“Delicious,” he says, batting his mouth with a napkin. He speaks between bites and sips of tea, devouring the food as if he hasn’t eaten a decent meal in years. “The thighs are my favorite. I also enjoy the livers. Do you ever serve those?”
“Oh my, yes. We cook nearly all the parts others leave behind. People think I’m weird, but I love the chew of the gizzards, myself. After we’ve collected enough to make them feasible for a special, they’re marinated in buttermilk, seasoned with an herbal flour blend, and fried. I’ll let Gary know the next time we plan to serve them.”
“Reminds me of growing up in Alabama,” he says. “I guess you could say fried chicken’s my birthright.”
“I love it, too,” Addie adds. “And look at me. A Michigan Polack.” She stretches her eyes as wide as she can, as if to emphasize their paleness. Then she pulls her blonde hair to the side, lifts a long piece, and twirls it around her finger. “A plate of fried chicken is a country of pacifists where everyone gets along,” she muses.
“You got that right. Brings back memories from when I was a boy. I’d be sittin’ in the den in my grandma’s house, smelling the best fried chicken you could ever imagine.” He taps the prongs of his fork against his plate, dreaminess cast about his face.
“But it was more than the smells putting my mind at peace. It was the sounds. I’d hear her moving around, the creaking of the fridge door and cabinets being opened, the hiss and snap of the oil when the bird hit the grease. And as long as I could smell that smell and hear those sounds, I knew everything was right with the world.”
The plop of bones, swish of stock, and the metallic clang of stainless against ceramic as Babcia strained broth into her tureen. The aroma of onions, bay leaves, and juniper, worming its way into my subconscious. Soothing. Loving me. All was well when Babcia made her Cream of Sorrel Soup.
“Do you miss living in the South?” I ask, my thoughts bubbling into the present as Braydon pours me a glass of water, his smile indicating that he, too, is delighted to be serving this new guest at our counter.
“Sometimes. The mild winters are nice. But I don’t miss the cockroaches. They’re so big you could saddle ’em up. They’d crawl around everywhere. Cupboards, closets, you name it. At nighttime, when the lights were out, they’d come out from nowhere. If you turned on the lights, caught ’em red-handed, they scurry into cracks you never even knew existed. It was like watchin’ Jurassic Park after the dinosaurs escaped.”
We chuckle as he shudders at the memory. After shaking pepper vinegar onto his greens, he lifts the bottle and gazes at the pickled jalapeños, tilting his head in wonder. “You never see this in restaurants up here.”
“Braydon added it to our condiment selection—he won’t eat greens without it. He packs chili peppers into Ball jars and covers them with salt and vinegar. The mixture rests at room temperature a couple of months, and then we syphon it into flasks.” I pick up a bottle of Jessie’s Hellfire and Redemption. “If you like your greens real spicy, also add some of this. Jessie, our hot sauce vendor, tells us the secret ingredient is magic.”
He takes the bottle and stares at the label—the picture of Jessie holding a pitchfork and another of her sporting wings. “Magic. Really? You don’t say?” He shakes a few drops onto the greens.
I’ve another inkling why it tastes so much better than her competition, but I keep it to myself. Her ingredient list doesn’t specify, but I’ve the nose of a bloodhound. She doesn’t use white wine vinegar like her competitors but apple cider vinegar. Yet sorcery remains. People like Jessie, who believe in magic, can imagine possibilities where others are afraid to travel.
Holding his fork in his left hand, he jabs at the mound and takes a huge bite. Poor dude. He must have to do everything with that hand since losing the thumb and finger on his right. Closing his eyes, he chews the greens with concentration, his nod indicating they’re seasoned to his liking.
Braydon brings us each a shot glass filled with potlikker. “Here’s dessert. Sweeter than icebox pie.”
Angus scrutinizes the pale-brown liquid with flecks of green. He sniffs it, dips a finger into the brew, and dots it onto his tongue. “Have I died and gone to heaven? This here’s potlikker. The stuff of dreams. Growing up, meat was scarce. We needed the nourishment, so we drank it all the time.”
