The Crossroads Cafe

by Deborah Smith

  Beside her, Cora wrung her small hands. “Hurry, before he eats the seats! He already took my pencil!”

  He? I ran outside. Cathy stood beside one of the Hummer’s open passenger doors, scowling. The puppies circled the big vehicle feverishly, barking and wagging their tails. When Cathy saw me she jabbed a finger toward someone or something in the Hummer’s back seat. “Get him out. Use your cell phone as bait if you have to!”

  I strode to the open door and looked.

  Banger, standing on the seat with goatish arrogance, stared back at me. “Bah,” he said.

  I stifled a laugh. “There’s no law that says you have to give a goat a ride home from school.”

  “The little monster was lurking on the side of the road by the bus stop, and when Cora and Ivy opened the back door, he jumped in. And nothing we said or did could get him out.”

  “I petted him,” Cora announced. “And he tried to eat my hair.”

  “Smells like a moldy old rug,” Ivy grunted.

  I took Banger by the collar. “Hop down, you four-footed stowaway.”

  He leapt to the ground, white tail twitching. Gazing around the yard with what appeared to be contentment, he nuzzled his horned head against my thigh. Cathy snorted. “I guess he’s missed you lately.”

  I rubbed Banger’s head and looked into his china-blue eyes. “So you missed sleeping in the truck bed with me? Admit it.” He nibbled the sleeve of my Giants sweatshirt. I nodded. “He can live in the barn. I’m sure Delta and Pike don’t care if we keep him. I’ll put down some hay. We’ll be roommates.”

  “If he chases me the way he did at the café that time, he’ll be your only roommate,” Cathy said meaningfully, arching a dark brow.

  “I’ll lock him in the calf stall at night. He’ll be warm, he’ll be placid, he’ll be behind bars.”

  Banger wandered around the yard, taste-testing twigs, rocks and dirt. It was as if he knew the farm had been home to a goat herd in the historic past, headed by his spiritual ancestor in the Nettie cemetery, Bah Ba Loo. The puppies followed him curiously, but he ignored them. On the back screened porch, the rooster crowed. We glanced over our shoulders at the cat, which was watching Banger from the veranda. The audience was complete.

  Ivy gave us a dark half-smile. “Maybe we should just build sheds on both sides of the house. So Banger can live on one side and Herman can live on the other. Banger could be an indoor house-goat and Herman could be an indoor house-chicken.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Cathy deadpanned. “With Banger in the house we wouldn’t need a garbage disposal.”

  “I could feed Herman at the kitchen table!” Cora said excitedly. “He has good manners! He always lets you know when he’s about to poop. He fluffs his feathers. I bet he’d used the kitty litter box if we asked him to.”

  I stared at the house. Sheds. On the sides. I dropped to my heels beside Ivy. “Take that thought to the next level. The sheds. Be creative with it.”

  Her dark eyes widened. “Me?”

  “Tell me how you’d add rooms to this house.”

  Ivy gaped at me then, slowly, faced the cottage. “Well, like, if the whole point is to keep people noticing the old part, the original part, without noticing the new parts too much, then . . . “She spread her arms. “We could build . . . wings. So the house will be the middle of these new wings, you know, like ... it would have matching wings, like in a computer game when you look down an alley and the alley makes you look right there, right in the middle. So wings on the house would make everybody look right in the middle at the old part. You know, like . . . an illusion.” She dropped her arms, shifted uneasily, then shrugged. “Aw, that’s all just stupid, I know.”

  “No. No, it’s perfect!” Her stunned eyes went wider. I nodded over her head to Cathy, who was watching us with a quiet smile. “It’s so simple. I was making it too complex. All we have to do is extend the sides of the house equally. Open up the existing rooms by expanding outward. That way, we’d leave the central interior virtually unchanged. Everything new will be in the extensions.”

  “Including bathrooms?” Cathy asked.

  “Including bathrooms.” She and the girls applauded. “The original house is covered in shingles, so we’ll cover the new wings in stone facades. That contrast will lead the eye to the center, to the original cottage.” I stood excitedly, framing the house with my hands, gesturing. “Add some evergreens, the right curve to the landscaping in the front, here and there, and over there, and the house will maintain its original integrity. The illusion will honor the concept, inside and out.”

