There was a light on in there, just one bare bulb hanging from an overhead wire. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement, and a shadow. I turned and swung the skillet. It flew out of my hand and crashed in the middle of the floor. An enormous gray cat jumped off the kitchenette counter and stood in the middle of the room with its back arched, all its fur on end, a mouse dangling from its mouth by the tail.
Relief flooded through me, and my legs turned to Jell-O. I held on to the wall for support.
“You scared the living daylights out of me,” I said to the cat.
He—or she; I couldn’t tell from the front—responded by tossing the mouse up into the air, catching it again, and then carrying it over to the corner and settling down to breakfast.
I retrieved the skillet and turned to address the cat again. “Look, I appreciate you taking care of the mice up here, and all that,” I said, “but you can’t stay here. Now go on, shoo.” I prodded at the cat with my foot. It didn’t move.
I prodded once more, but the cat held its ground. And then something occurred to me, something my brain hadn’t registered before. The place smelled different—like lemon cleaner and ammonia. The floors had been swept and scrubbed. There was a bucket over on the kitchen counter with a spray bottle sticking out, and a mop and broom propped against the far wall. And I realized the sound of running water had stopped.
“Cats don’t turn on lights,” I whispered to myself. “Cats don’t run water or use Mr. Clean.”
“No, ma’am, they don’t.”
The voice came from behind me, a low rumbling sound. I turned.
Filling up the narrow doorway to the bathroom stood the biggest, blackest man I had ever seen. He had a massive bare chest, a broad nose and large mouth, and biceps the size of rutabagas. His skin was damp and shiny, and drops of water clung to his close-cropped hair like the little seed pearls I had sewn all over my wedding dress.
He looked like he had just come out of the shower. Fortunately, he had his pants on, but no shoes, and a gray T-shirt hung on the bathroom doorknob.
I raised the skillet and tried to look threatening. “You stay put, now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He raised his palms as if in surrender, and the pale skin underneath glowed pink in the glare of the overhead light.
The cat, who had finished its breakfast, strolled over and began to rub against the legs of his pants, purring loudly.
“I don’t mean no harm,” he said quietly.
I brandished the skillet at him. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Stayin’.”
“Staying? You mean you’re living here? Over my restaurant?”
“Yes’m.”
“How long you been here?”
“’Bout a week, I reckon. I generally get myself gone before dawn and sneak back in after dark.”
“So you’re what, homeless? A bum? A hobo?”
He smiled briefly at the old-fashioned word. “I’m a . . . traveler.”
“And you traveled yourself right into Chulahatchie and up the stairs to this abandoned apartment.”
“Yes’m, that sounds about right.”
“Using my water and electricity.”
He raised a huge hand and scratched his head. “One bulb don’t draw much power, ma’am. And I wash pretty quick.”
I looked at him more closely. Who did he remind me of? The voice, the face, the enormous size of him . . .
Then I remembered. The convict in that Tom Hanks movie The Green Mile. The one on death row.
The recollection didn’t comfort me none. “You got a name?” I asked.
He grinned. “Everybody’s got a name. Mine’s Scratch. You’re Miz Dell, ain’t you?”
“That’s right.”
He ducked his head in a little bow. “Mighty pleased to meetcha.”
I gazed around. “You been cleaning up this place?”
“Yes’m.”
“Why?”
He looked at me as if I’d lost my ever-loving mind. “It was dirty.”
Something about the man touched me. He had a fierce, intelligent look in his eyes, a kind of fiery pride that, despite his circumstances, couldn’t be quenched. He put me in mind of a warrior chief in Africa. I could almost see him with a headdress and spear and a necklace made of lion’s teeth.
A hundred questions jumped to the front of my mind, but one of them won out. “How have you been living, Scratch?” I asked. “What you been eating?”
He shrugged again. “Leftovers.”
“Leftovers? You mean the food I throw away? You’re eating out of the Dumpster?”
