Heartbreak Cafe

by Penelope Stokes J.

  “I had brunch with Toni yesterday,” I began.

  He nodded.

  “And, well . . .” I hesitated for a second and then plunged on in headfirst. Everything—about Chase, the dream, suspecting Brenda, and the fact that Toni and Boone both knew something they weren’t telling me. About the depth of loneliness and isolation I had never felt before. Through it all he listened, not interrupting but obviously taking it all very seriously. When I finished, he had tears in his eyes.

  Nobody had ever cried for me before.

  “So what do I do?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer right off. He thought about it for a minute, and then he said, “Sometimes people let us down. You hurt for a spell. Maybe a long spell. And then gradual-like, you start to forgive.”

  “I don’t know how to forgive.”

  He looked into my eyes. “Nobody does. We just get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. We take it one step at a time, let the healing come until we find the strength to let it go.”

  He spoke these words quietly, gently, as if he knew—really knew—what they meant. As if he’d been there himself.

  I heard something in his voice then, saw something I’d been blind to before.

  “So how, exactly, did you learn to forgive?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “By getting up every morning,” he said, “and putting one foot in front of the other.”

  • 19 •

  Monday night I sat down in front of the football game and started looking over my books to figure out how much I could afford to pay Scratch for the work he did at the Heartbreak Cafe. I’d done a little research, called over to the library when I was sure Boone wouldn’t be there, and what I found out made me downright furious.

  For one thing, I discovered that Mississippi did not have a minimum wage law. No protection for the working poor, no guidelines. I’d never thought about it, really. It never occurred to me what people did to make ends meet when they didn’t have a salary and benefits to fall back on. Not until Chase left me high and dry, anyway.

  Maybe it shouldn’t have made a difference to me that I’d glimpsed a deeper side of Scratch—not just a black man, a drifter, a bum who needed a handout, but a man. Someone with a life beyond the Heartbreak Cafe, who knew about pain and loss and forgiveness. Someone who might, if I’d let him, turn out to be a friend.

  After all these months, the beginnings of a personal connection. It made me think better of him, somehow.

  And worse of myself.

  When I looked in the mirror these days, I saw a shallow, self-absorbed middle-aged woman who hardly ever gave a second thought to anything besides her own needs. I could rationalize it, I reckon, make excuses for myself. Widowed, grieving, betrayed, struggling to run a restaurant all on my own. But however I boiled it down, it stunk to high heaven, like cabbage and broccoli burned to the bottom of the pot.

  Toni was right about one thing: I hadn’t been listening. I’d been sleepwalking through half my life, and it took losing just about everything to wake me up. Was that why Chase went elsewhere, I wonder? Was that why I didn’t really respect Scratch until I was forced to acknowledge some wisdom or insight in him that I didn’t have? Was that why I looked at Peach Rondell and saw a washed-up Bean Queen instead of the beauty who lurked inside?

  Maybe I’d been asking the wrong questions all along. Maybe I’d focused too much on what and who and when and how but never got around to why.

  “Why?” he said.

  “Why what? Don’t you want to get paid—you know, actual money, more than just tips? Cat food for that beast of yours, toothpaste.” I forced a grin, trying to lighten things up. “Cleaning supplies. Don’t bother denying it, I know you’re obsessive.”

  Scratch narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “Why now?”

  I didn’t want to answer that question, and I was pretty sure he knew it. “Let’s just say you’ve proved yourself, and I’ve figured out I can afford it. Five dollars an hour isn’t much, but it’s something.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It sure is something.”

  “Then it’s settled. Let’s get back to work before I change my mind.”

  “Miz Dell?”

  I turned.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And it’s just plain Dell.”

  The afternoon wasn’t just a rush, it was an all-out madhouse. It was a week before Thanksgiving, and maybe everybody was just bracing for the holiday onslaught and didn’t feel like cooking. Or maybe the Heartbreak Cafe was trying to save me again, to keep me so busy I didn’t have the time or energy to wallow in my misery.

