But now the diner’s open, packed with people, so she can’t be bringing in fast food for the rest of our patrons to see. Give me a break—no eating establishment would allow this. We get that most people don’t share our farm-to-table philosophy—cost beats organic, deals trump local—but Welcome Home is for those who do. We may understand that food made from authentic ingredients better serves our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we believe we’re superior to Danita. I’ll bet that’s exactly what she’ll think if confronted.
Of all days for Quiche to be off work. She’d know what to do. What do we say to Danita so she doesn’t take offense? Addie smiles at her, places her arm around her shoulders, and they venture to the far side of the floor. Addie’s head is bent, her mouth close to Danita’s ear, and the woman nods, exiting without fanfare. She even smiled at my cousin, squeezed her hand, as if agreeing with Addie, whatever it was she said.
Addie’s such a people person, with such a mindful, gentle way. She has an innate sensitivity, even when her personal life’s in shambles. She should run for mayor of The D. If it had been me at the door, it might have gone down a different road. What if I’d hurt Danita’s feelings? She’d tell her church congregation what a jerk I am. Or what if she told me I was discriminating against her food, not allowing her to sit at the counter? I shudder, recalling old wounds, imagining the possibilities.
I check the order bar—only a Vegetable Plate and another for the Bean and Barley Soup.
“I’ll finish this up,” Braydon says to me. “Check on Sylvia—she just finished making a carrot cake and wants your approval. I couldn’t believe how fast she whipped it up. When it comes to making sweets, that girl’s giving you a run for your money.”
His words please me. Sylvia can replace me when I—if I—follow Uriah to Tennessee. I retreat to the kitchen.
With a spatula, Sylvia is spreading frosting on her cake. She looks up with a smile. “I used a pound of grated carrots in the batter. Carrots make it healthy, right?”
“You betcha.” I walk toward the cake, cocking my head to the side. “What a beauty. My mother always made carrot cake for me on my birthday. Customers go crazy when we make treats that remind them of their childhood. Braydon tells me it took you only ten minutes to assemble.”
“Oh, sweet Braydon. That boy’s got my back, lemme tell ya. But it’s a cinch to throw together. I guess it took . . . fifteen? An extra five to make the frosting—it’s cream cheese.” With a cloth, she wipes a bit of frosting away from the pedestal.
“I’m glad you’re showing such a knack for baking. Takes some of the stress off my back. I’m always so stiff after lunch rush.” Massaging my shoulders with my fingertips, I rotate my head in slow circles.
“Making cakes reminds me of when I was a little girl cooking with Mama. Before Daddy was diagnosed,” she continues. “That sponge cake of hers—you’d like to die biting into it. It was made with Brazil nuts and had a meringue frosting. She said the flavors reminded her of cooking with her mom when she was a girl in Rio.”
“That sounds heavenly—I’ll add it to tomorrow’s prep list. I’m pretty sure that carrot cake will disappear as soon as it hits the floor. We don’t stock Brazil nuts. Would walnuts be an OK substitute?”
“They’ll work just fine.” She claps her hands, jumping up and down with glee. “I haven’t made that cake since I was eight years old. But I remember the recipe as if I were remembering my own name.”
Sylvia’s a natural. The act of baking—measuring flour, beating egg whites until they’re stiff, melting chocolate with butter—must nurture her, feed her soul.
“So, how’s it going for you, Sylvia? What’s happening in your life—besides ensuring our customers leave with their sweet tooth satisfied?”
“Not much,” she replies, patting walnut bits into the cream cheese frosting. She looks up from her task. “And not much is fine by me.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Kevin can’t take his eyes off of our girl,” Paul says, his metal spoon making a scraping sound as he digs deep, stirring into the corners of a cast-iron Dutch oven. He’s prepping Braised Rabbit with Bacon, Prunes, and Pearl Onions for tomorrow’s special. Sweet, rich smells of caramelized onions and bacon waft about the kitchen.
Sylvia ignores his remark. But her face reddens as she walks to the hand sink, removes her plastic gloves, and washes her hands under the running water. Then, she retreats to the prep board to study the list.
