The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel

by Peggy Lampman

  “Read the latest.” She taps at the screen.

  Just had lunch at #Detroit’s #unwelcomehomediner. The owners, my granddaughters, ignored me. My salad was wilted. The fish oversalted. Lol.

  “Insults cloaked in anonymity are cowardly,” I say, touching her forearm.

  Addie stares at me, her eyes blinking furiously as if she were fighting back tears. “I’m using every bit of self-restraint to avoid being a drama queen. But between our neighbors and this troll, the magnitude of hate that you and I are expected to shoulder is crushing me.”

  I take a long, shuddering breath. “Maybe it’s Earl.”

  “He hasn’t hurled his girth about the diner since November. Aside from obscenities, the Cyclops can barely speak English, much less create a fake Twitter profile.”

  “Anyone who reads this will know it’s absurd. A joke that some goon crafted to get his rocks off.”

  I tap the screen. “OK. Here’s Twitter Support.” I study the phone. “Impersonation is a violation. Here’s the place to file the report. I’ll do it now.”

  I sit at the desk and spend the next few minutes recording our case, while she organizes the files. Finished, I hand her the phone.

  “OK, Addie. Done. I’m sure they’ll take it down. I wonder if they can figure out who did this?”

  “First he Yelps he found hair in his soup. Next his chicken’s undercooked. The following month he writes that our water’s tainted. Those lies were bad enough. But him impersonating our beautiful Babcia and making her say those awful things was effing cruel. Cruel like torturing animals is cruel. Where does this guy get off?”

  This conversation is wigging me out. My head’s pounding. “Let’s drop it, Addie. It’s over. And you keep inferring the troll’s a man. It could just as easily be a woman.” I shrug and change the subject. “How are things with you and David?”

  She emits a long, shaky sigh. With the toe of her shoe she shuts a file drawer, then raises her brow. “David, I’m sure, feels like he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place: marry me or lose me. It’s like Odysseus when he had to choose whether to steer his ship past a dangerous whirlpool or a deadly sea monster.”

  I look at her blankly.

  “You know, the Greek myth. The Odyssey?” Her mouth falls open and she gapes at me, as if amazed.

  Where does she get off? Does she think I’m totally clueless? I sigh. “Of course I’ve heard of The Odyssey, Addie. The Iliad, too, by the way. And you’re always carrying on about your Odysseus; you’d think he was Dave Grohl.” I smirk. “But refresh me on the sea voyage. What did he decide to do? The captain, I mean.”

  “He chose the sea monster, Scylla, who he determined to be the lesser of two evils. And he saved the ship by sacrificing six men.”

  “So, if David proposes, you’ll be morphing into a sea monster while he offs a bunch of dudes?” Cracking up, it feels good to laugh out loud for a change. I gasp for air. “I’ll warn the guys they’d be wise to avoid David. Six men? That’s brutal, Addie.” My arms clutch together at my waist, and I laugh, snorting, trying to settle myself down. Sometimes the girl’s pretty funny.

  She raises her chin, setting her jaw. “Seriously, Sam. I’m making him a special dinner for Valentine’s Day.” Biting her lower lip, she sighs. “If he doesn’t present me with a ring, or at the very least tell me he wants to get married, I may very well break up. And it will be awful. Life without David will be the worst possible thing.” Shaking her head, she crosses her arms above her midriff, staring out the window.

  At once I’m sobered. That resonates. Uriah has decided to move back to Tennessee. Last night he told me his mom’s breast cancer has returned, and this time cancerous cells have been detected in some of her lymph nodes. His parents are considering renting an apartment close to the Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center in Nashville, where she will be receiving state-of-the-art treatment. His dad is overwhelmed, and Uriah wants to be closer to his parents. He’s worried sick about his mother.

  He’s been researching other jobs appropriate for him, and discovered an opening in an educational laboratory in Appalachia. It’s a couple of hours southeast of Nashville. His plans are to turn in his resignation at Boggs and leave after the school year ends in June or earlier, if necessary. Land mine alert: he wants me to join him.

  Join Uriah! I know we’ve been together for only five months, but when you know it, you know it. I pat the top of my cousin’s hand, keeping these thoughts to myself. Thinking about moving is easy; telling Addie is unthinkable. If she lost David, and then I moved away . . . I sure hope David proposes to her on V Day.