  By one o’clock I was out of roast pork and the chicken pot pie was running dangerously low. Scratch was in the freezer, scrounging for whatever we could cook real fast, when Purdy Overstreet waltzed in.

  As usual, Purdy’s theatrical entrance brought all conversation to a skidding stop. She bowed and waved to her audience and looked around vaguely.

  Her regular booth was full of strangers, a family of four from Texarkana traveling over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house just south of Milledgeville, Georgia. They’d bent my ear for ten blessed minutes about Milldgeville and how their gran had known Flannery O’Connor personally and used to spend time at the farm feeding the peacocks. On a day like today I didn’t really have time to listen and didn’t give a flip about Flannery’s birds, but I smiled and nodded and brought them their chicken pot pie.

  Purdy fixed the evil eye on them and glared. They didn’t get the message, just sat there sipping their iced tea and relaxing, in no apparent rush to get to grandma’s. She stood in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other like a clock pendulum. Tick . . . tock, tick . . . tock.

  Then, from the booth nearest the kitchen, Hoot Everett looked up and spotted her. He lurched to his feet and upset two coffee cups and a glass of sweet tea cutting a mad swath through the crowd.

  When he got to the door he extended a hand and gave an abbreviated, arthritic little bow. “Miss Purdy,” he said, “I’d be pleasured to have your company for lunch today.”

  Hoot had spiffed himself up, as if he’d got a premonition that today might be his golden opportunity. He’d shaved off the bristly white stubble, except for one furry spot just under his left earlobe, and was all decked out in a clean white shirt and bright green suspenders. A jaunty bow tie, red with white polka dots, trembled like a nervous bird beneath his wattle.

  I watched through the pass-through window as Purdy looked around, obviously searching for Scratch. But as her first love was nowhere to be found, second choice was better than none. She pooched out her painted-on lips and gave Hoot the smile of his life. “That would be mahvelous,” she said, and extended her hand toward him.

  He escorted her back to the booth, helped her into her seat, and settled in across from her, his wrinkled face shining with a look of absolute bliss, the expression of love at long last requited.

  I snatched up my pad and headed over quick as my feet would take me. Purdy would want the chicken pie. I only had four servings left, and God help me, I wasn’t about to give them away before Purdy got hers. Hell hath no fury like a woman denied her chicken.

  I took her order, grabbed her tea, and scrambled around refilling cups and glasses while Scratch hid out in the kitchen. As it edged on toward two o’clock the place gradually began to clear out and I breathed a little sigh of relief. We’d made it through without having to resort to the fried chicken livers, which I was saving for a Saturday special.

  I rang up the Milledgeville crowd and sent them on their way. Hoot and Purdy were huddled up with their heads together, laughing and obviously getting on like potatoes and gravy. Peach Rondell sat in her accustomed booth, watching them and writing furiously.

  When I went over to Peach’s table with a refill on decaf, she flicked her eyebrows and gave a wicked little grin. “There’s a couple of characters for you,” she said, motioning with her head
in the direction of the two lovebirds.

  “About time,” I said. “I thought she’d never give up on Scratch.”

  “Maybe Hoot’s got something Scratch doesn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Peach nodded and pointed across the room. I looked just as Hoot, his mouth open in a mostly toothless smile, handed something across the table to Purdy.

  A bottle. A green glass pint bottle.

  “Dang,” I said under my breath. “What is that?”

  “I don’t know,” Peach said, “but they’re liking it, I can tell you that much.”

  Just then the bell over the door jingled and Marvin Beckstrom entered, followed by the sheriff in full uniform with a pistol on his hip and handcuffs dangling from his belt.

  “Oh, Lord,” I said. “Peach, I gotta do something fast. I don’t have a liquor license, and if what they’re drinking is what I think it is, the sheriff could shut me down in two seconds. There’s nothing that little turd Beckstrom would like better.”

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll distract them.”