Since the holidays, Kevin’s been lingering at the counter every Thursday after dropping off the books. He orders a bite to eat, and then, like clockwork, Sylvia joins him, taking her lunch break. Picking at their food from time to time as an afterthought, they lean into each other, their foreheads almost touching in conversation.
Kevin’s long lost interest in me. His manner’s now relaxed, and his smiles come easy. If this was his demeanor last year, I might have fallen for him. He was so quiet and goofy when crushing on me.
“The weather report says we’re going to get dumped on,” Paul comments, looking at his phone. Sylvia hurries to the window and stares outside. The blue skies have been replaced with overhanging gray clouds, and she frowns, wringing her hands together, agitated.
“You’ve only a ten-minute walk to your place, Sylvia. Why so anxious? I’ve got a pair of snow boots you can borrow.”
“Paul. Come look,” she says, her eyes glued to the window. “It’s that same rusted-out van. And it’s parked in the same exact place as it was the day before yesterday.” She looks at him, her eyes narrowed with concern. “And two days before that.”
Paul and I approach Sylvia and stand by her side.
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask. “It’s not parked illegally. I’m sure it belongs to a neighbor.”
“I don’t think so. I’d recognize an old, beat-up van the color of collards. This makes the third time it’s shown up in the past week. It pulls up, but no one leaves the vehicle. And it parks in a place, so I can’t help but see it while I’m working.” She turns to me and grabs my forearms.
“I’ll bet it’s one of Bobby’s buddies. He found out where I work. He wants me to know that his goons will catch me—torture me.” She releases my arms and looks down at the floor.
“Shoot, Sylvia,” I say, taking her hands in mine and giving them a soft squeeze. “You’re just a wee bit paranoid. If anything, it’s probably some dude waiting to lay out a dope deal.”
“But he never leaves, and no one ever goes to the car.” She looks up at me, shaking her head.
“Maybe he works close by. He’s taking a break, napping in his van. If it’s any person that would be of concern to the diner, it would be the troll.”
She looks at me, bewildered. “What do you mean, all this talk about a troll?”
“You remember the person who wrote those awful things about us online? The person who pretended to be Babcia? Trolls are scaredy-cat Internet predators who intimidate people because they can get away with it.”
Paul places his hand on her shoulder. “No one can find out their real identity, because online they’re invisible. It’s as if I threw a rock at you while hiding behind my mother’s skirt. Trolls are bullies who get their jollies unleashing their unhappiness on innocent people. Or on entities, such as Welcome Home.”
Sylvia’s eyes are bright, her mouth soft and trembling. “Thank you, both, for trying to make me feel better. Pimp or troll, whoever or whatever is sitting in that driver’s seat, right this very minute, is giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
I look at her, shaking my head. “Erase the thought that someone is hunting you down. See how the car windows are tinted? Trolls like it dark. They’re too ugly and cowardly to let anyone see their faces. Bobby’s cohorts are not in that van. The man is locked away, and the inmates are torturing him just the way he tortured you.” I look at her, raising my brows. “Doesn’t that make you feel just a little bit happy?”
She regards me with a slight shake of her hea
d. “Not really. I’m not interested in revenge on him. I’m scared of him. I want him to forget me.” She raises a brow. “On the other hand, that gravy train of nasty men, all those johns.” Her eyes narrow, and between clenched teeth, she grinds out her next words. “Imagining something awful happening to them . . . well, ma’am, that is a happy thought.”
Paul slides into his jacket. “I’m going out there. I’ll knock on the window.”
Before I’ve time to protest, he’s out the door. Through the panes, we watch him dart across the yard, but the van pulls away before he reaches it. As it disappears down the road, the snow begins to fall.
Chapter Eighteen
Addie
Sun Beam pushes her glasses onto the bridge of her nose, then swivels to face me. “It looks like there’s dirt on my face, but they’re ashes. It’s supposed to be a cross. Can you tell?”
The streaked marks resemble a hieroglyph of a running child, arms outstretched into the wind.