  “I try not to overthink the future, Addie,” I say, avoiding her eyes. “What makes a solid, balanced relationship is when the man puts the toilet seat down, and the woman puts the toilet seat up.”

  My attempt at humor is being the self I’m most comfortable with, but in truth I’m not feeling so cavalier. For the first time in my life, I’m thinking about tomorrow. Obsessing, in fact. This diner’s a pain in the ass. One problem goes away, and two pop up to take its place. Tennessee might be a good fit for a girl like me. They’ve got a great culture of music, food, and whiskey.

  Uriah and I could knit a new life together. Help his mother. Because my life in Detroit is like a line of stitches that could very well unravel with one strong pull.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Addie

  Nestled into the thick of winter, Valentine’s Day arrives, and Welcome Home is drunk on love. Pink and red tinsel is strewn about chair backs, bowls filled with candy hearts have been placed on every table, and lacy cutout cupids are taped to the windows. We’re playing an old mix of love songs from Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Louis Armstrong.

  Sundays are always the busiest day of the week, and today, because of the occasion, it’s crazier than ever. We work the crowd in sync. Like intimate partners dancing a complicated tango, we know the direction to turn our heads according to the beat, never stepping on one another’s toes. My job, as always, is to greet and seat, fill glasses with water, and ensure each of our guests is wearing a smile. That’s easy today; the restaurant’s filled with my favorite customers.

  Tory and Wally have just entered and are lingering inside the front door. Wally holds a Free Press in his gloved hands. I take their coats and escort the couple to the last available two-top, seating them next to Theo and a woman I don’t recognize.

  Theo’s cleaned up—I’ll bet to impress this woman. His hair shines not with oil but from a fresh shampoo. His signature wife-beater and denim jacket have vanished, and his tats are now hidden beneath a beige cardigan. He looks up to smile, and the serpent head appears, hissing at me over the top of the turtleneck he wears. Surely, he regrets having that snake coiled around his throat 24-7. Today, it’s the only indicator that this man has traipsed well outside suburbia.

  “Tory, Wally. This is my friend Theo. But I haven’t met you,” I say to the woman, who might be attractive if she softened her liner and combed out the spikiness in her bleached hair. I extend my hand. “I’m Addie, and we’re crazy about Theo. But I’m confused. He comes in only on Friday.”

  We shake hands. “I’m Nell. Theo and I attend the same church. Today we decided to go out for lunch.” She looks like a seventies punk star, but there’s sweetness in her voice; a softness, a whimsy. She smiles, glancing at Theo, and a fretwork of lines bracket her lips. She glances at her smartphone, which rests atop an almost empty pack of Marlboros. A chain smoker, no doubt. Aside from the casinos, Detroit, thank God, has a smoking ban in all restaurants. I’ll bet she grew up Downriver, one of the more rough-cut areas of Wayne County. Although that’s changing—there’s cheap riverfront property and decent downtowns in some areas, which are ripe for picking.

  Theo smiles. “She was impressed I knew the owner.”

  “Your place is cute,” Nell says, looking around. She turns to Wally, who just unfolded his paper. Her brows lift and irises dart, scanning the headlines.


  “Hey. No end to bad news,” she says, her words directed to him. “What happened to Hater and Bullet? Man. What a scam.” She shakes her head, and the corners of her lips turn down, indicating disgust. “How can we afford to clean up the city when our cops are the ones causing the problems?”

  Wally raises his eyebrows, shrugs, and then turns to his wife. “She’s referring to the Hansberry and Watson trial—the cops who made fake arrests, stealing drugs and money from their victims. Hater and Bullet are their street names.”

  Tory shakes her head, speaking to Nell. “Fortunately, it’s isolated. I’m an attorney and know firsthand that most of our police force are honest and hardworking. Every day they take their lives into their hands to protect us. A couple of bad apples don’t destroy the whole bunch.”

  She turns to Wally. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re not allowed to speak of anything aside from words of adoration directed towards your wife.”

  Wally folds up his paper, puts it beneath his chair, and places his palm over her hand. “Sorry about that, gorgeous.”