We tip our glasses together and take a sip. As curative as the most miraculous of potions, potlikker’s been good to us. Addie and I drank it every day during the course of our fight. Potlikker was drunk the evening Jessie burned the sage, chasing out the demons. It was the only nourishment my cousin could get down in the weeks following her breakup. I catch Addie’s eye. We may very well need the charms of this elixir to get us through the coming months. As the flavor settles on my tongue, I savor its earthiness, the essence of soil and sun, of bitter and sweet. So much more than the sum of its parts.
“Listen,” Angus says, a solemnity molded around the word. He puts down his glass. “As delicious as this meal’s been, your cooking’s not the reason I stopped by.” He clears his throat and sighs, pushing his plate away.
“What I really wanted to say to y’all, the real reason I’m here”—he pauses a second, glancing at each of us—“is to thank you.” He reaches across the counter and places his hand on Braydon’s. “Thank you, Braydon, for your patience. And for listening to a bitter, lonely man rant on and on.”
Braydon turns his palm over and squeezes the man’s hand. “Sir. I’ve enjoyed every minute in your company. Any ax you have to grind, I’m here to listen.” His head turns toward the grill. “But right now, I’ve gotta get back to work. I’m manning the grill, usually Quiche’s jurisdiction. And your grandson is spoiling us. Things get chaotic back there on Gary’s days off.” He smiles and returns to the flattop.
Angus nods at me. “Thank you for hiring my grandson. He tells me you’ve been good to him, and he loves working with the crew.”
“Neighbors helping neighbors,” Addie says. “Gary’s a delight to have in the kitchen.”
After finishing the potlikker, he mops his glistening forehead with a napkin.
“When he was a baby, I’d rock him in my lap. In the same rocking chair that’s on my porch today. We’ve watched a lot of changes from that stoop, my grandson and me. After the riots, the neighborhood went to hell in a handbasket. Drugs led to gangs, led to crime, led to arson. Of course, the old diner went under. No one had any money to eat out. It was looted and then abandoned. I’m surprised they didn’t burn it to the ground.” He sighs, shaking his head.
“The church was the only good thing left. But when Gary went to prison, I quit attending services. I quit believing in God. I quit believing in everything. And then you ladies came around and brought the diner back to life. At first it got me mad. Everyone seems to have an opinion on how to fix Detroit. Yip, yip, yipping, chasing their tails in circles, collapsing into one big dogfight.” He tips his empty jigger glass at me, and then at Addie. “’Course, you gals were crazy enough to see hope where I’d been seeing despair. And you gave this place the right name—Welcome Home. You made my boy feel at home. And when I entered the diner, it felt like I was coming home, too.”
He turns to Addie, his eyes searching her face. “I want you to know I’m sorry. I regret the things I said to you. I was angry at the world, spinning like a tornado, and you were in my path. I hope we can leave it in the past.”
Her eyes moisten. “I get it. I get where you were coming from. And the past is just that.” She brushes her palms together as if sweeping away the memory. “The past.”
They smile into each other’s eyes until Braydon removes Angus’s plate from the counter, breaking the spell. Angus presses his feet against the base bar of the chair, then pushes himself off the stool, grabs the thighbone, and waves it in Braydon’s face.
“And thank you, sir, for making the best fried chicken north of the Mason–Dixon.” He resumes his seat, places the bone on the plate, and wipes his hands with a n
apkin.
“Today, I’m only in charge of the grill,” Braydon says. “I had nothing to do with the chicken you’re eating.”
“Paul may have fried the chicken,” I say, “but it’s Quiche’s mother’s recipe.”
“She was right about this chicken,” Angus says. “It tastes as good as the memories of my grandma’s.”
Addie reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out what appears to be a tiny gray slingshot. “I found a perfect wishbone in a chicken breast I was eating last week. I dried it so we could make a wish on your birthday.”
She twirls the end of my hair with her fingertips. “You know I could never forget your birthday.” Leaning across Angus, she holds between her forefinger and thumb one of the two bones shaping the top V of the Y. “Did you know ancient Romans were the first to regard the wishbone as a good luck sign?”
“I did not know, Addie. But if you say it’s so, I’m a believer.” At once I’m relieved she didn’t forget the occasion.
“So make a wish,” she says, locking eyes with me.
