by Joseph Souza
“How do you know?”
“I was over at her house one day and walked in on her. She slammed the computer shut as soon as I went in.”
“She wouldn’t tell you who she was talking to?”
“No, but we were cousins, and she knew I wouldn’t tell anyone. Girls who do these things understand the risk.”
“How do you feel about living here?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I’m a Muslim girl. I accept the way things are.”
“Why won’t her parents talk to the police?”
“Because they’re embarrassed. They feel she dishonored Allah in some way. It sickens me what they did to her. No one deserves to die like that.”
“Do you believe that someone in your community killed her?”
She laughs bitterly. “What do you think?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Most people here just want to be left alone and be dutiful Muslims. But yes, there are a few troublemakers among us who think they speak for everyone. They would try to enforce our old laws and traditions if they had their way.”
“What would they enforce?”
“To stop selling pork and alcohol. Stuff like that. And they believe all women should dress accordingly.” She holds her cigarette aloft. “I don’t know much else.”
“Nasreen!” a man shouts. His voice echoes throughout the parking lot.
“Oh shit, I gotta go,” she says, flicking her cigarette down onto the pavement.
She jogs over to where the man is calling. Then he starts to yell at her about something. His voice grows heated, but she doesn’t back down, giving it right back to him.
Brynn and I climb inside the truck and head over to The Galaxy, driving in silence. It’s just after four-thirty when we pull into the near-empty parking lot. It still amazes me that someone could run such a successful business into the ground. Despite my intention to cook something new and exciting tomorrow, it’s probably too late to save the place. If Yanni’s so stuck in his ways that he refuses to change, the end will be sooner than expected.
Stefania frowns upon seeing us walk through the door. She crosses her arms and stares icily as we sit at the counter. I order two chocolate shakes, then move to the kitchen to put away the groceries. Yanni’s standing at the table cutting onions when I walk in, although he fails to acknowledge my presence. I go inside the walk-in and place the perishables neatly on the stainless steel shelves. What an unorganized mess. Boxes of spoiled food lie everywhere. Mold tickles my nostrils, and on the floor I notice what appears to be mouse droppings. I can’t deal with this right now, so I put the bags on the shelves and head back to the dining room.
“Where’s my change?” Yanni says.
I reach into my purse and toss the leftover coins on the table.
“Sixty-two cents is all?”
“You gave me forty dollars to spend and so I spent it.”
I laugh at his stupidity. He thinks he’s saving money by buying his food off one of those 18-wheelers that delivers vegetables in industrial cans. It’s about the worst sin a chef in this business can commit.
“I’m going to show you how to cook an authentic diner meal, Yanni. That’s assuming anyone shows up to order it.”
“The customers love my food, you’ll see.” The onions make it look as if he’s crying.
“What customers? There’s no one out there.”
He waves me away, and I leave him to cry over his minced onions. Brynn’s whispering something to Stefania when I sit down. I watch them interact, trying to figure out where they stand in the hierarchy of high school cliques. It soon becomes obvious that Stefania is the alpha girl in her pack.
“What are you girls going on about?” I say, slipping in next to Br ynn.
“Oh, nothing,” Stefania says innocently.
“Mostly school stuff,” Brynn says.
“School stuff, huh?” I sip my shake, which to my surprise actually tastes pretty good. “Didn’t know you two were so studious.”
“We’re a lot smarter than you think,” Stefania says. “I didn’t know you two were related.”
“Now you know,” I say.
“I feel sorry for you,” Stefania says to Br ynn.
“Lucy’s cool,” Brynn replies.
“I’ll give you props, kid,” I say, holding up my frosted glass. “You make a damn good shake.”
“Did you hear that? Miss Fancy-Pants actually likes something in this diner.”
“There’s a first for everything.”
She snaps her gum. “Are you really going to cook here tomorrow?”
“That’s the plan,” I say, looking around at the empty diner, “although I might not be doing much cooking, judging by the looks of it.”
“Why are you always putting us down?” Stefania shifts her weight from one leg to the other. “You think you know what’s best for us, but you really have no clue what our customers like.”
“Do I have to live in Fawn Grove to know what people here like to eat?”
“I think you’re just trying to make a name for yourself at the expense of my papou.”
“Listen to me, Stefania. Your grandfather’s going to lose this place if he doesn’t change his ways.”
“First of all, my name is Stef. Second, my grandfather’s a talented chef, thank you very much. He doesn’t need someone like you coming in here and telling him how to run his business.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.”
“Did you know he used to have his own restaurant in Greece?” She turns and disappears into the kitchen.
Once Brynn and I finish our shakes, I throw some bills down on the counter before we head back to the truck. I’m surprised at how eager I am to cook here tomorrow. Maybe it’s the prospect of returning to the kitchen that’s so energizing. Or discovering such a hidden gem as that Afghani grocery. Or the fact that I’ve learned something about the dead girl that I didn’t know before.
I’m feeling upbeat as I walk into the parking lot. Of course my good mood could come crashing down at any moment. I must stay levelheaded and calm, knowing that my life could just as easily fall back into that meaningless state of despair.
