks, shaking his head with a sidelong glance at Kevin.
As the evening continues, our liveliness amplifies in sync with the bottle’s depletion. Except for Kevin. He answers in monosyllables when conversation is directed his way, and has moved only twice, to replenish his supply. Uriah strokes Sam’s shoulder, and she turns her face into him, kissing his neck. Now I’m angry and tempted to pass her a note—Get a room. Poor Kevin.
David’s strumming amplifies as he picks out the tune of “Baby, Won’t You Be My Baby,” his fingers pressing strings on the fret of his guitar. It’s a song he’s been working on from one of Dylan’s recently released bootleg series. I point to Angus’s home, placing my fingers over my lips. “Shhhh. You don’t want to upset him further.”
“OK, OK.” He puts down his guitar and folds his arms across his chest.
Everyone’s now quiet, regarding me with flickering eyes as if I were a party pooper. Between being pissed at Sam and worried about Angus being pissed at me, I’m on edge. Perhaps overreacting, as well. His music wasn’t that loud.
I turn my attention to the sky. It’s twilight, almost dark, and the evening sky is streaked in apricots and royal blues.
Lella stands. “Gum, anyone?” She passes an open package of gum around our group. Sam and Uriah each slide a piece from the pack.
Sam glances at her phone.
“Yikes. It’s close to nine thirty. Well, as much as I hate leaving this shindig, this girl’s gotta be raring to go when the rooster crows.”
She bends to hook Hero’s collar on the leash, her jeans sliding down to reveal creamy flesh above her butt. Uriah’s gaze is fixated on the patch of skin gleaming in the moonlight. They rise and leave, and Tim follows.
David slides his chair next to Kevin’s and puts his arm around his neck.
“You doin’ OK there, buddy?” Kevin looks up from his drink, his eyes filling with tears. “Kevin. You can’t do this to yourself,” David says. “I warned you about Sam. If you let this into your heart, it will eat you alive.”
Oh God. I slide my chair to the other side of Kevin. “We’ve all been where you’re sitting, Kev, and it hurts. We feel your pain.”
“What’s wrong with me?” he says, his words slurred. “Am I really such a bad guy? Why does she find me so disgusting?” I am furious with Sam.
Resting my forearms on my thighs, I lean my head toward his, catching his eyes. “She doesn’t find you disgusting. She loves you, Kevin. But only as a good friend. She loves you the way I love you. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Hey, dude,” David says. “You’re a chick magnet. Remember when we set you up with Tina? That girl is hot, man, and she said you wouldn’t give her the time of day.”
Kevin pushes David’s arm away and half rises, stumbling. “Addie,” David says, his voice crackling with concern. “Get him a glass of water.” He turns to Kevin. “You’re wasted. Give me your keys. We’re taking you home.”
“I didn’t bring a car. I’ll walk home. No worries,” he says, garbling his r’s. I trot to the kitchen and pour leftover coffee from lunch into a glass filled with ice.
“You’re not walking home alone. It’s dark now, and the streets aren’t safe,” David argues. “Especially with the lights out.” The failure of the city to keep the neighborhood streetlights burning has had a crippling effect on our psyches. For good reason, we stay inside after dusk, afraid of the dark.
“Come on, man,” David continues. “I’m loading you into the car. We’ll take you home.”
Kevin straightens and drains the glass of coffee in a gulp.
“Goddamn it, David,” he says, shoving him. “I’m fine. I want to walk.” After a long, drawn-out burp, he weaves his way across the yard, pantomiming great effort
not to stumble into the garden. He swings his cup toward a sky now filled with a high August moon, slurring verse from Henry Lawson, a poet he sometimes quotes:
“‘I’ll find a drunken pauper grave, and what have you to say? Good night! Good day! My noble friends, and what have you to say?’”
I’ve never seen Kevin such a train wreck. We stand, follow, and watch him dodging cars as he weaves across La Grande. He selects the most dangerous street to make his journey home.
David grabs his keys from his pocket. “He’s too drunk to know we’ll be following him.”
Chapter Nine
Sam
“Jesus, Lord, I’m sweating like a pig. But I’m not complaining. Early September heat’s good for growing garlic.” Jessie glances out the window as she holds the door for Jévon. “But we could sure use some rain.”