“They do look like a cross and remind me it’s Lent. You also wore them on Ash Wednesday, almost three weeks back.” Four days prior to Valentine’s Day. I was still with David. A different woman. “Is it your church’s tradition to wear them through the season?”
“No. I’m the only one who wore them today. Our fireplace is filled with soot, so I got the idea.”
“When I was a girl, every Ash Wednesday my minister rubbed the sign above my brows, too. Babcia would quote from Genesis as she admired my forehead. ‘For you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return.’” I touch the girl’s forehead, smiling at the memory.
Sun Beam and her mother are helping me finish up my traditional Lenten project: Polish Easter Eggs, a savory chopped egg mixture stuffed into dyed and decorated eggshells. They will be a special throughout the season.
The bulk of lunch rush has subsided, and the counter has emptied of customers. We sit on stools while Quiche stands at the prep table, her back to us, scooping hard-cooked egg out of an eggshell. There’s a teachers’ workshop this afternoon at Sun Beam’s school, so the students were dismissed after lunch. The girl’s presence at my side satisfies a maternal craving, a completion, and I inhale her presence as if my life depended on it.
I return to my task, stuffing and flattening the egg mixture into a rose-hued shell, before passing it to Sun Beam. She sprinkles panko over the top and then, with the back of a spoon, presses the crumbs into the egg mixture. They’ll be fried in butter just before serving.
I hand another egg to the girl. Recipes are much more than instruction manuals. They’re stories, rich with history, connecting the dots between the past and present. This traditional recipe, as lovely as a daisy chain, has been handed down from my great-grandmother to Babcia to me, and now to Sun Beam. It conjures recollections of happy times. I remember hunting Easter eggs at Babcia and Dziadek’s Ann Arbor home. Memories of white dresses, ribbons, and beautiful baskets filled with decorated eggs, chocolate rabbits, and marzipan flood my subconscious.
“What’s the green stuff?” Sun Beam asks, pointing at the egg mixture, lifting me from my reverie.
“I added dill and chives to my grandmother’s recipe. But she wouldn’t mind. She said while she was growing up in Poland, every home was doing something different with their eggs. Sometimes we’d stir Polish ham into the mixture.”
“I’m glad you kept ours vegetarian.” She wears a solemn frown on her face.
“Did you give anything up for Lent?” I ask, skirting her favorite topic next to climate change: animal rights.
“Instead of giving up, I’m giving back. For starters, I made a Valentine’s Day card for Angus. Mama said he was lonely, so we took it to his house. I drew a picture of Hero and Bon Temps holding hands—I mean paws.” She giggles between her fingers. “They looked like they were in love.”
Giving a start, I flash a look of surprise to Quiche. “You never told me you went to his home.”
Quiche turns to face me, wiping her hands down her apron. “I don’t tell you every little detail of my comings and goings. Just like you don’t tell me yours.” She gives me a long, appraising look. “But we’ve talked about him in meetings, so I took it upon myself to pay him a visit.”
“Well, that was certainly gracious of you.” I take a deep breath, blinking quickly. “What was his reaction?”
“What do you think his reaction would be? A woman and child at his front door wearing smiles on their faces—he smiled back and welcomed us in. It was no big deal. We all had a nice little visit.”
“Did you talk about the diner? You must have talked about the diner. You work here.”
She sighs in exasperation, as she does when her daughter is being particularly obtuse.
“Of course he knows I work here. And not everything revolves around the diner, either. We mostly spoke of his grandson, Gary. He’s been released and is back home. He was at a job interview during our visit.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say, thankful Angus is no longer alone.
“We also talked about fried chicken,” Sun Beam remarks, arranging the finished eggs in tidy little rows. “How much he loves it.”
Quiche winces. “You know this black people loving fried chicken thing rubs me wrong. It’s like us and watermelon.” She picks up a jar of Jessie’s hot sauce. “Or the assumption that blacks douse every morsel of food with hot sauce. I hate racial stereotypes even more than I hate hot sauce.”
I pick up a finished egg and place it into the cup of my hand carefully so as not to damage it. The shell is so fragile.