Brynn runs up to her room as soon as we go inside the house. Wendy steers her wheelchair to the table in order to prepare a lasagna for dinner.
“Will you be eating with us tonight?”
“I think I will for once,” I say brightly.
She spins around and smiles at me. “You seem to be in a better mood today.”
“I am,” I say. “I must admit, you did a great job raising Brynn.”
She lays down the first ribbons of lasagna along the bottom of the pan. “I’m so glad you two are finally getting to know each other after all these years.”
“Except she thinks I’m your neglected, orphaned cousin. Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure she could handle it with all your injuries, and the fact that you’ve never tried to have a relationship with her. Besides, Brynn’s had a rough go of it these last few years.”
“How so?”
“She’s had some anger and emotional issues in school due to our health issues and has been getting therapy. I didn’t want to risk upsetting her good mood by telling her the truth about you.”
“So you think lying is a better strategy?”
“At least until she gets to know you better.”
I stare down at the ingredients on the table. “Do you need any help making dinner?”
“I’m crippled, not helpless,” she says as if offended. “And if you’ve forgotten, I make the best lasagna in Maine.”
“Just trying to be helpful.”
“If you really want to help, why don’t you go sit with Russ for a few minutes and keep him company. He barely gets off that recliner because of his back.”
“I’m not sure Russ likes me.”
Wendy laughs. “Of course he likes you. He acts like that with everyone at first. You just ne
ed to get to know him better. Now go inside and sit with him.”
I walk into the living room and see Big Russ glaring at the television. I sit down in the chair next to him and watch whatever he’s put on. He glances at me from time to time out of the corner of his eye. On the nightstand next to him sits a two-liter bottle of diet soda.
“What are you watching?”
“It’s a documentary on the Amazon basin and the various creatures that live in its ecosystem.”
“Cool.”
“Oh, it’s beyond cool.”
“I notice you watch a lot of documentaries.”
“Since I rarely leave the house, I like to know what’s going on in the world.”
“What do you know about these refugees in town?”
He turns and stares at me. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve taken quite an interest in them.”
“I guess I’m curious to find out what happened to that poor girl.”
“You should be careful where you tread.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a lot of bad blood in this town over our Middle Eastern brethren.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say that their integration into Fawn Grove has been less than smooth.”
“So I’ve heard,” I say. “But there are people in town who are happy they’re here, right?”
“Plenty that don’t.”
“Does that include you?”
“Doesn’t really matter what I think.”
“Okay, I know when to shut up.”
He grabs his soda bottle and takes a swig. “The loudest protester of them all is that detective friend of yours.”
“Dalton?”
“Who else?”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest, seeing how he’s a police officer?”
“I would say so. He and his AFA buddies don’t like that the Afghanis settled here. They believe these immigrants want to transform Fawn Grove so it resembles the third world hellhole they left.”
“What do you think?”
“Sure, a small minority want to impose their rules on us, but that’s not gonna happen. Most of these immigrants are good, hardworking people who just want to live in peace and go about their business.”
“When you say transform Fawn Grove, do you mean they want to implement their own laws?”
“Call it whatever you will. There’s a small minority that wants to live like they did in their homeland.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“Why come here if you don’t like our ways?” He shrugs. “I’m fine with them taking part in the American dream. Just don’t try to change the way we do things, because we’ve been doing them here in Fawn Grove for a long time.”
“And the girl. What do you think happened to her?”
“If I knew that, I’d have solved this town’s biggest mystery.” He turns his attention back to the documentary. Then he takes another sip of his soda and points at the TV. “Look at the size of that damn cobra. Amazing the way people can live side by side with all those poisonous snakes. It’d freak me the hell out if I saw one of those slithering toward me.”
I get up, leave Russ’s side, and head to my room. I have no desire to watch a show about snakes and reptiles. And his unwitting snake metaphor is not lost on me. All of a sudden I feel weak in the knees. There’s no way I can eat dinner with Wendy and her family tonight. I couldn’t even fake it. I need sleep and lots of it. Tomorrow promises to be an interesting day. I’ll need to get up early and make myself look pretty before I head over there. If the voices decide to plague me tonight, then so be it. I’ll need to deal with them eventually.
12
I GET UP EARLY AFTER A DECENT NIGHT’S SLEEP AND PREPARE MYSELF for the day. After showering, I apply my makeup with meticulous care. Then I open my suitcase and pull out my crisp chef whites. Just the sight of them puts me in a better mood. The knives sit on the bureau, snug in their canvas bag like a happy family. They’re like having a pit bull as a pet—loyal to a fault and yet lethal if necessary. I unfurl it and take in their shiny countenance and beautiful wood handles. They’re organized by size and heft and sit neatly in their pockets. I stare lovingly at the gleaming steel angled to razor-sharp perfection. These are my lifeblood and the source of my greatest inspiration. They make me wish I was back in my old kitchen, breaking down a side of beef or coaxing a coho salmon out of its silvery skin. I roll the canvas up, stuff it under my armpit, and head out.