  Nell smiles. “Don’t blame him. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Still. It rankles me that our tax dollars―which are high enough, thank you very much—go towards those thugs’ salaries.”

  She turns to Theo. “Oh. Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.” She winks at him and pats his hand.

  “You, too.” Theo smiles. “Those cops will get theirs. ‘If a man shall steal an ox, or a sheep, and kill it, or sell it, he shall restore five oxen for an ox, and four sheep for a sheep.’” He turns his palm over to hold her hand.

  Love is in the air. Lella works the tables, taking orders. She wears red leggings and a billowy pink shirt beneath her apron, and her lips are painted into a sultry Cupid’s-bow mouth. Sam’s shaping flapjacks and any other malleable food into hearts, and she tinted the table water pink with red-and-white peppermints. With their check, guests receive a complimentary chocolate-dipped strawberry that Sylvia made.

  The only thing not in sync with the spirit of the day is the smell. Valentine’s Day should carry the fragrance of chocolate and sugar. But the air carries a latent aroma of burning leaves. After Twitter extinguished Babcia’s profile, Jessie insisted we have a smudging ceremony. Smudging, a practice used in many native cultures, involves burning sacred plants to create a smoke bath. Sage, in particular, possesses special healing and cleansing powers.

  Last night, Sam and I indulged our friend, meeting her when evening settled and the sky was black. The ritual involved placing bundles of the dried leaves into four fireproof containers, which we placed in each corner of the dining area. Then, we lit the clumps. After the flames died down, the sage began to smolder, and soon after, the diner was filled with smoke.

  Jessie, Sam, and I faced Babcia’s picture, and Jessie demonstrated how to, with the palms of our hands, waft the smoke toward our hearts. As she chanted incantations, a breeze swirled up around us, which was creepy, but the draft, Jessie told us, was Babcia giving us her love and blessing. I remember glancing at Sam, and it could have been that her eyes were burning from the smoke, but tears were rolling down her cheeks. That girl seems off these days. She’s never acted so emotional.

  Then we opened the windows and fanned the smoke into the frigid air. Jessie claimed to see a khaki aura, which she said was the spirit of the troll. It was followed by a bubbling crimson foam, which she said was Earl. Both of them, she said, tumbled out of the window and into the night. To complete the cleansing, my cousin and I shared a jigger of potlikker. After the ceremony, we returned to Jessie the healing beads that we’d been wearing each day since late November. They’ve done their job. Sam has forgiven me.

  Jessie’s brand of woo-woo to chase away negative juju felt foreign to me. But something’s working. Today I feel strong, balanced, and powerful. The Middle English word for heart is cuer, from which the word courage was adapted. It follows that courage is an appropriate sentiment on this day for lovers. If David doesn’t tell me what I need to hear, I’ll summon my goddess warrior. I will tell him that we’re through.

  A student of the classics, I loved the lessons taught in my Roman and Greek mythology classes. Before opening the diner this morning, I gathered the ingredients for Steak Diane—a recipe inspired by the goddess Diana to bolster my newfound courage.

  Steak Diane was made in ancient times using venison and served with a truffle sauce. The goddess Diana, however, inspired more than just a recipe. She was goddess of the hunt, the moon, and nature. Shakespeare romanticized her, and her image was carved into marble, Diana of Versailles, which is displayed at the Louvre.

  Today, however, it’s only the recipe that interests me. There are more recipes for a Diane sauce than Beyoncé had costume changes at Ford Field. And Diana, like Beyoncé, inspires me to envision myself a woman of strength and power, compassion and courage.

  To make the dish, I’m using grass-fed beef from a local farm that supplies Welcome Home. I will serve it with my favorite pasta: Wild Mushroom Fettuccine. Monique, a friend and a regular patron of the diner, makes the pasta from scratch. My Diane sauce will be spooned over the beef and pasta. The dish will swirl with the luxurious flavors of beef juices, brandy, butter, and cream, which have been reduced to heart-throbbing essence. If only.

  I lower my head, close my eyes, and whisper a prayer to whatever—whoever—may be listening.

  David’s showering while I put the finishing touches on the sauce, stirring in a bit of exotica—Hawaiian black salt and truffle oil that Mom gave me for Christmas. Nina Simone’s voice, accompanied by horns and strings, is playing in the background.