  I headed toward Hoot’s booth, plastering a smile on my face and trying to act normal. Behind me, I heard a crash of breaking china, a thud, and a groan. Marvin and the sheriff made a beeline for Peach’s side of the room, and Scratch came out of the kitchen to see what was going on.

  I shielded Hoot and Purdy with my body so that Marvin couldn’t see them and Purdy couldn’t see Scratch. “What do you think you’re doing?” I hissed. “You can’t drink that in here!”

  “Shore we can,” Hoot said. He was having trouble getting his mouth around the words. “We’re both consenshual adults.”

  “Tha’s right,” Purdy chimed in. “We ain’t chil’ren, and you ain’t our mama. You’re not the boss of me.”

  “What is that?” I jerked the bottle out of Hoot’s hand and held it up to my nose. The tang of fruit and alcohol nearly knocked me over. “Whoo-ee, Hoot. That’s some powerful stuff.”

  “Yep,” he said, “thash my very own mushcadine wine, made special for Miz Purdy. I got me the best mushcadines in the county.” He patted Purdy’s clawlike hand. “And the best lady.”

  I threw a glance over my shoulder. Marvin and the sheriff were helping Peach to her feet, where she had pretended to slip and fall, and Scratch was cleaning up the mess of broken shards and iced tea. I could hear Marvin saying something to Peach about suing me for reckless endangerment.

  “Y’all gotta settle down. Now,” I said. “And I’ll keep this.” I corked the bottle and tucked it into my apron pocket, hoping I’d have a chance to dispose of it before the sheriff got wind of Hoot’s muscadine wine.

  “You give that back!” Hoot screeched. “It ain’t yours.”

  “It’s mine now. I’m confiscating it.”

  “Thief!” Purdy yelled. “I’m callin’ the po-lice.”

  “The police are already here,” I said. “And they’ll most likely arrest you for being drunk and disorderly. So please, sit down and calm down, and I’ll bring you some fresh coffee. On the house.”

  But Hoot had already struggled to his feet. He was getting redder in the face every second, and both the wattle and the bow tie were doing a quivering little dance. “We’re leaving,” he said. “C’mon, baby, let’s get outta here.” He held out his hand to Purdy, who staggered out of the booth and fell against him. “We’ll go to my house, there’s more where that came from.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Hoot Everett,” I said, “you are not driving in that condition. You’re a hazard on the road as it is. Give me your keys.”

  “Nope.” He headed toward the door, one hand around Purdy’s waist and the other steadying himself on the booths along the way. Purdy, barely able to walk in high heels when she was stone-cold sober, was now wobbling dangerously.

  It all happened in slow-motion. Purdy caught a glimpse of Scratch, turned, and went down, arms flailing. She landed hard with one skinny leg tucked underneath her at an unnatural angle, and let out a howl of pain and rage.

  All the commotion from the other side of the restaurant died abruptly. The fabricated distraction forgotten, Peach and Scratch rushed over, followed closely by Marvin Beckstrom and the sheriff.

  Scratch knelt down and felt gently around Purdy’s ankle and up the leg to her knee. Hoot stood watching like a drooling, overprotective bulldog, his clouded eyes daring Scratch to go any farther north.

  “What did I tell you, Dell?” Marvin hissed from somewhere behind my head. “This place is a disaster waiting to happen. And do I smell liquor?”

  “Shut up, Marvin,” I said. “What do you think, Scratch? Anything broken?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s probably just an ankle sprain. But at her age you can’t be too careful. Better get her to the hospital.”

  Peach had already called 911 on her cell phone, and within a couple of minutes flashing lights appeared outside the door of the Heartbreak Cafe, accompanied by a growing crowd of rubberneckers. Dang, you couldn’t pee in this town without five or six people congregating to comment on it.

