Hope Was Here

by Joan Bauer

  I watched that man turn the corner fast.

  I’ll bet you hard cash that my father would never do anything like that.

  Braverman was standing in front of me, casting a shadow. “Come on. We can team up.”

  * * *

  The rest of the morning went down like cold rolls with a hot meal.

  We knocked on doors and got seven slammed in our face.

  A mother holding a shrieking infant asked if we baby-sat.

  An old man holding a rifle told us to get off his property. We obeyed instantly.

  Three women said G.T. was a fine man, but their husbands needed their jobs at the dairy.

  It’s amazing how many ways people can tell you to buzz off.

  We’d had enough for one day.

  The humidity made everything seem heavy. The hot sun beat down. Braverman and I were walking through Grimes Square. I was hungry. In New York you could always get a hot dog from a street vendor. No street meat here. A store called Wisconsin Giftique had a window display with small colored cheeses in the shape of farm animals. I felt like Dorothy plopped down in Munchkin Land.

  A noisy dairy truck rumbled by too fast. Painted on the side: MILK DOESN’T GET ANY FRESHER THAN THIS. JUST ASK THE COW. I turned to Braverman. “What’s with the big, bad dairy?”

  Braverman threw a stick. “That’s our mystery around here. Some people say they funded Millstone’s campaign and he lets them do whatever they want. I’ve heard they basically own the people who work for them. Brice’s dad was a factory manager there for a while. His boss told him he had to contribute to Millstone’s campaign.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He quit.”

  Braverman stopped at a long driveway that led to a huge new house with white pillars. “That’s the mayor’s new place.”

  “Wow.” I looked at the three-car attached garage, the baby evergreens lining the walk.

  “He built it last year. He said his wife inherited a ton of money.” Braverman put his hand over his heart. “How else could a small-town mayor afford a place like this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Braverman’s jaw locked. “Maybe Millstone’s lying.”

  “You think the dairy gave him the money?”

  “I think there’s a reason the Real Fresh Dairy does whatever it wants to around here. Cranston Broom’s the owner, and he knows how to play it. He and Millstone are big buddies—they play golf, go deep-sea fishing. Broom’s dairy workers clean up the park by the railroad tracks, his trucks deliver free milk to the schools. So people let them alone.”

  I thought of little kids drinking tainted milk. I thought of Gleason Beal hiring me at fifteen and giving me all that responsibility opening up on the weekends. I thought of the raise he gave me right before he stole our money, which, of course, was his way of taking the raise back.

  It was probably easier in the old days when the bad guys rode into town wearing black capes or whatever bad guys wore and the milk cows were owned by honest people. Right off the bat, you’d know who you were dealing with.

  Now everybody dresses alike. That’s the problem with progress.

  * * *

  The yo-yo was doing amazing things.

  A perfect double loop Round the World.

  The longest Walk the Dog I’d ever witnessed.

  Braverman flicked his wrist and the orange Duncan snapped back in his hand.

  “That was great, Braverman.”

  “I’m a little rusty.”

  That was rusty?

  The muscles in his face looked chiseled out of rock. I think I had misjudged him on the male cuteness scale. I would definitely put him at a 7.4.

  We were across the street from the Welcome Stairways. G.T. was sitting on a park bench in front of the diner talking to a few old people.

  I had to ask. “Do you know how G.T.’s doing, Braverman?”

  Yo-yo in the pocket. Big sigh. “He’s had a pretty rough time. The chemotherapy made him so tired. He couldn’t be around people during part of it, which drove him crazy. He’d be stuck upstairs calling the diner to see if we were handling things.” Braverman laughed. “I’d have the phone under my chin, trying to cook, telling him everything was under control when it wasn’t.”

  “You really helped him.”

  He shrugged. “I just did my job. He’s waiting to find out if he goes into remission.”

  “Remission means the cancer’s gone, right?”

  “Or gets better for a while. We’ll take what we can get.”

  We walked closer.

