Hope Was Here

by Joan Bauer

  “I love the morning best,” he said, smiling. “I already miss sweating back here six days a week, but you’re going to elevate the food in this place like I never could, Addie, I know it.”

  Addie said, “I can add a frittata to your menu—eggs, potatoes, onions, and fresh herbs—give folks a nice change each day with different seasonings.”

  “That sounds good. But in this town let’s call it an egg casserole.”

  Addie laughed. “I’ll cook it. You name it.”

  He laughed back, flipped pancakes. “Now that’s a partnership. Hope, how are you handling all this change coming up here?”

  “I’m pretty adaptable.” I always say that.

  “To adapt is to overcome. That’s what my barber used to say when I still had hair for him to cut.” He spread butter on toast, sliced it fast, arranged it on plates with eggs and sausage; a slice of orange. “I remember my family moving in the middle of my junior year in high school. I wanted to kill my old man for doing that to me.”

  I put my hand on Addie’s shoulder. “I decided to let her live.”

  Brilliant, Hope. The man has cancer.

  I winced. “I didn’t mean that the wrong way.” Addie gave me one of her furrowed-brow looks, but G. T. Stoop waved his spatula.

  “Be yourself around me. I don’t give many orders, but that’s one of them.” He flipped a sausage to me backhanded. I caught it in midair, which was very cool. “Don’t have to mince your words either,” he added. “The only thing we mince around here is garlic.”

  I smiled, ate the sausage. Sweet and mapley.

  “I’m not dead yet,” he said, placing three plates at the galley window. “Am I, Florence?”

  Flo grabbed the plates, smiled big at us, and said, “G.T., you’re going to outlive us all.”

  “That’s my plan.” He layered Canadian bacon on the grill, pressed it down with his spatula. His eyes crackled when he smiled.

  I bit my lip even though Addie winked at me. This kind of talk was going to take some getting used to.

  A very tall guy—six-four at least—came into the kitchen carrying a bowl of chopped green and red peppers. He looked a little older than me and was the most angular person I’d ever seen—every bit of him seemed to have pointy edges. He had wavy black hair and amazingly thick eyebrows. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and sneakers. I’d place him, at first glance, around a 6.7 on Jocelyn Lindstrom’s male cuteness scale. Ten being a rugged yet sensitive world-class surfer (preferably wet); one being a toad. He nodded to me and Addie. “I’m Braverman.”

  “Grill man supreme,” added G.T. “Second in command in this kitchen, with nerves of steel.”

  Braverman took down a plate of home fries on a shelf by the grill and raised one eyebrow, half smiling.

  “These women are going to set us straight.” G.T. placed cinnamon apples in four pancakes, flipped them perfectly, and ran his hand across his bare head. “You know, there’s benefits to everything. Now that I lost my hair to the chemotherapy, I don’t worry about it getting in the food.”

  I smiled nervously.

  Flo came into the kitchen laughing and said we’d set her up good last night and she appreciated the big tip. We met Lou Ellen, the waitress with the carrot-top hair. She looked me up and down, not impressed.

  “You waitressed before?”

  I looked her smack in the eye. “I’ve got eighteen months experience waitressing in the best diner in Brooklyn, New York, and before that—”

  “Counter or tables?” Lou Ellen interrupted. She had a pinched-together face.

  “Both.”

  “How busy did it get?”

  “They’d be standing out in a line on the weekends and I couldn’t go to the bathroom for five hours straight even if I had to, it was so jammed.”

  “I’ve been waitressing ten years,” she snapped back.

  I didn’t ask how long she could hold it.

  She layered three pancake platters on her left arm (I can carry five) and headed off to a booth in the corner. Addie was examining a piece of blueberry coffee cake on a plate the way a scientist studies a petri dish.

  “We bake it ourselves here every morning,” G. T. Stoop said proudly. “It sells pretty good.”

  “Really …” Addie took her fork and cut through the center of the cake, flicked off some crumbs. I knew what she was thinking.

  Dry.