I place my finger on the other side of the Y and close my eyes. I make the same wish I imagine most of humanity hums without even knowing:
As antidote to contagion, may the spirit of this conversation attach itself to another, leach onto the next, spider through the networks of the city, the state, and then migrate into the world.
We tug at the bone, and the smaller piece snaps off in her hand.
Addie claps her hands in glee. “You won. But don’t tell us your wish or you’ll jinx it.” Behind the blue of her eyes, I note her wish was the same as mine.
Angus turns to me, his eyes widening. “It’s your birthday? Did you just turn twenty?”
“Oh, you rogue,” I say, feeling warmth color my face. “God love you for being a good liar. Today I’m thirty-two years old.”
“Well, happy birthday to you,” he says, pulling out his wallet from a back pocket. “Lemme pay my check now. I wanna stop by the church. See if Gary’s finished his business.”
“First meal’s on the house,” Addie says, sliding his wallet away.
“That’s not right. I don’t want any special treatment when I eat here. Besides, my bill helps pay Gary’s wages.”
“Just this once.” I place my hand over his, over the nubs where his thumb and finger once were.
He shakes his head. “Well, all right. Just today.”
“By the way,” I say, as he slides off the stool. “Braydon tells us your tomatoes were twice the size of ours last summer. How do you get them to grow so large?”
“Eight hours of direct sun, tomato food, and a special blend of compost a friend of mine makes. I’ll share some with you this summer.” He ambles across the floor. “And don’t forget to prune, prune, prune.” Turning at the door, he wags his forefinger at us, as if in warning. “Tomatoes don’t like to be crowded.”
“Maybe this is it,” Addie says after he leaves, sliding over to sit on the stool he vacated. “Braydon said positive change could happen one conversation at a time. We own this one, Sam. It belongs to me, you”—she picks up her empty glass—“and a shot of potlikker.” My chin begins to tremble, and I press my lips together, wondering how I could ever have considered leaving my cousin, the diner, and my city.
At that moment, Jessie walks into the diner carrying a case of hot sauce. Sun Beam and Quiche walk in by her side. The girl will be apprenticing at Jessie’s garlic farm this summer. The three of them head toward the counter.
Sun Beam seems to have matured in the weeks since the nightmare in the garden. Her eyes have lost their innocence, their shine. Maybe it’s the contacts she just had fitted—it’s odd seeing her without glasses. But she still has enough sweet to rush into my arms.
“Thank you for that little bit of loving,” I say, pulling on one of her ponytails.
“I don’t share my sunbeams with just anyone,” she replies. “I love working with Jessie.” She looks up at the woman. “We have such a good time.”
Jessie pats the top of her head. “Ain’t that the truth. This girl’s a dream.”
“From what she tells me,” Quiche says, removing her hat, “the feeling’s mutual.”
“Jessie was telling me about the moon and how it influences her crops,” Sun Beam says.
Jessie leans into the bar, pressing her elbows on the counter. “It’s best to plant garlic when the moon’s in the constellations of Taurus, Capricorn, or Virgo. The root system grows stronger.” We nod, as if this tidbit of wisdom was common knowledge.
With her fingertips, she rubs the sides of her neck, rolling her head in a circle. “And Sun Beam here’s been telling me how important it is to pay attention to long-term forecasts.”
We look at the girl now fiddling with her smartphone. Quiche sprang for the device so she can keep a close tether on her daughter’s whereabouts. Sun Beam holds up the screen, which is lit with neon graphs, maps, and numbers.
“I can tell you when a storm’s coming within the minute,” she says, pride in her voice.
As Braydon places the emptied shot glasses on a bar tray, Jessie picks one up and examines it in the light as if she were a soothsayer.
“I’m reading the dregs,” she says, leveling her eyes at me. “It’s amazing how much passion can fit into such a tiny glass.
“Look at this. See where the two stains collide?” She points to two translucent streaks merging at the top of the glass. “That’s two women stirring up a neighborhood.”
“What else do you see?” I ask, now a firm believer in the wisdom of collards.
At that moment, before she has time to reply, Angus and Gary walk through the front door, a group of people behind them. They’re singing. What are they singing? Their voices swell with the refrain. They’re singing the “Happy Birthday” song; they’re singing “Happy Birthday” to me. And they’re letting it rip through the diner in harmony. One large woman, her face a sheen of joy, hits a tambourine against her fist. I recognize the voices—it’s the gospel singers from the Tabernacle choir.