  “You want to know why to vote for a man who’s fighting for his life?” we heard G.T. say. “Because no one understands how sweet life can be, how blessed every minute is, how important it is to say and do what’s right while you’ve got the time, more than a person who’s living with a short wick.”

  An old woman was hanging on his every word. I took a chance, handed her the petition.

  “Are you a registered voter, ma’am?”

  “I’ve been voting since Harry Truman took office.”

  She signed it, handed it to the woman next to her, who’d been voting, probably, since Abe Lincoln took office. Then three other people signed.

  “Thank you, friends.” G.T. got up, gave a weary smile, and walked slowly across the street and up the welcome stairways, head shining.

  * * *

  People are sneaky. A check of voter signatures proved this out.

  Somebody signed, “Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  Somebody wrote, “When hell freezes over.”

  Some signatures were impossible to read.

  I was sitting in the back booth with Braverman and Adam, checking the petition names against the list of registered voters from the Board of Elections. Adam had gotten the most names today. He’d gone to the emergency medical center that G.T. helped get built and asked wounded people for their support. His petition had bloodstains on it. He said blood added to the glory of the fight.

  Jillian and Brice ran into the diner. “We got twelve names at the A and P, but that creepy guy kept following us down the street.” Brice pointed nervously out the window as a black funeral hearse parked in front of the Welcome Stairways like the darkest omen of what was to come.

  The driver looked like an evil henchman. He was one of the men wearing a VOTE FOR ELI MILLSTONE button I’d seen in the diner the first night we’d gotten here.

  Lou Ellen was taking her break, reading her personal copy of Soap Opera Digest like she’d be tested on every word. “Yuck,” she said, looking out the window at the hearse. “Those things give me the creeps.” Her face pinched together when she said it.

  So far there was nothing about her I could find to like.

  Braverman stormed to the window.

  Adam marched behind him. “I could get a convict suit. Follow Millstone around. See how he likes it.”

  “The two of you sit down.”

  It was G.T.

  “You know what bullies want. They want a rise out of you. That’s what feeds them.” G.T. took singles out of the cash register and started counting.

  Braverman clenched his fists.

  G.T. looked at us with such kindness in his face. “I’ll tell you what my mother told me long ago. She was a good Quaker woman; listened for God to speak to her every day. She said you’ve got to love yourself with all your shortcomings, and you’ve got to love the world, no matter how bad it gets.”

  Boy, would I make a lousy Quaker.

  Adam Pulver glared at the floor tile. “We’re not going to win this way, G.T.”

  “Then the thing’s not worth winning.” G.T. put the money in the cash register and looked out the window as the hearse rounded the corner coming back for more.

  7

  It was night.

  I had everything unpacked finally. Empty moving boxes piled in a heap—the cardboard symbols of starting over. (Harrison Beckworth-McCoy’s line, not mine.)

  My room: light yellow wall
s, blue rug, bed at an angle between the two windows; tangerine quilt with yellow piping.

  Everything seemed like it belonged there.

  Except me.

  When does the magic hit in a new place and you suddenly fit in?

  In Brooklyn it hit when I met Miriam. In Pensacola it hit when I got to be a waitress. In Atlanta it happened when I stopped fighting.

  I studied the black leather boxing gloves hanging behind my bedroom door.

  Not every girl can say that boxing saved her.

  I learned to box when I was eleven. I thought it was just to do something physical, but Addie knew different. She had a policeman friend, Mickey Kazdan, who boxed. He’d take me to the ring and show me the moves—how to dance lightly around an opponent, how to protect my face, how to do quick jabs. I never fought anyone; I just punched the bag, swinging away until I was exhausted.

  One day I went to the gym and was punching the big bag when a chord deep down in me connected to fury. I hit the bag harder, harder, tears streaming down my face. I was punching with jabs and rights and left hooks. I’m told I was saying, “You shouldn’t have done it! You shouldn’t have!” Mickey Kazdan stood by me telling people to back off.

  “Punch it out, slugger, until it’s all gone.”

