Heartbreak Cafe

by Penelope Stokes J.

  Fart had left on Kevin’s heels, saying he needed to take care of something, but he hadn’t come back. Despite myself, I felt a little lurch of disappointment that he wouldn’t be here for the countdown.

  “One minute!” Imani squealed.

  We all waited, then counted with her: “Ten, nine, eight, seven—”

  “Happy New Year!” somebody shouted.

  I turned. Fart stood in the doorway carrying what looked like a small laundry basket, the old-fashioned wicker kind with handles.

  “It’s not time yet!” Imani said. “Four, three, two, one!”

  We all yelled together, and blew noisemakers, and raised our glasses. Toni, who had come prepared, shoved a disc of “Auld Lang Syne” into the CD player. Everybody circled up, swayed, and sang.

  When the song was over, we all just stood there looking at each other. “My mama used to talk a lot about character,” I said. “She said you could judge a person’s character by what kind of friends they have. And if that’s the case, then I’m a pretty darn good person.”

  Everybody laughed. “Anyway, thanks for coming,” I said. “Thanks for being such good friends. Happy New Year, everybody, and good night.”

  “Not so fast,” Boone said. “This party’s not over just because it’s midnight.”

  “I’m an old woman, Boone,” I said. “It’s past my bedtime.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to tough it out a little longer,” he said. “Sit down.”

  I sat.

  Boone motioned to Fart, who brought the wicker basket over to the table and set it down in front of me. It was mail. Christmas cards, by the look of them, in envelopes of red and green and gold.

  “These are for you, Dell,” Boone said. “Sorry they’re a little late.”

  “All of them? Surely not.”

  “Only one way to find out. Open them.”

  The first was from someone named Scott Killian. It said, “Merry Christmas, Dell, and thanks for the great food. See you in January.”

  Inside the card was a twenty-dollar bill.

  “He works at Tenn-Tom,” Fart whispered in my ear. “One of the guys who comes in with us sometimes.”

  There were more—lots more—from over-the-road truckers and the blue-haired pie and coffee ladies; from Tansie Orr and DeeDee Sturgis and the girls at the beauty shop. From Mama’s old Sunday school classes and Daddy’s old Little League guys, and just about everybody in town, if you want to know the truth. All with a bit of money—five dollars, ten, twenty. It mounted up.

  And then, at the bottom of the basket, a handful of envelopes, each with a check inside: Boone and Toni, Fart, Scratch and Alyssa, Peach Rondell. All of them giving more than they could afford, I suspected.

  An outpouring of love, to the tune of twenty-eight thousand five hundred and ninety-four dollars. Enough for a down payment to buy the Heartbreak Cafe outright.

  Plus another three dollars and fifty cents in dimes and nickels, from Imani, taped inside a handmade card to form the sentence:

  Epilogue

  Mama always used to say that love is never lost, even if it’s not returned in the way you hope or expect. “Put it on out there,” she said. “Lay your heart on the line, and don’t be afraid of getting it broken. Broken hearts heal. Guarded hearts just turn to stone.”

  On April Fool’s Day, Hoot Everett and Purdy Overstreet got married at the Heartbreak Cafe.

  Scratch stood up for Hoot as best man. Imani served as flower girl. Purdy asked me to be her matron of honor, since Mama wasn’t available. The Reverend Lily Frasier, the new chaplain at St. Agnes Nursing Home, officiated.

  The place was packed—every table and booth filled except for the one reserved for the bride and groom. A two-tiered wedding cake dominated the center of the marble countertop, and everybody brought food. The place smelled heavenly: fried chicken and corn fritters and fragrant yeast rolls and triple chocolate brownies.

  “Do you, Herman Melville Everett, take this woman, Priscilla Mayben Overstreet, to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Reverend Lily asked.

  “I sure as hell do,” Hoot bellowed.

  “And do you—”

  “Skip the formalities, honey,” Purdy interrupted. “Dang right, I do. The old goat’s already tipped me over, so we might as well make it legal.” She arched her eyebrows in Scratch’s direction. “I might be off the market, but you can still admire the goods,” she said in a resounding whisper.