The oak floor creeks underfoot as I tiptoe toward the stairs. It’s dark outside, but there’s a glow coming from somewhere down the hallway. Upon further notice I see that it’s coming from Brynn’s room. Why is she up at this hour? A faint light pulses from beneath the door. Has she fallen asleep and left her light on? I twist the handle and open it a crack. Brynn’s sitting at her desk, in her robe, and staring intently at her laptop. She’s faced away from me and wearing earbuds. I can’t see the screen, but it appears as if she’s talking to someone on FaceTime. At this hour? Her anger issues come to mind, and I wonder how these issues manifested. Did she get in trouble at school? I gently close the door and make my way down the stairs, decidedly not interested in invading her privacy.
Darkness envelopes me as soon as I make my way outside. It’s chilly this morning. I blithely make my way around to the driver’s side, in desperate need of caffeine. But when I go to open the door I notice something scrawled over the windshield in red lettering. It’s a star inside a crescent moon. Below the image it says Stop Digging, Infidel Bitch!
I glance around nervously before checking out the truck’s bed. Nothing. The inside of the cab is empty as well. I hop in, tossing my knives on the seat next to me. After unfurling the canvas, I pull a boning knife out of the sheath and slip it into the pocket of my chef’s pants for good measure. Then I peel out of there as fast as possible, calling Dalton as I race through the empty streets. By the time I arrive at the diner, the threatening message has become all but unintelligible over my windshield.
* * *
Breakfast and lunch proved to be a huge disappointment. I’m not sure what I was thinking, operating under the deluded belief that my presence here would be an instant success. The old-timers who patronized The Galaxy had long ago lost their appetite for anything fresh and unique. They showed no appreciation for my pillowy omelettes, fresh cheddar/bacon biscuits, and buckwheat pancakes made from scratch. Not one person ordered the lamb burger with tzatziki sauce or the baklava made with locally sourced honey. Instead, they chose the circular brick patties of industrial beef topped with processed yellow cheese, canned limp pickles made bitter from vinegar, and reheated shoestring fries straight from the bag.
It leads me to believe that The Galaxy needs far more help than I can give it. What works in Manhattan doesn’t necessarily translate to rural Maine. The place needs a new customer base along with a clever marketing campaign and a fresh design that adds brightness and energy to the decor. It needs a full-time chef who can give it the time and energy needed to turn this dump around. Yanni grinned at me after breakfast service ended, confident that he’d won some hard-fought wager between us. That his customers didn’t order my inventive cuisine seemed to validate all that he believed in. As sure as I am of my culinary skills, I’ve never felt so down about this profession. At least I put away the liquid eggs and cracked fresh ones.
Sadly, I should have known that I’d been set up to fail.
Dalton met me at the diner soon after I informed him about the threatening note scrawled on my windshield. He wrote up a report and filed it in the police log. None of this made me feel any more secure, but at least the threat was now on record. Dalton sidled up to the counter, despite the fact that we hadn’t yet opened our doors, and ordered his usual breakfast. It took a while for Yanni’s crappy coffee to brew, so I boiled up some water and made two cups from the private stash I purchased at that Afghani market. I made it using an old press I found in the storage ro
om. I was careful to stir the liquid until a milky froth appeared at the top of each cup. The caffeine kicked in like jet fuel, and I became a tour de force in the kitchen, a force without an opposing force to counter my outsized ambition. A chef without customers is like a lumberjack assigned to cut trees in a clearcut forest.
Now I’m left to clean the kitchen and put all the leftover food back in the walk-in cooler. Yanni gloats as I do this. He watches me with a big smile over his heavily lined face, enjoying a bitter victory that will one day foreshadow his demise. Lovingly, and with care, I slip my knives back into their sheaths and tie the canvas up until it’s a sack again. My chef whites are spotless, perfectly creased, and virgin like fresh Maine snow. Their cleanliness is a gentle reminder of my failure here. I’m about to leave when Stefania walks in, eyes rolling and a ticket in hand.
“You’re not going to believe this, Miss Fancy-Pants, but someone just ordered one of your lamb burgers,” she says.
“For real?”
“Yeah, and it was your boyfriend.”
“Stop calling him that. You know he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Friend with benefits, then.”
“Get out of my kitchen, Stefania!”
“It’s Stef, not Stefania. How many times do I have to tell you that, Chef?”
Although it’s Dalton ordering the burger, it’s better than nothing. Seizing my opportunity to impress, I grab the ground lamb out of the walk-in, then form it into a ball and then a nice round patty. After it sears on the flattop, I set it down on some split pita bread and add a slice of tomato, lettuce leaves, and some tzatziki sauce. While the burger sets, I fry a batch of hand-cut fries that had already been fried. When they’re done, I toss them in a bowl of salt and pepper and then shake them until the seasoning is absorbed. I plate them next to the burger and deliver the plate out to Dalton along with a dollop of truffle-infused chipotle mayo.
“Did you find out who sent me that message?” I ask as I slide the plate in front of him.
“Be patient. I just filed the report this morning.” He reaches for the ketchup, but I grab his wrist before he takes hold of it. “What are you doing?”