  I hit and punched and cried at the injustice of being left by my mother with tubes in my nose and monitors on my chest. After I had no more punch in me, I fell in a heap on the floor.

  The rage was out.

  I took off my gloves that day and hung them on the back of my bedroom door. I keep them there to remind me that my fighting days are over.

  I almost put them back on after what Gleason Beal did. I was dying to hit something.

  I looked out the window at the dark street below. Opened my scrapbook and wrote:

  Transitional teen seeks whereabouts of true father. No questions asked. No leads too small.

  I turned to the back section of the scrapbook where I keep The Dads. Over the years I’ve cut out pictures of men from magazines that I thought looked like father material. Not guys with rock-star hair or strange clothes—businessmen mostly, all with great smiles. Some of them I got from life insurance ads; they were holding their kids and looking like they’d never leave them. Steadfastness is the best trait for a father, in my opinion, and believe me, I’ve studied the species. When you’re in food service, you see the best and worst of parenting on any given weekend.

  I smoothed back my hair, sat Edgar, my stuffed pelican, on the pillow.

  Enter fantasy.

  Music swells.

  “Dad, I need to talk to you about something important.”

  I picture him instantly putting down the significant stack of papers he’s working on. He turns around in his green leather chair. He has a deep, kind voice. “Well, of course, Hope. I always have time for you.”

  “I know, Dad, that you’ve been all over the world and you’ve managed to make those transitions easily because you’re the kind of person who doesn’t let change throw you, but I’m having some problems doing that here. I’m doing stuff with people, I’m involved and all, but deep down I don’t feel like I fit in Wisconsin. I’m more of a big-city person, like you.”

  I picked up Edgar, hugged him. “I can’t seem to get over the fact that you aren’t here, Dad. I’m trying to be hopeful, but it’s hard. Sometimes I wonder if I should change my name to something that doesn’t lug so much responsibility with it. Susan, maybe. Lucy.

  “If you could give me some advice right now about my life and how long it’s going to take you to find me, I’d sure appreciate it.”

  I waited, listening to the soft ticks of my alarm clock.

  Sometimes this game works and sometimes it doesn’t.

  * * *

  3:14 A.M.

  Still awake and emoting.

  I took out my Roget’s thesaurus, which lists words that have the same meaning. If you’re a word person like me you can’t live without one. Say you’re trying to get an idea across, like Gleason Beal is a thief. You can look up the word “thief” in the thesaurus and come up with a slew of even better slams to help you work out your intense feelings.

  Gleason Beal is a …

  … robber.

  … stealer.

  … purloiner (I like that one).

  … larcenist.

  … pilferer.

  … poacher.

  … swindler.

  I flipped to the H section.

  Hope is …

  … belief.

  … credence.

  … faith.

  … trust.

  … confidence.

  … assurance.

  I lay on the bed, holding the thesaurus, trying to live up to my name.

  * * *

  I lurched toward dawn. Got to work at 5:00 A.M., a half-hour early (points for me), to set up for the breakfast crowd. Addie had been baking bread since four. I learned years ago not to try to outwork that woman. Braverman wasn’t due in until later that morning. No tall presence overshadowing the grill. I kind of missed him.

  There’s something about diner setup that soothes the soul. Something about making good coffee in a huge urn glistening in fluorescent light, something sweet about filling syrup pitchers and lining them on the back counter like soldiers ready to advance. It gives you courage to face another day.

  The doors opened at 6:00 A.M. By seven, we were packed.

  In minutes, I got every kind of sitter at the counter. I love watching people sit down. There are ploppers, slammers, sliders, swivelers, and my personal favorite, flutterers, who poise suspended above the seat and move up and down over it before finally lighting.

  At the galley window I heard Lou Ellen snarl to someone: “I had to drive forty miles with a baby to get this job. That Hope just waltzes in here—no interview—like she owns the place.”

  Like I had a choice in any of this.

  I rammed into high gear to show her up.

