“How’s he working out?”
“William is a hard worker,” Renato said. “He is doing a very good job.”
“But not much of a personality,” I said.
Renato’s expression didn’t change. “Do not be too quick to judge.”
I wasn’t sure how to handle Renato’s uncharacteristic seriousness. And I was still reeling a little from his employee reprimanding my son and me, as well as the devastating financial news. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Renato nodded. “I am sorry for the bad news, bella. But I will give you the family discount.”
“Thank you.”
As I left the place, it was all I could do not to cry. Why couldn’t I catch a break?
CHAPTER two
These are days when I feel like Sisyphus of Greek legend, forever pushing the stone up the hill. But I mustn’t stop. My son’s future is at the top of that hill.
—Elle Sheen’s Diary
As I pulled out of Renato’s, the Fairlane seemed to drive even worse, though I’m not sure if it really was or if it was just that now I really knew something was wrong with the car and was looking for it.
Dylan was still quiet as I pulled into the school parking lot.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded unconvincingly.
“That was kind of scary to be yelled at,” I said.
He nodded again. “I wasn’t going to break anything.”
“Maybe he was just afraid you were going to break yourself.” I didn’t believe it, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t protecting the jerk, I was protecting my son. And he was probably just another bigot. I parked the car in the vacant bus lane in front of the school, then turned to Dylan and held out my hand. “Spit out your gum.”
“But it still tastes.”
“You know they don’t allow gum in school.”
He spit it out into my hand. I wrapped it in a tissue and put it in my purse. “Come on. School waits for no one.”
Dylan was more than a half hour late for school so I had to sign him in. I held his hand as we walked into the front office.
“Good morning, Elle Bell,” the school secretary, Cheryl, said brightly. Much too brightly for where my mind was.
“Morning, Cheryl,” I said, purposely leaving off the good.
“Late start?”
“Car problems.”
She shook her head. “Again?”
“Different ailment, same car.”
“I have the same problem with my husband,” she said. “Dylan, please take this note to Mrs. Duncan.” She handed him a pink slip of paper. Dylan turned to go.
“Wait,” I said. “What about my kiss?”
Dylan looked embarrassed, furtively glancing around to see if anyone might see him.
“Come on. No one’s around.”
He screwed up his mouth. “All right.”
He quickly pecked my cheek. I pulled him into a big hug that he tried to escape from. I released him. As he backed away from me I said, “Don’t forget your lunch.” I handed him a brown paper sack. “I’m working late tonight. Fran will be picking you up from school. You got that?”
“Bye, Mom.” He ran out of the office.
“He’s a good boy,” Cheryl said.
“Probably the one thing in my life that’s not going wrong,” I said.
“Well, if you had to choose something to not be broken, that’s the thing.”
I drove from the school to the diner. I could smell my burning clutch as I got out of the car. As usual I parked behind the restaurant and walked in through the back door.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, shutting the door behind me.
Loretta, the diner’s owner, looked up at me. “Everything okay?”
“No. Another car problem.”
She shook her head. “Is it serious?”
“Five hundred dollars serious.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Just when I get one bill paid off, another pops up.”
“Pray for big tips.”
“I already am,” I said. “If they don’t pick up I’m going to be short on next month’s rent.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Loretta said. “Miracles happen.”
“I could use a miracle right about now.” I put on my apron. “But I won’t be holding my breath.”
CHAPTER three
I always knew this day would come. So why was I so unprepared? I suppose it’s the nature of humanity to avoid contemplating unpleasant inevitabilities. Which is why so few buy their own grave plots.
—Elle Sheen’s Diary
It was a normal day, as far as my days went, made up of the usual mix of regulars and strangers—elderly locals who were lonely or bored, as well as the occasional trucker. Like my clientele, my schedule was equally predictable. When I worked the late shift I got home from work at ten—eleven on weekends. When I walked in that night, Fran, my sitter, was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. Fran went to school at Weber State during the day to study music, evidenced by the violin case on the floor next to her. Fran was lovely, with an eclectic taste in music. I never knew what she’d be playing on her 8-track player when I got home—Chopin or Bob Dylan. Tonight there was neither as she was intent on her studies.
“How was he?”
“Amazing as usual. He made this for you.”
She held up a blue-green marbled ball of Play-Doh, with toothpicks sticking out, four on the bottom, two on top.
I took it from her. “What is it?”
“It’s a reindeer,” she said, grinning. “Can’t you tell?”
I grinned back. “I love it.”
“He loves you.” She put her homework in a bag and then said, “I should probably tell you, Dylan asked me something different tonight.”
I looked up from the reindeer. “What?”
“He asked if Santa was a Negro.”
It was the first time he’d used that word. “What did you say?”
“I said, Santa is a spirit. He’s the color of giving. I don’t know what that means, but he seemed good with that. I hope that’s okay.”
My eyes watered. “Thank you. You said the right thing.”
“He’s a sweet boy.”