Judging from the empty truck bed, we must be their last delivery. In contrast to his mother’s mud-caked overalls, Jévon’s tall frame is dressed in a minimalistic look—clean and fresh. Today he’s wearing a white crew-neck T well fitted to his muscular build, and his pressed, dark-wash jeans are rolled up at the bottom. He walks into the diner and slides the case of sauce and bag of garlic onto the counter.
“Good to have my boy helping me again,” Jessie says, linking her arm into her son’s. “Saving my back from the chiropractor.”
“Sam. Quiche.” He nods at us. “Good to see you ladies. It’s been a while.” He looks around. “Where’s Braydon? I wanted his opinion on the Banksy mural sale.”
Banksy, whose real identity is unknown, is a graffiti artist from England who creates artistic works of social commentary around the world. Five years ago, he stenciled an eight-foot mural of a forlorn African American boy who’d just written I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS TREES with a can of red paint. Urban explorers discovered the work on crumbling cinderblocks in the sprawling, abandoned Packard plant.
Amid a huge amount of controversy, the 1,500-pound mural was excavated by a local nonprofit art gallery, who then fought and gained legal ownership of the piece. Now the gallery’s decided to sell it at a Beverly Hills auction, with plans to use the proceeds for an art center.
“Braydon’s out back working on Sun Beam’s house,” I say, returning a chair to its table, taking deliberate steps to avoid slipping on the freshly mopped floor.
“It’s for the dogs,” Quiche corrects, before laughing. “Not my child.” Her back is to us as she speaks, and she’s arranging the china cups and saucers we’ve been collecting from estate sales, putting them onto shelves. “She sure loves those dogs, and figuring out how to build that house was the highlight of summer. Braydon drew up the plans and showed her how to build it. But he claims she did most of the work.”
Addie emerges from the office, her hands filled with paperwork.
“Uriah’s bringing his class to the garden late afternoon to demonstrate a math formula,” I announce to the group. “Uriah’s not Sun Beam’s teacher this year, but she’s tagging along.”
Addie’s brows furrow, a question in her eyes. I know what she’s going to say before she says it. Irritation clouds my excitement over Uriah’s visit. Kevin collects the bookwork today, and the two men could cross paths. I speak before she has time to open her mouth.
“Yes, Addie, Uriah. He’s coming to the diner with the children. Remember? Part of our vision before opening was to have a garden that also served as a learning lab for local kids. Uriah happens to be their teacher.”
She shrugs, as if saying whatever, and takes a seat at a four-top. She spreads last week’s time cards in front of her and removes her calculator from her bag.
Addie was pissed at me after that evening in the garden and told me I was insensitive with Kevin. She said I should have given him more time to adjust to my new relationship before rubbing it in his face. I said I couldn’t live my life hiding my reality from Kevin, and in the next moment, we were off to the races. I thought she’d calm down by now and accept the fact Uriah is a fixture in my day-to-day. But by the look on her face, I can tell her feathers remain ruffled.
“Sun Beam liking school?” Jessie asks, sensing our annoyance with each other and trying to change the subject.
“Yep,” Quiche replies, securing stray bits of hair with bobby pins. “She just started fourth grade a couple of weeks ago. She can’t wait to introduce the kids to the dogs and show them the house she’s building with Braydon. I told her not to brag.”
“I’ll pull him away from his project,” Addie says, looking up from her work. “He mentioned being curious about your opinion, Jévon. Whether you thought the mural should be sold or kept in Detroit.”
“That’s a hot-button issue—I’d love to chat,” Jévon replies.
Addie stands. “I’ll get him.”
“Hey. Can Mom and I trade a pound of garlic for a couple of plates of greens?”
“Of course. Help yourself.” She nods toward the simmering pot on the back burner, a cloud of steam wafting above the top lip of the kettle.
“I can’t eat those greens, son.” Jessie wrinkles her nose. “They’re cooked with pork.”
“Well, I don’t share your aversion to the mighty pig,” Jévon says. “It’s been sustaining our people for centuries.”
Quiche fills a bowl with greens and hands them to Jévon. She gives Jessie a piece of cornbread wrapped in a napkin. Braydon and Addie enter from the back door.