“Leftovers,” he repeated stubbornly. “You a mighty fine cook, Miz Dell, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”
I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character. Recent revelations about my husband should have proved otherwise, but I didn’t think about that at the moment. All I knew was that this proud man, who called himself Scratch, might be homeless and jobless, but he was dignified, and decent enough not to live in squalor.
Chase woulda called him a bum, or worse. Much worse. I never use that word, the N word, but I was raised in the South and heard it plenty in the course of fifty years of living. Whether I’d use it out loud or not, it came to mind when I thought about Chase’s reaction.
Folks in other parts of the country often look down on Southerners as redneck racists. I gotta admit that in the not-too-distant past, that reputation has been well deserved. I’ve seen a few white robes and hoods in my time—even knew which Baptist deacons were hidden underneath there, too. And some of our gun-totin’, truck-drivin’ good old boys mighta come straight out of Deliverance. But for the most part we’ve evolved enough to stand upright and walk on two legs, and we like to think we’re a bit more civilized than people give us credit for.
Still, I won’t lie; I felt just a little nervous, standing there in the apartment over the cafe with a huge, half-naked black man. I experienced a brief moment of fear, followed by a little twinge of attraction.
We stood there, eyeing at each other. And then I made a leap of faith. I decided I liked him. I decided I trusted him.
At least I didn’t think he was gonna slit my throat with a butcher knife or rob me blind.
He must have seen the change come over my face. “I’m a real hard worker, Miz Dell,” he said quickly, as if determined to plead his case before the moment passed. “I been kinda down on my luck lately, but I can do most anything. I can fix this place up. I can repair them stairs out back. I can short-order cook, or clean, or—”
I held up a hand to stop him. “Hold on. I can’t afford to hire anybody.”
“Don’t need much,” he said. “I know how to get by.”
He wasn’t begging. He was stating a fact.
I could hear Chase inside my head: Dell, you must be out of your mind. You got no idea who this man is. For God’s sake, woman, think! Think what you’re doing; think what other people might say . . .
And then, in the midst of my husband’s rant, I heard Mama’s voice cut across him. “Honey,” she always told me, “when push comes to shove, you gotta trust your gut.”
“All right,” I said, half to Mama and half to Scratch. “If you’re willing, you can work in exchange for a place to stay and two good meals a day—and whatever leftovers you want to take with you. You can bus tables, mop floors, clean the kitchen, run the dishwasher. We’ll try it for two weeks. If I say go, you got to go, and no arguments. That sound okay to you?”
Scratch nodded. “Yes’m. Sounds about perfect.”
“You need anything, you ask. If I catch you stealing, I’ll call the sheriff, and he’ll be all over you like white on rice.”
He reached down and scooped the cat up to his broad chest. “What about Mouse?” The cat gazed at me with wide green eyes.
“Mouse?”
“Yes’m. When I found her she was just a bitty thing, about the size of a mouse. Her being gray like she is, the name just seemed t
o fit. She won’t be no trouble.”
“She can stay, but keep her out of the restaurant. It’s against the health codes.”
“Yes’m.” He paused. “Miz Dell?”
“What?”
“You gonna hit me with that fryin’ pan?”
Suddenly I realized I was still holding the cast-iron skillet up like a weapon, and he hadn’t moved from the spot where I first found him.
I looked at the skillet. I looked at him. I looked at the tiny window, where the first gray light of dawn was beginning to seep in through the tattered curtain.
“No,” I said. “I’m gonna go make some cornbread.”
• 10 •
Six-thirty rolled around, and I opened the doors to let in the truckers. Scratch had gotten himself some breakfast and was already in the kitchen wearing a clean white apron and slicing up the ham. In the back of my mind, as I flipped pancakes and poured coffee, I was making a plan.
The plan was not without its drawbacks. This man who called himself Scratch—this black man—was an unknown quantity. Maybe he was just down on his luck, as he had said. Or maybe he was a con artist who was biding his time before he made off with the cash drawer and put me in the poorhouse for good.