  Cathy whooped. “‘Pretty is as pretty does.’ I like it when that happens.”

  I looked at Ivy. “Want to help me draw the blueprints?”

  “Really?”

  “Really. It’s your design, so you have to supervise. We’ll move the drafting board into the living room. The light’s better and there’s room to pull up a second chair.”

  “Okay!”

  Cora looked a little forgotten. “Hey,” Cathy said to her gently. “Ivy can help Thomas with the blueprints, but once the new rooms are built I’ll need your help decorating. So we’ll need to start looking through house magazines for ideas, okay?”

  Cora beamed. “I like picking out colors!”

  “Good. That’s settled, then.” Cathy saluted me. “Team Nettie Homeplace is ready to build, Sir.”

  I saluted back, then waved the troops toward the house. “Homework and dinner, first. Then we’ll sketch some house plans.”

  The girls raced indoors.

  Cathy took my hand and looked up at me in a way guaranteed to get her laid in the barn that night, even with a goat watching. “The girls needed to feel that this house is theirs, not just ours. You’ve made that possible. Thank you. Maybe we’ll get this parenting thing figured out after all.”

  I kissed her. “Maybe we need more goatly inspiration. Imagine what might happen if we bought a whole herd to keep Banger company. What do you say?”

  She thought a minute. “Not just ‘No,’” she answered sweetly. “But ‘Hell, no.’”

  Chapter 25

  Cathy Clearing The Way

  Soon we had a blueprint. One Thomas and I both liked, and to which the girls had contributed lots of ideas. We were ready to begin building.

  On a chilly March morning I woke to the weight of two girls, two puppies and a cat sharing my queen bed, all of them having been too excited to sleep the night before, until they fell asleep with me. They needed me, all of them, and I had hugged them to me, each of them, all night, for comfort. My night had been nearly sleepless and tainted by bad dreams. My hands shook; I was an emotional mess, I needed to forget who I was and what I looked like. But the girls slept soundly. For once I’d managed to hide my emotions from them. They had no clue what the date meant to me.

  I inhaled the aroma of coffee, slipped out of bed, dressed, and padded to the kitchen wearily. Thomas often woke me up by slipping into the house and making coffee. That morning I cherished the scent of him and his ground roast even more than usual.

  It was the first anniversary of my accident.

  Thomas stood with his back to me at the kitchen sink. I paused in the doorway, aching at the sight of him. Lots of flannel and corduroy, a good barber-shop haircut, big shoulders, nice ass, no vodka since January, plenty of hope. Don’t think about this day last year. I wanted my morning cup of Thomas, the feel of his arms around me, the slow kiss.

  “Good morning,” he said. He gave a little flourish with his hands as he finished pouring two cups of Starbucks from the big vintage percolator he’d bought at the Turtleville flea market. He pivoted slowly.

  And presented his shaved face to me.

  “In honor of fresh starts,” he explained simply, watching my reaction carefully. “It’s a day to celebrate new looks.”

  His brown beard was entirely gone, along with its mustache. For the first time since I’d known him I saw his angular jaw, his strong chin, the ir
resistible dimple next to the right corner of his mouth. He pointed at the dimple. “I just wanted you to see the Mitternich birthmark.”

  “It’s a winner,” I said, smiling and crying. He wanted to please me. To say that change was good, even my changes, my scars, though I’d never accept that claim. I wished I could believe he truly found me beautiful the way I was now.

  I never would.

  That evening, as the sunset turned Hog Back to chilly gold, Thomas, the girls and I stood beside the gray-white expanse of the house’s newly poured foundations. “See those, girls?” Thomas said, pointing to white pipes rising from the cement. “Plumbing. That’s a bathroom, and that’s a bathroom, and that’s for the new kitchen. I’ve made my peace with the modernization of this house. Or at least the modernization of the new wings. But let’s always remember how it looked before this day.”

  “Last night Half-Pint drank out of the portable potty in our room,” Cora said earnestly. “I think she’ll like drinking out of a real commode better.”

  Leave it to Cora to put things in perspective. I arched a brow at Thomas. He sighed and looked at the concrete in silence.