Sun Beam is jumping up and down, and a woman with a staggering soprano hands the girl her maracas. Patrons who don’t even know me rise from their chairs and join in the chorus. Paul and Sylvia come out of the kitchen, carrying a towering cake, which is lit with candles, singing, “Happy birthday, dear Sam, happy birthday to you.”
I turn to Jessie, who puts down the jigger. She wears a smile stretching from the East Side of Detroit to a village on the western coast of Africa.
Everyone is singing and clapping, tambourines and maracas are rattling, and people are shouting, “Praise Jesus! Hallelujah! Amen!”
What is happening? God. I’m having a Norma Rae moment. Should I stand on a chair and shout out to every person in Welcome Home that this day is capturing all Addie and I’ve dreamed and worked for? That the past, present, and future are colliding within this very moment? The diner is packed shoulder to shoulder, all faces turned to me. My vision blurs behind tears. Black, white, olive, beige, all of their skins merge into one color—the most splendid hue ever imagined.
“Thank you,” I cry, my tears stinging my eyes, and now sliding down my cheeks. I throw out my hands. “Thank you for your beautiful voices! Thank you for celebrating my birthday with me! Thank you for coming to Welcome Home!”
My heartbeat gallops inside my chest. I’m feeling so much energy, so much ecstasy and emotion that the four walls can’t contain me. Sylvia places her sponge cake in front of me. Addie rests her palm on my back, and I bend and blow out the candles, making the same wish I’d made while breaking the wishbone.
Straightening, I cup my hands around the sides of my mouth, shouting out to the singing crowd, “Back in a flash. Addie will cut the cake.” I turn to my cousin. “I’m bursting at the seams.”
Their singing fades behind me as I bolt from the room and into the parking lot. I scurry to the sidewalk, then stop, dead in my tracks, in front of La Grande. As I catch my breath, dust s
wirls, and the cars and trucks whisk by, the umbrella of my dress billowing in the swoosh of passing vehicles. A cacophony of noise—revving engines, music blasting from rolled-down windows—fills the air, which smells of exhaust, of grit and burned coffee.
I turn and face the diner. The windows reflect the brilliant yellows and oranges of the afternoon sun. It looks as if the building were ablaze. Flashes of wisdom don’t come to me often, but at this moment I’m filled with awareness, a profundity rich and rare.
Can a woman choose a cousin, a business, and a city over her lover? I am here to say she can. And all I want to do to celebrate this day—my birthday—is to hang out with my people. My family. Here. At the diner. Cheering. Weeping. And laughing. Out loud. So much. On the very best day of Samantha Jaworski’s life.
I am Detroit. My city is me. Shaped by the grit of our ancestry, we roll onward, rubber burning asphalt, always driving forward. Yesterday we spun out of control. We crashed and burned, blind to the faces in our rearview mirrors, broken glass in the street. But that was then. This is now. And we’re back at the wheel. Time to hustle our jam, here’s my ode, dear D. It’s time for us to shine.
Addie
“Are you praying?” David asks, as we settle into our seats at our favorite Italian restaurant.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Because your lips are moving, and you’re fiddling with your rosary.”
“You know me better than that. All of the Catholic was beat out of me in elementary-school catechism.”
The waiter approaches our table and describes the evening’s specials before handing us our menus.
“If you’re not praying, what are you thinking?” he asks, a question in his eye.
I moisten my lips. “I’m remembering Babcia. In ancient Greece, they believed that in order for the dead to have an afterlife, they must be held alive in the memories of those who’re living. Shall I show you my ritual?”
He nods, the shadow of a smile playing about his face.
“So, I start by holding the cross.” I look down at the necklace and place the crucifix in my hand. “I think of her whispered prayer when she’d tuck me into bed. Then, I put my forefinger here”—I tap the bead above the cross—“and remember how I’d wake up, sobbing from a nightmare.” I touch another violet sphere and catch his eyes. “I remember her song, lulling me back to sleep. Her hair, when it was uncoiled from her bun, hung down her back. White, silky, glistening—it always reminded me of an angel’s wing.”
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 32