  Stepped over the legs of a burly construction worker that were stretched out in the aisle. Some people do not know how to behave in public. Daphne Kroll, night waitress at the Humdinger Diner, would just stop dead in front of someone with loose legs and say, “Honey, are you charging a toll, or is passage free today?” Daphne could get away with that because she was middle-aged and built like a walk-in cooler. When you’re sixteen, trust me, step over the legs.

  At the counter listening to Adam Pulver tell G.T. about his uncle Sid, who is a spin doctor and had helped two congressmen win seats in the last two elections.

  “Spin doctor …” Flo was clearing plates, listening in like a good waitress should. “You mean one of those fellas who takes what people say and turns it around to mean something else? They give me a headache.”

  Adam rose defensively. “My uncle is a genius. The last guy he worked for was behind thirty-five points in the polls. Uncle Sid found the button of the district and his candidate won.”

  G.T. sipped his coffee. “What was the button?”

  Adam’s face got reverent. “Waste disposal. Uncle Sid is coming to visit tomorrow. He says you have one of the most interesting campaigns he’s ever heard of, G.T., and he’d like to meet you.”

  G.T. smiled, but didn’t say anything.

  Adam lowered his voice. “He’s going to be staying with us while his ulcer heals.”

  Flo piped in, “I don’t think G.T. needs a spin doctor.”

  Adam bolted up. “Everyone needs a spin doctor.”

  * * *

  Sid Vole, spin doctor supreme, is eating a farmer’s breakfast special not exactly for the ulcer sufferer: three eggs scrambled with onions, peppers, and sausage; Addie’s life-changing hash browns; a side of buckwheat pancakes with real maple syrup; melon chunks; black coffee. He has a round baby face like Adam and styled, shellacked hair.

  He’s sitting at the big eight-top surrounded by Adam, G.T., Brice, Jillian, and G.T.’s barber, Slick Bixby, who just said that after thirty-five years of cut
ting hair, he knows Mulhoney, Wisconsin, like only a man who wields his scissors on the great and the below average can. I’m the waitress—a direct challenge because people keep pulling up chairs to the table and wanting coffee. I’d bring it; then it would dawn on them that they wanted an English muffin; then some orange juice; maybe a fat stack of Addie’s brown sugar pecan pancakes that were beginning to catch fire in town. I’m doing my best to make? life nice for everyone, but it’s not like this is the only table I’ve got.

  Pastor Al B. Hall comes into the diner like a bolt of lightning. That man knows how to make an entrance. G.T. waves him over. I bring his coffee as Sid Vole takes a pill and leans back, arms behind his head.

  “It takes a clear vision to win in politics. You clarify that—ram that baby home whenever someone asks you a question—doesn’t matter what the question is; doesn’t matter who’s asking—just find a way to jump into the vision thing and you’ll sting like a bee.”

  G.T. and Slick look at each other. Pastor Hall orders huevos rancheros (Mexican eggs and tortillas with hot sauce)—people with guts order that. I pour more coffee for everyone.

  “Basically,” Sid Vole explains, “the whole messy game of politics is about trust. Search for leadership in the age of cynicism. The cancer could work for you, G.T. It’s a fresh angle. People sense you can feel their pain. The problem is dying. I guess that’s always the problem.” Sid Vole chuckles. “I think your best shot is to stay above the fray. Be Mr. Clean.” He looks at G.T.’s shiny head. “We could get you an earring like that genie on the disinfectant cleaner.”

  G.T. laughs and shakes his head.

  “Maybe that’s overkill, no pun intended. Millstone’s got a big problem with you because you’re going to have people’s sympathy even if they don’t vote your way. If Millstone hits too hard he could demonize himself, which is what you pray for. But you’ve got to know how to play this trust thing just right.”

  My head is swimming.

  I walk fast to the galley window, call in, “Huevos.” Waitresses order in shorthand—saves time. Braverman flips his spatula in the air and nods. I miss the way Morty the cabdriver talked about politics—he’d sit at the counter, pounding his knife, spearing dinner rolls, screaming that politicians were out to get the little guy.