  She took a bite, chewed it slowly, no expression on her face. Addie tastes food the way some people play poker.

  “It’s my mother’s recipe,” he added.

  “And I’m sure she is a fine, upstanding woman,” Addie said. “But her coffee cake is dry.”

  He looked up to the ceiling, laughed deep. “Lord, what have I done bringing this woman up here?”

  “I’m here,” Addie replied, “so you can rest easy.”

  “I don’t expect that’s going to happen.” He handed her a big chain of keys. “You keep this place running smooth and I’ll attend to other matters.”

  Addie jingled them. “It’ll be like a knife going through maple butter.”

  Braverman stood to the side studying the orders G.T. was cooking. G.T. raised his spatula, Braverman nodded, eyes on the grill. And like air traffic controllers changing shifts, G.T. moved from the grill, Braverman took his place, and he started flipping pancakes, turning bacon, frying eggs. Not one yolk was broken in the process.

  Flo was listening behind the counter. “G.T., you’ve been cooking up something for over a month. What is it?”

  “You’ll find out tomorrow, Florence. After the parade.”

  * * *

  As parades go, it’s pretty hard to impress a New Yorker. For my money, unless you’ve got huge Garfield and Big Bird balloons flapping in the wind ten floors up, you don’t call yourself a parade. You’re a gathering.

  I wasn’t much in the mood for a gathering.

  I’d been dragged here.

  Addie and I were standing on the corner of Pine and Magellan Streets by Scarlotti’s World of Cheese, which was offering a fifteen percent discount to all veterans for the three-day weekend. People were lined four deep in the street. I was studying the Welcome Stairways menu so I wouldn’t look like an amateur when I started work the next morning. Nothing can slow you up faster than not knowing the menu.

  “That’s Deena’s blood in you,” Addie remarked. “She always knew the menu like the back of her hand.”

  Mom is an overachieving waitress like me. In her last Christmas letter she wrote that she’d been thinking about the decisions she’d made in life and felt that the best one had been to stay in waitressing: “No matter what happens in the world, from war breaking out to computers taking over our minds and bodies, there’s always going to be a need for a good waitress who can keep the coffee coming and add up the check in her head.”

  A mediocre band stumbled by—the Mulhoney High School Marauders—my new school. Purple-and-gold uniforms. I scanned their faces to find kindred spirits. It’s hard to tell people’s true nature when they’re playing Sousa.

  Next, Vietnam vets in combat fatigues; World War II veterans rode behind them, waving flags. I applauded as they went by. Antique cars/scout troops/clowns/a happy float with happy farmers with a banner for the REAL FRESH DAIRY.

  Another float—red, white, and blue—flags flapping, streamers streaming. A man in a red jacket and khakis waving to the crowd. Above him a bold banner: ELECT ELI MILLSTONE FOR MAYOR IF YOU CARE ABOUT MULHONEY. Some of the men I’d seen in the diner last night walked beside the float like bodyguards.

  A flurry of movement beside me. Braverman. He watched the Millstone float with angry eyes.

  “He’s been mayor for eight years,” Braverman said.

  “Who’s running against him?”

  “Nobody. He’s too powerful.”

  A plump, red-faced man in a law enforcement uniform shouted, “Move it back, people. Move it back on the curb.” The name above his badge read Sheriff L. Gree
bs.

  A harsh-looking man in a MILLSTONE T-shirt was working the crowd, clapping his hands over his head. “Let’s hear it for four more years for Mayor Eli Millstone, the only choice for Mulhoney!”

  Just about everyone was clapping except me, Addie, and Braverman.

  “You’re not clapping for the mayor,” the man said to Braverman.

  “That’s right,” Braverman shot back. The muscles in his neck stuck out when he said it. The man stared at him and eventually moved off. Then that man looked back and stared at me, too.

  A shiver of fear went through me.