  The house would fit this gray footprint some day soon, would spread its wood and stone wings, its heart, over these two broad, flat arms. The room additions would more than triple Granny Nettie’s wonderful cottage in size, would turn the old bedrooms into sitting rooms for the new bedrooms, turn the original kitchen into an entrance and pantry for the new one, turn the small dining room into a buffet nook for the new dining room, add two fireplaces, three full baths, several big closets, two side halls, and lots of big, sunshine-filled windows guaranteed to make any traditional Craftsman-style lover cringe from the light like an architectural vampire. But the heart of the house, the big living room with the fireplace and the built-in cabinets, would remain exactly as it was.

  Welcome to the home I made for you, my grandmother whispered from the front walkway, from the arched veranda, from the front door with its mountain-scape in stained glass, from the living room, from the space where the new rooms of her house would rise. You survived, see? It doesn’t matter who you were, anymore. It’s all about who you are, now. You’ll be all right.

  Granny, I wish I had your faith.

  Thomas put an arm around me. “We need to commemorate this building site. Get some sticks, girls. We’ll sign our names in the concrete before it finishes drying.”

  When we were all armed with sticks, we knelt by the cool gray apron. Cathryn, Thomas, Iverem and Cora, the scrawled etchings said. I drew the month and day, Thomas drew the year. We sat back on our heels and gazed at the evidence that we were here, that we were all alive on this date in history together. I wanted so badly to feel joy and satisfaction for surviving, to make some peace with what had happened to me, but I wasn’t ready yet, any more than Thomas was able to bury Ethan’s toy truck. He now kept it on a shelf in the barn.

  “Baaaah,” Banger chortled suddenly, appearing from the shadows at a gallop. The puppies enjoyed chasing him and he enjoyed pretending to run. He bounded onto the concrete with all four cloven hooves, with the puppies behind him. We stared as he and they left a jagged trail across the fresh tablet of concrete. Thomas nearly exploded. “That section will have to be re-poured, dammit.” Suddenly the cat raced across, too, chasing the others. Little kitty prints now paraded after the hoofprints and puppy paws. The animals’ carefree absurdity colored the moment with a patina of faith. Life doesn’t take itself seriously for long. Joy leaves an imprint in even the hardest sorrow.

  Cora began to giggle. Then Ivy, helplessly unleashed from her tough self, chortled. Thomas put a hand to his stomach and bent double, laughing.

  And I couldn’t help smiling.

  We all made our marks, that day.

  Thomas

  “Her,” Cathy said, pointing furiously. “Not her. Not her, again.”

  Cathy didn’t sound happy, to say the least. We stood in the yard that chilly spring morning, welcoming Jeb and his crew to Day One of house construction. Stacks of lumber and insulation filled the yard. Pick-ups rumbled on the driveway. Bert and Roland, my chain-gang mates, who were good carpenters and dry-wallers, waved at me. “I brought you a Baptist stone monkey for the roof,” Roland yelled out his truck window, and held up a plastic owl he’d bought at a Wal Mart.

  But the truck Cathy jabbed her finger at was Alberta’s. Rainbow Goddess Farms. It carried Alberta and her womanly carpenters. Cathy pulled a colorful spring scarf closer around her face and adjusted cheerful pastel sunglasses. “Her,” she muttered again.

  “Sorry, but Alberta’s women do some of the best house-framing in the county. Be glad we got them. They’re in demand. Another month and they’ll be too busy at their farm to do construction work.”

  “Okay, but don’t let me have a hammer around Alberta. I can’t be held responsible for what part of her I might thump accidentally.”

  Alberta, small and brawny in an Indigo Girls sweatshirt, cargo shorts, and hiking boots, strode up to us. She ignored Cathy and thrust out a hand to me. “I like your blueprint. Helluva plan. Thanks for hiring us.” We shook.

  Cathy held out her left hand, palm down, for a squeeze. She never shook with the scarred hand, and Alberta knew that, but Alberta gave the proffered left hand a sniffy glance. That glance rose to Cathy’s pastel scarf and sunglasses. “What are you pretending to be this time? The Easter Bunny’s crazy secret helper?”

  “Fuck you,” Cathy said flatly, and went inside.