  Everybody laughed.

  “Then I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  A great cheer went up. Hoot dipped Purdy back halfway to the floor and gave her a loud and sloppy kiss.

  “All right, now,” Purdy said when she had righted herself, “let’s get this party started.”

  The food was passed around, and someone put on a CD of forties’ music. Hoot and Purdy danced in the tight spaces between the tables, and once nearly caught Purdy’s sleeve on fire when they waltzed too close to a candle. When they went back to their booth, I saw Hoot slip something out of his pocket and hand it across the table to Purdy. A small green bottle of his famous muscadine wine.

  I stood behind the counter, watching.

  Over by the window, Peach Rondell sat with Boone and Toni. In an eggplant-colored dress, with her hair and makeup done, Peach looked every bit the beauty queen she once had been. A bit rounder, perhaps, and more than a little older, but radiant nevertheless. She held Imani on her lap and was arranging her Bean Queen tiara on the little girl’s head. Peach looked as purely happy as anyone I’d ever seen.

  Scratch and Alyssa were on the floor dancing to “Star-dust,” or at least trying to dance. Scratch was so big he kept bumping into people’s tables and having to apologize. At last the two of them gave up and went back to their booth, where they sat together on the same side and held hands under the table.

  DeeDee Sturgis was there, too, and Tansie Orr and her husband, Tank, and a contingent of the girls from the Curl Up and Dye. They were all sitting together, exchanging stories and recipes with a bunch of the blue-haired ladies from St. Agnes, all of them shooting jealous glances at the bride.

  Much to my surprise, Marvin Beckstrom had showed up, although I don’t know why he came, since he wasn’t the type to let himself have a good time, even at a wedding. Maybe he was just nursing his wounds, feeding on his failure the way you’ll pick at a scab until it bleeds again.

  On January 2, promptly at 9:00 A.M., I had presented myself at the Chulahatchie Savings and Loan with my basket of cash and checks in hand, and made an offer to buy the building that housed the Heartbreak Cafe. Marvin was late getting to work that day and by the time he showed up, jingling his keys in his pockets, the deal was sealed.

  That defeat, along with his buddy the sheriff’s new position as garbage collector, served to humble Marvin a little bit. Still, I could tell by the look on his face that he’d have given half a year’s salary to put me out of business for good. Now for the rest of his sorry life he was going to have to walk past the Heartbreak Cafe every blessed day and count in his head the money he lost on that deal.

  Sometimes we do get a little justice in this world. It probably doesn’t say much about my character, but the thought of it makes me smile.

  I felt a presence at my elbow and turned to see Fart Unger standing beside me, looking down at me with those blue, blue eyes. He was wearing a tuxedo—a rental, I suspected, since it didn’t fit quite right up at the shoulders—but he couldn’t have looked more handsome.

  He gave me a crooked little grin. “Whatcha thinking about?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. This place. These people.”

  “Good folks,” he said.

  “You know, Fart, when I started this restaurant, I did it out of sheer desperation. I was pretty sure I was going to lose everything. And I almost did.”

  “Would you have done it any different if you had it to do again?”

  I thought about this for a minute. “What else is life about, if no
t about taking the risk?”

  “Looks like the risk paid off.”

  “Thanks to all of you. Everybody who supported me, believed in me. Boone, Toni, Scratch, Peach Rondell. You.”

  I sensed my face beginning to flush, and when I put my hands to my cheeks, I felt the warmth and knew that I was blushing.

  “We’re your friends, Dell. That’s what friends do.”

  “But it’s more than that,” I said. “When we named this place Heartbreak Cafe, the name fit. But now look what’s happened. Look at the smile on Peach Rondell’s face. Look at Boone and Toni. Look at Scratch and Alyssa and Imani. Look at Hoot and Purdy, starting a whole new life together at eighty-something.”