I didn’t know. I had no way of knowing, not until he had a chance to prove himself. But while my mind stewed over the dire possibilities, another image rose up in the shadowy parts of my mind, one I liked a whole lot better. That old Sally Field movie, where she’s trying to make ends meet and get the cotton picked and sold after her husband’s violent and untimely death. The way she trusted the black man who showed up on her doorstep because she didn’t have any other choice. That turned out all right for her. Maybe it would turn out all right for me, too. Sure made me feel more noble than the other option, which was to call the sheriff and send him packing.
So here was the plan: Somewhere in that mess we called a guest bedroom was a double mattress and frame we hadn’t used in fifteen years. I expected I could round up a table and lamp, too, and maybe a little chester drawers. And although Scratch was bigger across the shoulders and smaller in the waist, I thought some of Chase’s clothes might fit all right.
Why I took it upon myself to feed, house, and clothe a man who was squatting in the upstairs of my restaurant, I have no idea. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It made me feel good about myself.
Until Marvin Beckstrom came into the Heartbreak Cafe that morning.
The place was buzzing, with only one empty table right in the middle. Toni was sitting in a booth with Boone Atkins, looking at some kid’s book about wild things, with great illustrations of some very funny monsters.
Toni taught second grade at Chulahatchie Elementary, so she was always off in the summertime. We used to have great adventures in the summer, driving up through Aber deen and Okolona and Pontotoc, going to flea markets and buying fresh vegetables at truck stands along the side of the road. But running the Heartbreak Cafe took up all my time and energy these days, and I rarely saw Toni unless she came into the restaurant, or occasionally on a Sunday afternoon.
I missed her, and I could tell she missed me. But she didn’t complain; she understood I was only doing what I had to do. And she and Boone had gotten to be better friends. I guess they bonded over the argument about paint chips during the renovations. Whatever the case, it wasn’t unusual to see the two of them together.
I missed Boone, too. Since the day the cafe opened, we never had a chance to go to lunch like we used to, just the two of us. Our only conversations had been a snatch here and a snatch there, in between serving customers and cleaning tables. Sometimes it felt like the Heartbreak Cafe owned me, and not the other way around.
Still, they were my two best friends, and I was awful glad to have them there that morning when Marvin Beckstrom made his appearance.
I’d avoided the Bug pretty successfully in the past few months, even though I was going in the bank a whole lot more often. I’d caught him peering out his office window a time or two when I was standing at Pansy Threadgood’s cash counter. Probably wondering if I was depositing or withdrawing, and how soon it would be before his predictions of doom came true. It musta galled him something awful that I always paid my lease right on time and didn’t give him any reason to meddle in my business.
Now he seemed determined to meddle whether he had reason or not.
The minute he edged his way through the front door, his weak little chin dropped to his chest. Obviously, he had not expected the place to be going like a house afire and was real disappointed that everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves so much.
He took the only vacant table, right in the middle of all the rowdy truckers, looking like a cockroach at an exterminator convention. The chatter died down and everybody turned to stare at him.
I went over to the table, fighting a strong temptation to dump hot coffee in his crotch. Instead I took the high road. “Mornin’, Marvin,” I said with all the pleasantness I could muster. “How ’bout some coffee?”
He nodded. I poured. “We got the pancake special this morning. Two cakes, two eggs, with bacon or sausage for four-ninety-five.”
Marvin wasn’t listening. His protruding eyes, magnified behind his Coke-bottle glasses, were fixed on Scratch, who had just cashed out two of the truckers and was now wiping down the counter.
“Who the bloody hell is that?” he said.
The room went even more silent, like the whole restaurant was holding its breath.
If circumstances had been different, it mighta been funny. The Chickenhead had a habit of putting on airs, and his most recent airs seemed to be of the British variety, saying things like “bloody hell” and “wicked” and “off you go, then.” Toni reckoned he watched American Idol behind closed doors and had a crush on Simon Cowell.