  * * *

  Miss Pittypat’s Tap Dancing Darlings were arriving on the stage that was set up in the park off Grimes Square. There were about twelve children in black-and-yellow bumblebee costumes with bouncing antennae. They formed a questionable line and began their big number, which required intense concentration because in addition to tap tap tapping, they also had to sing:

  Hello, how are ya?

  We’re really glad to see ya.

  We really want to tell ya, hello!

  I longed for Manhattan and the jazz fusion street band that played in Times Square.

  Addie and I stood by a white gazebo as the Dancing Darlings scurried off to frenzied applause. Mayor Millstone was master of ceremonies. His round stomach didn’t move an inch when he laughed. To quote Shirley Polanski, head waitress at the Humdinger Diner: “Beware of a big man whose stomach doesn’t move when he laughs.”

  I think a Chinese philosopher said it first, but these things trickle down to the food service community.

  G. T. Stoop walked to the stage. “Eli, I’d like to make an announcement.”

  The mayor looked surprised. “Well, sure thing, G.T. What about?”

  “I’ll just say it once, if that’s okay.”

  G.T. stood at the microphone not talking for the longest time. The sun beat down on his shiny head. I wondered what it was like to lose your hair.

  “Afternoon, folks.”

  People shushed their children.

  “Most of you know what’s going on with me, and some of you don’t. I wouldn’t be making a public announcement about it except for you needing to know what I’m planning to do. When I was diagnosed with leukemia earlier this year, I realized I couldn’t stand at the short-order grill for ten hours a day anymore. I needed to get myself more of a desk job.” He chuckled. “So I’ve decided to run for mayor.”

  A deep shock fell on the crowd. Eli Millstone’s smile evaporated. I looked at Addie, who’d turned stone still.

  “Now I didn’t put together one of those exploratory committees to tell me if I should do this. The way I see it, you’re either open for business or you’re not. But those of you who’ve stared down a thing like cancer know what happens when you get this kind of news about your health. At first, you can’t believe it; after that, the fear gets pretty strong. I’m fifty-four years old. I never once felt the need to rush through life until now.”

  Eli Millstone’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’ve learned things with this disease I never would have otherwise. Mostly I’ve learned how important it is to do the right thing, no matter who opposes you.”

  He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “I’m in this race to try to bring unity and fairness to our town. For my money, we have too many warring factions here—people who don’t want the Real Fresh Dairy to expand any further; people who do. People who want better day care for our families; people who don’t. People who think the schools are just fine the way they are; people who are worried about the overcrowding. And what’s happened is we’ve pulled off into our separate corners and nothing’s getting done. We need to renovate that broken-down community center of ours and use it to draw people together again. We need to develop better day care facilities for the families in this area because children are our future. We need to use more of our money to help the poor of Mulhoney get a leg up. We need to make sure our young people get jobs so that every single one of them who wants to can earn money for college.”

  “G.T.!” Eli Millstone was at his shoulder, face flushed. “Those are sweet dreams and I share every one. Just how high are you suggesting we raise these good people’s taxes to get the money to pay for all this?”

  A ripple of worry hit the crowd.

  G.T. looked at the mayor. “Eli, since you brought it up, here’s my plan. The biggest company in town, the Real Fresh Dairy, hasn’t paid any local taxes for five years and owes three-quarters of a million dollars in back tax revenue. I’d say collecting that money is a good place to start.”

  People looked at each other and gasped.

  Millstone sputtered, “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, G.T., but it’s as bogus as a barking cat!”

  “I just went to the tax assessor’s office, Eli. I had to search through some big computer printouts, but the facts are there for anyone to see.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “No sir.” G.T. set his jaw. “Our roads are cracking because dairy trucks are carrying loads heavier than our streets can handle. We have residents in the south end who can’t sleep at night because those trucks are rumbling by their windows, taking illegal shortcuts to the interstate to save gas and time. I say we levy a fat fine against that business until they obey the law. We can use that money to fix the roads and help our people.”

  Braverman let out a whoop and started clapping. Others joined him.

  Millstone’s face had splotches of purple rage. He grabbed the mike.