I gave Fran a hug. She picked up her case and walked to the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
I walked to Dylan’s room and opened the door. As usual, he was asleep, the covers pushed down to his waist. Fran was right; he was a sweet boy. He was also a beautiful boy. He had light, mocha-colored skin and was lanky and handsome like his father, though with the more subtle facial features from my Swedish-Welsh heritage. He was exotic looking, as he had blue eyes, something that people would sometimes stare at in disbelief. One time a woman asked me if his eyes were “real.” I didn’t answer her. I still have no idea what she meant by that.
I lifted the covers up to his chin and kissed his forehead. “I love you, little man.” I shut his door, then went to my room and undressed.
Where had he heard the word Negro? I wasn’t surprised that he’d asked. As the only black person in an all-white farming town, it was only a matter of time. I just hoped I’d be a little better prepared.
The next morning I got Dylan up and while he ate breakfast I made his usual sack lunch—a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich, chips, and the donut I brought home every night from the diner. I checked my watch and then said, “C’mon, sport. Time to go.”
“Can I watch Fat Albert?”
“You know better than that. It’s time for school. After school you can watch TV.”
As we climbed into the car Dylan asked, “Will our car explode again?”
“I don’t know. It might.” I pulled out into the snow-covered street. “That reminds me. I’m not going to be in the same car tonight.”
Dylan’s face grew animated. “Are we getting a new car?”
“No. We’re just borrowing a car until Renato fixes ours.”
/> He frowned. A few moments later he asked, “Mom, what’s a Negro?”
I looked over at him. “Where did you hear that word?”
“Marsha at school says I’m a Negro.”
Take a deep breath. At least I knew where he’d learned it. “Well, that means you’re super smart and very handsome.”
Dylan looked confused. “She said I’m a Negro because my skin is brown.”
“Well, that’s part of it,” I said. “Of course, everyone has different colors on their body. Some have different color hair, different color eyes, some have different color skin.”
“She said I can’t go to her house because I’m a Negro.”
I bit down. “Well, there you go. People at Marsha’s house must not be very smart or handsome, so they’re intimidated by you.”
“What’s inti… date?”
“Intimidate. It means to be scared.”
“Why are they scared?”
“Because they’re not as smart or handsome. Did you even want to go to Marsha’s house? It doesn’t sound like a very fun place to be.”
“She’s having a birthday party.”
I tried not to show my anger. I sighed heavily. “Some people are just…” I stopped short of calling her dumb. “…don’t get out much,” I finally said. I pulled up to the curb of the drop-off zone. “I love you, buddy.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I watched him walk up to the front of the school and fall in with the other kids, all of them white. As I pulled away I started to cry.
* * *
I drove over to Renato’s and sat in the parking lot until I regained my composure. I wiped my eyes and then walked into the garage’s office, a spring-loaded bell above the door announcing my entrance. To my dismay, the new guy, William, was standing at the counter. I stiffened at the sight of him. I still hadn’t forgiven him for scaring Dylan. Or me. After this morning I was especially sensitive.
“Good morning, Elle,” he said with surprising gentleness. Even more surprising was that he knew my name.
“Is Renato here?”
“No. He won’t be in until this afternoon. But he told me you would be bringing your car in this morning. He has a loaner for you. It’s that green-and-white Plymouth Valiant out there.” A smile crossed his face. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s too sexy to drive.”
I almost smiled but didn’t want to encourage him. “Thank you. How long will my car take?”
“I’ll have it done by three,” he said. “That includes the tune-up. That won’t take much time.”
“What time do you close?”
“Five.”
I frowned. “I don’t get off work until eight. Can I pick it up tomorrow?”
“No problem.”
“And the Valiant?”
“There’s no hurry on that. We don’t need it.”
“Thank you.”
He handed me the keys to the loaner, which had somehow been connected to a golf ball with a bright yellow smiley face beneath the trademarked phrase “Have a Nice Day.”
I smiled at the sight of it. Someone had a key chain almost as impractical as mine. “This is… unusual. Not as big as mine, but unusual.”
“Keeps it from getting lost.”
As I turned to go, he said, “I’m sorry I got mad at your son yesterday. The machine he was playing on could have hurt him. I’m just a little jumpy. I didn’t mean to upset him. Or you. Please forgive me.”
I looked at him. He was definitely sincere. There was also a vulnerability to him that I hadn’t seen the last time.
“Thank you for watching out for my son. As well as the apology.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So Renato will be back this afternoon?”
“He said he would. He’ll call when it’s done.”
“Thank you.”
“One more thing. The driver-side door on the Valiant sticks a little. You just need to give it a good tug. Oh, and the brakes are a little touchy. They’re fine, just a little sensitive.”
Like me, I thought. “Thanks for the warning.”
I walked out to the Valiant, which had a two-tone paint job, an olive-green body with a white hardtop. As warned, the door stuck. I yanked it open and climbed in. Whoever had driven the car last was at least half a foot taller than me, as my feet didn’t even reach the pedals. I adjusted the seat, put on my seat belt, then started the engine. It roared like an injured lion.