But nobody laughed. The tension inside was thicker than the humidity outside, the kind of static you feel in the air when the clouds get that greenish tinge and the tornado sirens are just about to go off. You brace yourself, and you wait, but you know there’s nothing you can do but ride it out and hope for the best.
Scratch looked up, laid down his cleaning rag, and came around the counter.
“Name’s Scratch,” he said, holding out a massive hand. “I’m Miz Dell’s new—” He paused, and a hint of a grin passed over his face. “Associate.”
Marvin didn’t shake his hand, didn’t meet his eyes, either, but looked at some middle point just beyond Scratch’s left ear, as if Scratch wasn’t worthy of his full attention. “You’re not from around here, are you, b—”
He caught himself just before he said boy, but the word hung out there, unspoken, like the butt flap on a pair of dirty long johns. Nobody moved.
That tingly electric sensation increased, a thunderstorm on its way across the river. Scratch was big enough and strong enough to pound Marvin into mincemeat, and everybody knew it. Even Marvin.
Especially Marvin.
We all waited for the storm to break. Instead, Scratch looked down at him, and the smile flickered across his face once more. “Pleased to meetcha,” he said. “I’d best get back to work.”
As soon as Scratch was safely behind the counter again, Marvin jumped on me like fleas to a coonhound. “What are you thinking, Dell? Taking in that—that—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Don’t.”
He didn’t pay me any mind. “Here you are, a single woman, alone, vulnerable. What would Chase say?”
I knew exactly what Chase would say. I’d already heard it all inside my head. He’d call Scratch every vile name in the Southern Book of Bigotry, and then summon the sheriff and have him arrested for trespassing. And he’d feel perfectly justified in doing it.
Marvin was still ranting. “Why, that man could steal you blind! He could murder you in your sleep. Who knows what he might do? You gotta have more sense, Dell. Taking on a stranger? And one like . . . like that?”
He took a breath, and his eyes strayed t
o the back booth, where Boone was sitting. “Besides that, look around. What kind of people are you attracting here?”
I looked. For a small town in Mississippi, there was remarkable diversity. Mostly men at this time of day, but a few women as well. Suits and hard hats, wing tips and work boots. White faces, black faces, brown faces, jeans and dress pants and khakis and blue uniforms with name patches sewn over the pockets. And Boone, of course, who to Marvin’s narrow little mind was in a different category altogether.
Everybody in the place was listening, waiting to hear what I was going to say.
And then my brain did something very, very strange. Everything slowed down, like one of those nature shows where you can see every beat of a hummingbird’s wing. Marvin Beckstrom seemed to shrink, getting smaller and smaller until it felt like I was looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope. His mouth was still moving, but all I could hear was my own pulse roaring in my ears.
I tried with all my heart and soul to summon the spirit of Sally Field, to channel her energy and outrage and courage. And for a second or two, I felt it—the horrible injustice of Marvin Beckstrom’s prejudice, the better part of me that desperately longed to stand up to him.
In that moment, I wanted to turn his scrawny hide inside out and feed his liver to Scratch’s cat. I wanted to pick him up bodily and throw his bony butt out on the street. I wanted to tell him that Chulahatchie Savings and Loan might own this building, but he didn’t own me. I wanted to say he was a despicable little skinhead bigot, and that Scratch wasn’t a stranger, he was my cousin. Twice removed.
I could just imagine the look on Marvin’s face if I said that.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
The better part of me stuttered and died. Marvin’s words had hit a nerve somewhere, and if I was gonna get honest with myself, deep down I wasn’t sure I trusted Scratch either. Not because he was black, but because I was a woman alone.
Even as the thought went through my head, I knew it was a rationalization, knew it woulda been different if Scratch had been white. I tried to fight the feeling, tried to argue it away and push it below the surface, but it wouldn’t stay down.
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