  I thought about that long line of ghostly figures in the cave, stretching themselves out so that I could find my way into the light. I thought about Chase, and the fact that if he’d known acceptance like this, he might have been able to accept himself, and wouldn’t have ended up dying alone. I thought about how good forgiveness felt, and about all the pain and healing the past year had brought. When I looked back on the difficult road I’d traveled, I could finally see the gifts, the grace.

  “This place is magic,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “It’s a miracle.”

  Fart slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close to his side. He leaned down and looked into my eyes.

  “It’s not the restaurant, Dell,” he said. “It’s your heart. It’s your great big luminous soul.”

  And then he kissed me.

  Luminous. It put me in mind of the moon, hanging low in the evening sky, full and round and bright. Someday I’ll have to ask Boone what it means. He’s real smart; I’m sure he’ll know.

  But at the moment I got other things on my mind.

  Like kissing back.

  Heartbreak Cookbook

  I got these recipes from all over: from Lillian, my mama; from my grandma, Olivia; from Toni’s aunt Madge (’cause Toni doesn’t cook worth a dang); and from Boone (who does). Even one from Purdy Overstreet, except that I had to steal it from her recipe box while I was visiting her and Hoot. I hope you enjoy ’em—and be sure to have your cholesterol checked.

  —DELL

  P.S. I tried to get Hoot’s recipe for muscadine wine, but he said it was all in his head and he couldn’t write it down. It’s all in his head, that’s for sure.

  Good Lovin’ Cornbread Dressing

  I use leftover cornbread and biscuits from the cafe for this, but I’ll give you the cheatin’ method; it’s a heckuva lot easier. Makes enough to feed six or eight—unless Scratch comes to Thanksgiving dinner.

  2 boxes Jiffy cornbread mix (or any mix will do; I just like Jiffy best. This is the small box, the size of a one-layer cake mix.)

  2 cans clear chicken broth

  2 onions, chopped fine

  4 chicken bouillon cubes

  1 bag seasoned croutons (white/wheat mix is best. Or you can use old biscuits or toasted bread.)

  2 eggs

  ½ stick butter or margarine

  Salt

  Sage

  A little sugar

  NOTE: I don’t use celery because it messes with my digestion (more information than you wanted, I’m sure). But if you absolutely have to use celery, chop it up very fine, and sauté it with the onions. Some folks are horrified at the idea of cornbread dressing without celery, like it’s some kind of betrayal of Southern womanhood. But in my opinion, dressing should NOT crunch when you eat it.

  Bake the cornbread according to label directions and set aside (an iron skillet is best). Pour the chicken broth into a large pot (soup size—this stuff expands), bring to a boil, and sauté the onions until they’re soft. While you’re at it, throw in the bouillon cubes and make sure they get dissolved all the way.

  Take the pot off the stove, crumble in the cornbread, add the croutons, and stir it up until everything is mushy. Add more water a little at a time; it should be the consistency of thick oatmeal. Then add the eggs and butter. Season with salt and sage (lots of sage) until it tastes right. Add a little sugar (a tablespoon or so—it brings out the flavor).

  When you’re done, it should be thick but very moist—like I said, oatmeal. Spray a large casserole dish with nonstick spray, cover, and bake it on 375°F for about an hour. Then take the cover off and leave it until it’s crispy and brown on top and set up and hot all the way through. (Another 20 minutes, probably.) The deeper your casserole dish, the longer it will take to bake.

  You can make this ahead of time and put it in the fridge until the next day, but it’ll take a little longer to bake if the dressing is cold. You can also freeze it for later if you want.

  And no, don’t stuff it inside the turkey. It’ll just go all to mush, and that’s not safe, anyway.

  Toni’s Creamed Corn Casserole

  This is Toni’s recipe. Like I said, she can’t cook worth a flip, but this turns out great every time, even for folks who burn water. It rises up like a soufflé, and makes you look like a regular gourmet chef.

  1 box Jiffy cornbread mix (You get the idea we like this stuff?)