  The EMTs pushed their way inside, assessed the situation, put Purdy on a stretcher, and headed out the door for the three-minute ride to the emergency room. Hoot tried to climb in the back of the ambulance, but the paramedics refused. After a brief tussle, the sheriff stepped in and broke it up before it became an all-out slugfest.

  “I’ll take him,” Peach said. “He ought not be driving.”

  The ambulance roared off with lights strobing and sirens wailing—a bit of overkill, if you ask me, but boys do like their toys. Peach herded Hoot into her little blue Honda and followed.

  Only Marv and the sheriff were left, not counting me and Scratch. The sheriff was nosing around the booth Hoot and Purdy had occupied. Marvin was glaring at me, looking suspicious. I put my hand in the pocket of my apron and pushed the bottle down as far as it would go. It was still a big lump standing out against the fabric, but if I kept my hand in there and tried to act natural, maybe they wouldn’t feel the need to frisk me.

  Marvin narrowed his eyes and rubbed his hands together, a giant praying mantis about to consume a smaller, weaker insect. “I warned you,” he said. “This was a bad idea from the beginning. I don’t suppose you thought about how easily you could get sued, did you? And as the owner of record on this property, Chulahatchie Savings and Loan could be named in that litigation. If I could find some way to justify it—some legal way, I mean—I’d shut you down right now, today.” He blurted all this out in a rush and then blinked, as if coming to his senses after a bout of temporary insanity. “For your own good, of course.”

  I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of a response. I just stood there, staring him down, until he blinked again and swallowed. “But you have a lease.”

  “I do. And now I’ll thank you for getting out of my way so I can finish up here.”

  Marvin motioned for the sheriff, a gesture that reminded me of a trainer calling to a dog. When the two of them finally sidled out, taking their own sweet time, I shut the door behind them, turned over the CLOSED sign, and pulled down the shade.

  I sank into the nearest booth. “Good Lord A’mighty,” I said.

  “Amen to that.” Scratch stood there with his huge fists on his hips. “What happened?”

  I fished the bottle of muscadine wine out of my pocket and set it on the table. “Purdy and Hoot were having themselves a little party.”

  He gave a big bark of a laugh and set about cleaning the rest of the tables. I shoulda gotten up and helped, but my knees still felt like jelly, so I just sat there with my head propped in my hands. After a few minutes banging around in the kitchen, he came back out. “Everything’s done,” he said. “Guess I’ll be getting on.”

  “Fine, Scratch. See you tomorrow.”

  “There’s just one more thing.”

  I looked up. He was holding something, something that seemed strangely dwarfed in his massive hand. He laid it down in
front of me.

  I heard the bell over the door jingle as he left, but I didn’t see him go. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from the object on the table.

  It was a book. A brown leather book.

  Peach Rondell’s journal.

  • 20 •

  I knew I ought not do it. I knew.

  It was an invasion of privacy, worse than spying on your neighbor with binoculars. Worse than sneaking through the bushes in the dark to peer into a bedroom window. Worse than picking up the extension and listening in.

  But I couldn’t help myself.

  The restaurant was closed, the door locked, the shade pulled down, the lights off. No one could see me; no one would even know I was here unless they went around back by the Dumpster where my car was parked.

  I coulda left and gone home, I reckon. Taken the journal with me and read it at my kitchen table. But that seemed worse, somehow—not just voyeurism, but kidnapping, too.

  So I sat there for a while with the book shut in front of me, staring at it, considering.

  “You can judge a person’s character,” Mama always said, “by what they do when nobody’s looking.” I expect she’d also say that God was always looking, but since I hadn’t seen much evidence of the Almighty in the past few months, the notion of divine displeasure wasn’t exactly uppermost in my mind.

  I was curious, certainly, but it was more than curiosity that drove me. It was a kind of compulsion. My hand shook and my stomach churned and I heard Mama’s warning in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  The journal fell open where Peach had quit writing, where her pen lay folded between the pages, about two-thirds of the way through the thick, bound book. The paper was smooth and heavy with faint narrow blue lines, the writing small and neat and even.