Some sexy, I thought.
As I drove to work, I prayed that the Fairlane’s clutch wouldn’t be as bad as they thought. I knew there was no hope for it, but I prayed anyway.
“How’s it going, Jamie?” I said, walking into the diner. Jamie was the waitress I worked with most. She was five years older than me and off-and-on married so often that I sometimes forgot her marital status. She was born in Mistletoe and had worked at the diner since she was sixteen. She was now thirty.
“You know, different day, same problems. You got a new car? Those Valiants are crazy sexy.”
I laughed. “No, I didn’t get a new car. It’s a loaner Renato gave me while he fixes mine.”
“Oh, right. Loretta told me your car was on the fritz. You should have had Mark look at it. Maybe he could have fixed it.” Mark was her second ex-husband, though she often acted like they were still married. Actually, that was true of her relationship with all her exes.
“It’s the clutch. It’s no easy fix.”
She shook her head. “You can’t catch a break, can you?”
“Not lately.”
“Well, I’ll pray for large tips. For both of us.” As we walked out into the dining room, Jamie’s eyes widened. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
“Ketchup Lady is back.”
I groaned. “I’m starting my shift with Ketchup Lady. Can this day get any worse?”
“Sorry, honey. I’d take her, but you know she’s headed to your station.”
“It’s okay. I’ll eat the frog.”
“What frog?”
“You know the saying. Start the day eating a frog and nothing worse will happen to you all day.”
“If only,” she said. “I’d eat a frog omelet every day.”
I watched as the Ketchup Lady, as usual, walked past the PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED sign and sat herself at the table she had claimed as her own. Actually, she sat at the table next to the one she usually sat at, though not without a brief attempt to reclaim her territory. For almost a minute she just stood looking at the people sitting at “her table” when one of the men—a burly trucker—looked over and asked her what she wanted. Without answering, she turned away and sat down at the next table.
No one knew the woman’s name or where she lived. She had shown up at the diner the previous spring and had stopped by every week since. We called her Ketchup Lady because she put ketchup on everything, from pancakes to fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Her plate looked like a crime scene. The first time I took her order I gagged as I brought it out from the kitchen. None of the waitresses were fans, which had less to do with her culinary affinity than her personality, which, at times, was as nasty as her palate.
This morning she was wearing a red T-shirt that read:
I Like Ketchup
On My Ketchup
I walked up to her table. “Good morning,” I lied. “What can I get for you today?” Besides ketchup.
She looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. “What may you get for me? Learn proper grammar, you’ll go further in life. I’d like the ham-and-cheese omelet smothered in ketchup. Also a side of sausage—patties, not links—with ketchup. And your buttermilk biscuits with ketchup.”
The biscuits were a new addition to her culinary repertoire. The idea of putting ketchup on a biscuit made me sick.
“We have a policy that we don’t put things on our biscuits,” I said. It was a policy I had made up on the spot. “But you’re welcome to put anything in it you like.”
She looked annoyed. “Then I’ll need an extra bottle of ketchup. This one is nearly gone.”
The plastic ketchup bottle on the table was more than half-full. Was she planning on drinking it? I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Sure thing,” I said. “Would you like anything to drink? Tomato juice, perhaps?”
She just looked at me, either missing or ignoring my snark. “No.”
“Very well. I’ll be right back with your meal.”
I took her order to the kitchen. Our chef, Bart, looked it over. “So she’s back,” he said. “The first lady of ketchup.”
“Back like a bad cough,” I said.
“Some people shouldn’t leave their homes,” Bart said.
I liked Bart—we all did. He had been with the diner since it opened, when he was young and still had a life, or, at least, dreams. Now he was obese, old, and tired, and lived alone in a Winnebago equally dated and disheveled, on the outskirts of Mistletoe near the town’s landfill. The waitresses were the only family—male or female—he had.
As I left the kitchen, a group of men walked in. They were all wearing the same kind of trucking company shirt. I walked over and greeted them, led them to a corner of my section, then got their menus and water. As I passed by Ketchup Lady she said, “How long will it be?”
“Not long,” I said.
“Check on my meal before you take that large table’s order. I have a busy morning.”
I bit my tongue. Literally. I wanted to empty the bottle of ketchup on her head. I went back to the kitchen. To my surprise, Ketchup Lady’s order was done.
“Why so fast?” I asked Bart.
“The sooner the ketchup princess eats, the sooner she’s gone.”
“You’re a prince,” I said.
“And you’re my queen,” he replied.
I carried the woman’s meal out along with an unopened bottle of ketchup, setting them down on the table in front of her. Ketchup Lady looked up at me with annoyance.
“I said smothered.”
The omelet was almost drowning in a pool of tomato. “You can add more ketchup yourself if you’d like.”
“I didn’t come here to make my own food,” she said. “That’s what I pay you for.”
Noel Street Page 2