  2 eggs

  1 can creamed corn

  1 can whole kernel corn, drained

  1 stick of butter or margarine, softened

  ½ cup light (or fat-free) sour cream

  Mix it all up, pour into greased baking dish. Bake uncovered at 375-400˚F, 45 minutes to an hour, until brown on top. Takes about 3 minutes to put together. Serves 6.

  Aunt Madge’s Easy Yeast Rolls

  Toni’s aunt Madge gave me this recipe—I reckon she thought I’d know how to make the most of it, since Toni’s a natural disaster in the kitchen.

  ½ cup sugar

  1¾ cups milk

  ½ cup shortening (you can also use oil)

  1 package yeast dissolved in ½ cup lukewarm water (not too hot, or you’ll kill the yeast)

  4 cups self-rising flour

  ½ teaspoon soda (add to flour)

  Heat sugar, milk, and shortening in a pan on the stove, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Pour into a large mixing bowl, set aside, and let cool. When milk/sugar mix is cool, add the yeast/water mixture. With your mixer set on low, gradually add in the flour/soda mix. Keep adding flour until dough is thick and gummy.

  Place in a large greased bowl (I use a plastic cake keeper turned upside down), cover with a clean dish towel, and let rise until double its bulk. Then cover with a tight lid and put in the fridge.

  This will keep for a long time in the fridge. When you’re ready to use it, slap a hunk on the counter, knead a little, and add a bit of flour so the dough isn’t too sticky. Roll out or shape balls by hand and put into greased muffin pan. Then cover and set aside to rise again.

  These rolls take a long time to rise. When they’ve doubled again, bake at 400˚F for 20 minutes or so. Serves however many you make—but make a lot; people will keep coming back for “just one more.”

  Aunt Madge’s Christmas Cinnamon Ring

  This is a long-standing tradition for Christmas morning. I’m gonna give you two versions: the real way and the easy way. If you’ve got the roll dough made up already, use it. If you don’t go to the trouble of making Madge’s yeast rolls, you can use canned crescent rolls. You can use either Splenda or real sugar. If you use Splenda, this one is pretty healthy, as cinnamon rolls go. I reckon every little bit helps.

  Softball-size hunk of Aunt Madge’s roll dough (or 1 package crescent rolls—the big ones if you can find them)

  Butter or margarine, softened to spread

  ½ cup or so of brown sugar (or Splenda blend)

  A little white sugar (or Splenda)

  Ground cinnamon

  Roll out the dough. If you’re using the real stuff, knead it and add flour until it holds together, then roll out a circle about the size of a pie crust. For the crescent roll dough, roll it out but DON’T break it apart into triangles. Lay it out flat and crimp the seams together.

  Spread butter or margarine across
the dough. Top this with brown sugar, a nice thick layer. Add a sprinkling of white, and top all that with cinnamon.

  Roll it up the long way, so that you end up with a long, fat snake of dough. Crimp the edges together and put it in a greased glass pie pan, making a kind of circle or horseshoe with the dough. Use a deep-dish pie pan if you got one; this thing swells up.

  If you’re using the real yeast dough, cover with a dish towel and let it rise to double its size. If you’re using the crescent rolls, you can bake it right away.

  Rub a little more butter on the top, and a sprinkling of real sugar and cinnamon. Bake at 400˚F until it’s all brown and crusty, about 20-25 minutes. Serves 4-6.

  Fart’s Favorite Pumpkin Pie

  My best recipe, handed down from Grandma Livi to Mama to me. This recipe makes two pies.

  Pie Crust (for two pies):

  ½ cup Crisco shortening (not oil)

  1 ½ cups flour (plain, not self-rising)

  ½ teaspoon salt

  4-5 tablespoons cold water

  Cut in the shortening with the flour and the salt, then add the water a little at a time until it feels right. Divide in half and roll out thin.

  A real cook will understand this, but the ability to make a flaky pie crust is a gift, and not something you can teach somebody. Go to the store and buy the Pillsbury ones in the red box at the dairy case.

  Pie Filling (for two pies—and why make one when two’s just as easy?): 2 cups brown sugar (you can use Splenda blend if you’re a health nut)