Jévon puts the bowl down and grabs his hand, pulling him in for a backslap hug. “Been a long time.”
“Hey, man, I loved your work on Cass.”
“Yeah? Thanks for that. The kids were a big help.”
“So, what do you think about the gallery selling the Banksy piece to private collectors?” Braydon asks. “Should it stay in the city where it was created or end up in some West Coast mansion?”
“Hmm. A tough question. So much of the sale is based on speculation. That Beverly Hills auction house estimates its worth at two to four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Damn. You’re kidding me.”
“That amount of money could remodel the new gallery and provide a hands-on learning center for our kids.”
“But it’s a pity it would leave Detroit. Some people were even pissed the gallery removed it from its original site,” Braydon comments. “Claimed the location was part of the artistry.”
“That, my friend, is a no-brainer.” Jévon picks up the bowl of greens, stabs them with a fork, and takes a massive bite before batting his lips with a napkin. “They had to remove it before vandals wrecked it or bulldozers destroyed it. Look what’s happened to half of my work—vanished under a jet hose.”
“I’m with you on that one,” replies Braydon. “But I don’t think they should sell. The mural is part of our history. Remember what almost happened at the Detroit Institute of Art? To pay off debt, the museum came within a hair of plundering their finest pieces. Can you imagine Detroit without Diego Rivera? If Detroit loses its art, it loses its soul. Why would people want to even visit our city? There’d be nothing left to see.”
Jévon finishes his greens in three large bites, tips the bowl to his lips to slurp down the potlikker, and then puts the dish in the sink. “Mmmm. Just what the doctor ordered. So let me see this doghouse of yours. Maybe it could use some art—a stenciled dog denouncing the mural’s sale.”
“We’ll have to run it by Sun Beam. She’s my boss, and I don’t know her politics.”
Quiche guffaws, shaking her head. “Sun Beam’s only political concerns are animal rights and ways of preventing global warming. She’s worried if Michigan loses its cold weather, we may be threatened with hurricanes.”
“Girl’s got a point. I was my most noble self at nine years old,” Jévon says. He chuckles and puts his arm around Braydon’s shoulder, and the pair amble out the back door into the garden.
A couple of minutes later, a truck pulls in front of the diner, LINEN EXPRESS written on the side. It stops and a man exits the van. He t
owers well over six feet, and his massive torso and legs strain against the fabric of his copper-toned uniform. A baseball cap is perched on his head, the brim shadowing his face. He walks toward the back of the van, opens the rear doors, and places folds of aprons and dishcloths onto a cart.
I hang the CLOSED sign on the front window and scurry to the door to lock it. What would we do without Braydon? He was the one who first scrutinized the fine print and told me our linen costs would skyrocket.
Wheeling the cart to the entrance, the deliveryman sees me through the windowpanes. Finding the door locked, he bangs it with the bottom of his fist. His eyes are rheumy, red rimmed, and saucer shaped, the irises the faintest of silver, almost colorless. They appear to be disembodied from the rest of his face, which has stubble and is pocked and weathered like an old tweed jacket. The nametag clipped to his pocket reads EARL.
“Why don’t you let the man in?” Jessie asks.
“Long story short, this linen delivery is a big mistake.”
“He looks exhausted, all red and huffing,” Jessie says, perhaps in sympathy for a fellow vendor. I unlock the door, open it an inch, and speak through the crack.
“The contract was bogus, so we canceled the service. Please take your linen and leave.”
He wedges the cart into the space in the door, forcing it to open. A thick hand, covered with freckles and a down of burnt orange–colored hair, flings a piece of paper toward me. It flutters to the floor. “This contract was signed by someone who works for you.” His voice is barbed, wheezing, seesawing from a high octave to low.
The heat rises in my cheeks. “Your office should have a letter from our attorneys by now.”
Addie joins me by my side. Her voice is as commanding as I’ve ever heard it. “Leave. Now.”
Jessie rises and with one boot-clad foot, kicks the bottom of the cart, shoving it out the door. “You heard what the ladies said. Now git.” Jessie’s a big woman, yet she appears petite next to this giant of a man. But the malice in his bulging eyes begins to ebb, turning into the fear of a man confronted by a grizzly. The deliveryman takes a step back and grabs the careering cart.
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 15