I look up, catching her eyes. “Racial stereotypes can certainly be destructive. But food? I suppose it depends on the context of conversation. If the food is referenced with the intention of embarrassing a culture or race, it’s cruel and can’t be tolerated.” I shift in my seat. “But do you know who likes fried chicken and watermelon, Quiche? Everybody. At least in this country.”
Quiche gives me her usual not sure if I’ve got you figured out look, but a smile plays about the corners of her mouth. The woman’s a tough sell.
“Well,” she continues, “I told him ours was the best on the planet and suggested that he stop by and taste for himself.”
“And his reaction?” I hunch into the counter and tip my head.
“He shrugged. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She turns to her daughter. “Tell Addie the other ways you’re giving back during Lent. ’Cause I need to get back to work.” Quiche hustles to the prep sink and turns on the water, as if to wave off any further interrogation.
Sun Beam fidgets with excitement. “Granny and I are saving energy. We removed a light bulb from the lamp on the side table in the den. We’re running wash only when the machine is stuffed, and then we hang the clothes on the line to dry. We’re giving back to the environment.”
“You’re also giving back to my wallet,” Quiche comments, glancing over her shoulder.
“The weather’s cooperating with line drying,” I remark. “Last week it’s freezing and now it’s in the sixties. In Michigan, blink your eyes and the weather has changed.”
I’ve welcomed tepid temperatures in winters past, but not this one. I’m feeling so alone and fragile without David in my life that any excuse to bundle up in another layer of comfort would be fine with me.
“Braydon says if the weather stays nice, he’ll bring Bon Temps with him to work on Sunday,” Sun Beam says, sprinkling crumbs over another egg. “He promised to dress her up with bunny ears.” She puts down the panko and catches my eye. “Maybe Sam can make some rabbit ears for Hero. With that creamy coat of fur, he’ll look just like a jackrabbit.”
I smile at the thought. Sundays are the perfect opportunity to let the dogs visit with customers before we put them outside. The Health Department’s unlikely to be making their rounds.
“Let’s all wear bunny ears,” I say to her, brushing her ponytail off her shoulder. “I have the rabbity eyes to match.”
She scrutinizes my
face, before nodding in agreement. “It looks like you just got mugged.”
Ouch. That stings. From the mouth of a child, so I’m sure I look a mess. This morning, while brushing my teeth, I noticed half-moon shadows under my eyes. But I don’t bother to hide them with makeup. Ever since my breakup with David, I haven’t worn mascara or even lipstick. I like that my eyes and mouth bleed into the backdrop of my face. I wear blankness as a mask.
Quiche unties her apron and retrieves her purse from the shelf beneath the counter. “Time to get going, honey,” she says to her daughter. “You need to get your homework done. After supper we’re heading back to church.” She turns to me. “Sun Beam and I are organizing an Easter pageant for the preschoolers. The little ones are so precious when they’re all gussied up. We’re meeting with the parents to go over each kid’s role in the skit.”
“You know, Quiche,” I say, lighting my fingertips on her arm, “wouldn’t you think folks would be hungry after church let out? I don’t get it. No one from the neighborhood sets foot in this place. If we were giving the food away, I’d wager they’d still never walk through the door. Why do you think that is?”
She rummages through her purse and retrieves a tube of lipstick, then a compact, which she opens. “You need to know something about black folks, at least in this community. We’re skeptical about what your people are trying to sell us. Verdict’s out on gentrification. No one wants to take the long con.” She cocks a brow, regarding herself in the mirror. “We’ve been down that road before.”
She pats her nose with a powder puff. “First it’s you ladies and the diner. Next thing you know comes the invasion of the pierced lips and purple hairs, buying up places like Danny’s barbershop. A place where five dollars once got you a haircut would only now buy a cup of coffee.” She paints a slash of pale-pink color over her lips. “And following that would be the sushi train, folks lounging round La Grande on yoga mats.” With a sharp thwack, she closes her compact. “My friends think you people are like exotic pets—it’s hard to guess your next habitat and what you’ll want to feed on.”
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 25