  I join her voice singing “I Put a Spell on You,” soft enough so that David won’t hear my off-key vocals torture the verse. Listening to favorite music is my way of summoning the past, articulating what I’m feeling but can’t express in conversation.

  What I wouldn’t give to have a voice like hers, or Sarah Vaughan’s—even Sam’s. These women have such staggering depth and range. I sing only when I’m alone. I stir minced parsley into my sauce. Not essential to the flavor, but the green bits will brighten the dish. In music, a grace note is like a garnish to the melody. Not necessary to the composition, but always a pleasant addition.

  Composing a meal must be like composing verse: the emotional state of the writer governing the realm of passion in the music; the sentiments of the cook influencing the flavor profile of the menu. Tonight, I’m a woman in love with the courage of Diana. Sauce finished, I roll chocolate truffles into finely crushed peppercorns. Chocolate represents the sweetness of love, and pepper, the bite of strength. I should have thought to make a salad with green goddess dressing.

  David places his fingers against the small of my back, and I turn. He’s dapper tonight, more handsome than ever. His black slacks are just tight enough around his butt to buckle my knees and lower my resilience a notch. He wears a pale-pink linen shirt I don’t recognize. I’ve always told him he looks great wearing pink, a color confident men pull off with panache. Does the fact that he purchased a new shirt mean he has something special to tell me?

  I myself have pulled out all the stops. I wear a vintage red dress with a neckline revealing my décolletage. I baited the hook with a black silk bra, the edging of lace visible when I bend forward. My lipstick, as always, is painted with precision. Tonight, I upped the ante, curling and then coating my lashes three times with mascara.

  I notice that his briefcase is on the floor beside the door, next to the entry, leaning against the wall. Every evening, the first thing he does when he comes home is put it on my desk in the bonus room. Maybe tonight he wants its contents nearby for ready access. Perhaps he has something special in that briefcase of his. I remove my apron, kick off my heels, and giggle, brushing up against him.

  “Baby,” David murmurs, after a long intoxicating kiss. His palms slide down my back, sending shivers up my spine. I grab a cloth and wipe my lipstick away from the sides of his mouth. He winks at me and
turns to the counter. I watch him uncork a bottle of Bordeaux, then pour the red-black wine into a carafe. Lifting his nose, he sniffs the air, redolent of simmering beef. He turns to face me. His eyes trail up my legs and rest on my cleavage. “That thing you do.”

  Here we go. That thing, again. I should have pounded a shot of 5-hour ENERGY—there’ll be no rest for the wicked this evening. My mouth twitches. But only if he earns it.

  I arrange dinner on my favorite vintage porcelain—everyone’s on their best behavior when dining off fine china. Then I center the plates between the linen napkins and cutlery. I glance about the room—at the discolored wood floors, the bare bulbs in the ceiling, the peeling layers of paint. Decadence in the ruins.

  He pulls away my chair and I sit, crossing my legs, showing them off to their best advantage, not missing a beat in this provocative dance. He takes a seat and then raises his glass: “To Addie, my goddess, the sexiest, the most divine creature on heaven and earth.”

  I tip my glass to his and then lower my head, gazing up from under my lashes, to meet his eyes. Our movements synchronized, we bring the wine to our lips. I take a small sip, and the rich flavors swim in my mouth. As I swallow, the grace note strikes a tingle of raw, sensual delight.

  David presses the fork prongs into a bite of the beef, swirling it in the sauce. I follow suit. Midway to my mouth, I admire the morsel. The steak is caramelized on the outside and a reddish pink in the center. Perfection. We bite into the meat at the same time, both of us chewing with concentration. The richness of the beef is mellowed with butter and cream and cut with the spike of brandy. The goddess would approve. Like me, David savors every cadence of an exemplary meal.

  “Are you still enjoying that class?” I twirl a mound of pasta around the fork. “I forgot what it’s called. Some guy’s name.” David’s in school full-time this winter. January through March is the slowest time of year at his dad’s company.

  He laughs. “You’re talking about TEM—The Entrepreneurial Manager.” Placing his fork on the plate, he catches my eye. “At this point we’re working on strategies for identifying opportunities and obtaining the resources for development. That’s an oversimplification, of course. But the course has my brain churning.”