  “We are assessing the traffic-flow situation in this town, G.T. Town business is a little more complicated than flipping burgers on a grill, which is what you’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.”

  “Oh,” G.T. said, laughing, “you learn courage and decision making quick when you’ve got two dozen burgers on the grill.”

  People laughed good at that one.

  Braverman put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud. I wish I could whistle like that.

  Eli Millstone was working hard to overcome his irritation. His smile got bigger, his face muscles got stiffer, he grabbed the microphone and laughed deep.

  “How ’bout we stop wasting everyone’s time with nonsense and start talking real issues? I’m running on my record. The Real Fresh Dairy has put this town on the map, folks, and I brought them here. Look around and see the progress. Is Mulhoney a bigger, more bustling place than it was eight years ago? Have living conditions improved? Are there more jobs? Is there more business for our local stores? You bet your boots, and it will continue into my third term and beyond. I’m mighty proud of my accomplishments.”

  The men who were walking by Eli Millstone’s float started applauding loudly.

  G.T. raised his voice: “Let’s not forget Mulhoney’s family-run dairies that went out of business when the Real Fresh Dairy came to town.”

  Millstone waved that off. “If they’d been better-managed businesses, they would have survived.”

  “Raising their property taxes sky high was what killed them.” G.T. looked straight at him. “Then the Real Fresh Dairy swooped down and bought their land cheap.”

  “You’re living in La-La Land, mister” The Mayor motioned stiffly to Miss Pittypat, who shoved the Dancing Darlings onstage for an insect extravaganza number featuring “Eensy Weensy Spider” and “Glow Worm.”

  Addie turned to me. “G. T. Stoop’s crazy as a loon! He’s going to be dead in a month with all this stress!”

  I gulped.

  G.T. walked off the stage and headed toward us. “I think that went pretty well,” he said, looking at Addie, who didn’t speak. “I’m sure glad you’re here to run things, Addie, so I can go make a fool of myself in politics.”

  Addie gave a slight nod. I wasn’t sure if she was acknowledging her ability to run things or him being a fool.

  And G. T. Stoop strode smiling through the crowd that parted for him like the Red Sea did for Moses.

  5


  Back at the Welcome Stairways we were deep in the weeds—that’s diner language for way too busy. Memorial Day always brings the hungry hordes, but after G.T.’s announcement people were pushing into the place like we were giving away free food. Addie was trying to handle herself in an unfamiliar kitchen. People were shouting questions at G.T., who was standing under one of the big antique ceiling fans trying to answer. Lou Ellen tripped over a man’s leg and let a nacho plate with meat, beans, and guacamole go sailing. It looked like the best any of us could hope for was survival.

  Flo throws me a white apron.

  Lou Ellen plunks an order pad in my hand. “We’ll see what you’re made of. Take the counter.”

  Even when you’re not in school, life is a test.

  Twelve hungry people at the counter. First, my effervescent smile.

  I am your friend, not your foe.

  Second, go for pity.

  “This is my first day and I don’t know where anything is, but I promise you I’ll find it. How many would like coffee?”

  Seven hands go up and I get coffee, racing past Lou Ellen, who is staring at me. I carry six coffee cups with saucers in my left hand, piled on two by two, without spilling a drop; take the seventh cup in my right hand and deliver the goods.

  People are shouting orders at me so fast I can’t think. I run to the galley window to call them in.

  Addie’s snarling in the kitchen, opening refrigerator doors, saying she can’t sauté a chicken breast if she can’t find one, now can she? Braverman’s watching the grill, flipping burgers, calmly telling her where things are.

  “Ordering pork-chop specials on three,” I say. Braverman nods, raises a thick eyebrow.

  Addie slams a pan.

  I deliver a taco salad and a burger to the table near the front door like it gives me sheer delight to do it.

  Sheriff L. Greebs storms into the diner. “You’re over the safety limit for the number of persons that can be in this establishment.” He motions to the line waiting near the register. “Move it outside, people, or I’ll have to shut this place down.”

  He leads the disgruntled out the door.