  I frowned at Alberta. “A little more compassion on your part would go a long way.”

  “Thomas, don’t baby her, she’s not your kid, she’s your woman. Let her fight her own fights. If you don’t push her harder, she’s gonna be a needy little whack-job the rest of her life.”

  “I don’t baby her. Besides, I like whack-jobs. I’m one, myself.”

  “You coddle her more than you realize. Women turn into resentful children when men take care of them too much. And men turn into daddy-figures or bullies. Don’t risk it.”

  Before I could say anything else in Cathy’s defense, she burst out of the house with her purse hanging from one shoulder and the Hummer keys in her hand. “The school called. Ivy’s been in a fight. They’re suspending her. I have to go.”

  I immediately reached for the keys. Cathy pulled them away. Breathing hard, her hands shaking, she glared at Alberta. “I can handle this alone.”

  Drive on pavement? All the way to Turtleville? That would be interesting. I desperately wanted to talk her out of it. But maybe Alberta was right. I did try too hard to protect her at times. “Okay,” I said. “Call me on the cell phone if you need anything.”

  Cathy nodded shakily and climbed into the Hummer with great dignity. But as she rolled out of the yard she lowered her window, held out her rejected left hand, and flipped Alberta a bird. After the Hummer disappeared down the driveway Alberta slapped me on the back. “See? Cathy’d rather eat nails than look weak and helpless in front of me. Good. No extra charge for the therapy session.”

  Whistling, she went to unload her tools.

  She had some big ones.

  Cathy

  I was a nervous wreck, and everyone at Jefferson County Elementary School knew it. At least in my imagination they did. And it wasn’t my imagination that heads popped out of classrooms as I hurried down a hall to the principal’s office. It wasn’t my imagination that teachers gasped as they glimpsed the scars peeking from beneath my scarf. Not my imagination that they whispered fervently to each other as I went by.

  The principal confirmed my suspicions.

  “I’m so sorry for everyone’s reaction,” she said, hustling me into her office and shutting the door. I noticed that her own face was stark white and she avoided looking directly at me. “The entire faculty attended a disabilities sensitivity seminar over in Asheville, not six months ago.” She smiled awkwardly. “Oh, Lord, I didn’t mean to imply you’re disabled. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I j
ust didn’t know what to expect about your appearance. How bad it . . . oh, Lord, I’m sorry, again.”

  “Relax, no problem,” I lied cheerfully, while I shriveled inside. “If there were a sensitivity seminar about my situation it would be called Burned-Up Celebrities, and the sub-title would be, Why It’s Impolite To Stare At Bob Crane’s Crispy Corpse.”

  She darted looks at me as she ushered me to a chair facing her desk. “Excuse me? Bob Crane? Who?”

  “He starred in Hogan’s Heroes during the sixties. His personal life got a little out of control after the TV series ended. He burned to death in a motel room out west. Some lurid and mysterious sex scandal involving...” My eyes fell on a big cartoon bunny who smiled from a poster on the wall behind the principal’s desk.

  Think Happy Thoughts, the slogan said.

  “Nevermind.” I sat down wearily. “Sorry for the disruption. Let’s talk about Ivy, instead.”

  The principal took a deep breath and sat down facing me. “Ms. Deen, regarding your foster daughter—”

  “Call me ‘Cathy,’ please. Did I mention I intend to join the PTA?”

  “We call it the PTSA, now. Parent-Teacher-Student Association.”

  “Oh. That’s good. I think I knew that. I just . . . forgot.”

  The principal smiled patiently and still avoided looking at my face. She cleared her throat. “Now, about Ivy. This is the third time since fall that Ivy’s physically injured a fellow seventh grader. The first two times, of course, I called her aunt, who couldn’t have cared less and refused to meet with me. Now, unfortunately, the problem is yours.”

  “Look, she’s going through a hard time.”

  “I understand, believe me. Ivy has lots of potential.”

  “Yes! She’s been an honors student despite the way her aunt moved her and her sister around. I suspect she’s bored. She needs to be in accelerated classes. When she goes to middle school next year I intend to talk to her teachers about that.” Just as soon as I get over my phobia about being stared at by strangers in public.