Hope Was Here

by Joan Bauer

  Yuri’s cleaning tables like a machine. He looks at me, smiling. “Someday I vote American.”

  “Me, too, Yuri.”

  He takes a book from his pocket, Moving Toward Citizenship.

  He opens the book, points to the word freedom. “Best word,” he says with feeling.

  “The best.” I’m grinning as I bring two guys Blistermeyer’s Death Sauce for their eggs.

  Three women plop next to the big table, saying how they’ve heard about the wonderful food here.

  “Welcome, women.”

  I hear Sid Vole: “Politics is war—don’t ever forget that. In the words of that great military strategist Napoleon Bonaparte, the number-one thing that is going to make this campaign succeed is ‘to keep our forces united, to be vulnerable at no point, to bear down with rapidity upon important points’—these are ‘the principles which insure victory.’”

  Adam is glowing, writing it all down.

  The three women order decaf with skim milk; herbal tea with brown sugar; iced tea with a “bendy” straw and a little honey on the side.

  Labor intensive. I write the order down, trying to catch snippets.

  Slick: “Here’s the problem, Sid—people know G.T. as laid-back. I’m not sure hitting so hard is what he’s about.”

  No response from G.T., who is looking out the window at the black hearse that has parked in front of the diner again.

  Sid: “That’s an old trick. My advice is, find out this mayor’s weakest point and send out a strong visual reminder to him and the voters.”

  Adam half rises in vindication.

  G.T. sniffs. “My mother wouldn’t have liked that much.”

  “Mothers aren’t usually an asset in politics.”

  “Mine is.”

  Huevos up. Swing up to the window, swing back to Al B. Hall, who says, “Bless you,” and would I get him a bottle of Satan’s Red-Hot Revenge for the eggs?

  Sure thing, Pastor.

  G.T. gets up without a word, goes out the door, walks right to that hearse, and shakes the driver’s hand. Everyone in the Welcome Stairways is standing now, looking out the windows.

  Sid Vole whispers, “This is risky. Meeting the enemy.”

  G.T. opens the hearse’s door and motions for the man to come inside. The man doesn’t want to, he’s all rattled—bullies usually are when you confront them—but G.T. takes him kindly by the arm and leads him up the red welcome stairways, into the diner, and right to the big table. He puts a menu in the thug’s hand and says to me, “Now, Hope, you get my friend here whatever he wants for breakfast.”

  The man says he isn’t hungry, really; he has to go, but I sense deep within his thugness that he needs a special meal. So I say, “May I recommend Addie’s homemade corned beef hash and fried eggs with a big piece of maple corn bread slathered with salted butter?”

  The thug gulps. I have him. He nods, hands me the menu. I doubt he will leave a tip, but this isn’t about money.

  “Sir, can I get you some coffee, juice?”

  “Coffee,” he says, warming to my power.

  “Coffee it is.”

  I speed off to the galley, where I’m about to call in the order.

  The hash and eggs are already frying.

  “I heard,” Addie says.

  The sweet synergy of food service.

  Braverman tosses a cherry tomato in the air and catches it in his mouth.

  I bring the thug his coffee as G.T. is saying, “The thing I hate most about dying is how we deny its existence for as long as we can. Nobody knows how long they’ve got on this earth. And we all need to live our lives just a little bit like the hearse is outside ready to cart us away—make the days count. That doesn’t mean living in fear, but we don’t have to be dumb bunnies either and take life for granted. I thank you for that reminder, friend. You cruise by with that old thing anytime you want.”

  The thug looks down at his coffee, grabs the mug with two hands, as several people in the diner start applauding. Then more people start and soon everyone is clapping. I would be clapping, too, except I’m carrying four of Addie’s tomato-and-leek breakfast pizzas to table twelve, so I throw back my head and shout, “Yes!” Sid Vole thumps G.T. on the back with political glee. Adam shouts that G.T.’s petition is at the register if anyone wants to sign. People stream up to sign that thing.

  Addie dings the bell twice. My signal. I sweep to the galley window; take that thug’s plate steaming with everything a human being could hope for in a breakfast. Place it gently in front of him and slip away.

  Sometimes you hover and sometimes you let the food do the work.

  8

  To spin or not to spin.

  That was the question.

  Everyone, minus Sid Vole, was still gathered at the big table.

  “This campaign,” snarled Slick Bixby, “doesn’t need a spin doctor.”

  Pastor Hall leaned forward. “I’m not so sure. How many of us understand politics?” No hands were raised. “How many of us have any idea how to get someone elected?”

  “We haven’t got money for this!” Slick Bixby protested.

  G.T. sipped his coffee. “Sid said given what we’re trying to do here, he’d lower his rate considerably.” He turned to me. “What do you think, Hope?”

  Well, I was shocked to be asked, but I knew enough not to shrug. Adults hate it when teenagers do that. “I think it’s like working with a brilliant, difficult cook, G.T. You put up with a lot to get the magic.”

  G.T. slapped the table and said that was exactly right.

  Al B. Hall shouted, “Are you paying this young woman enough?”

  I smiled extravagantly because I can always use more cash.

  “We’re ready to order, dear.” A woman at the front window booth waved her napkin at me, cutting short my moment in the sun.

  * * *

  Five days passed. Strange days. We’d gotten 227 signatures on the petition and were waiting for the official nod from the Election Board that G.T. was on the ballot. But like Sid Vole said, you never stand still in politics, you keep blazing new trails on the campaign front and looking behind you in case the opposition is trying to steal your wallet.

  Politics gripped the town.

  Everyone had an opinion about G.T., honesty, disease, and why suddenly the tax assessor’s office was closed.

  “They’re doing something to the dairy’s tax records,” Braverman shouted.

  Working the counter was like hosting one of those angry TV shows where people screamed at each other and no one ever got to finish a thought.

  Emotion gripped the kitchen, but it wasn’t political. Addie introduced her butterscotch cream pie and marinated flank steak to rave reviews. She was pushing perfection out of that kitchen and refining Braverman in the process.

  “My boy, when you’re cutting a chicken, you want a clean severing at the bone. You don’t want snags or shards breaking off, now do you?”

  “No,” said Braverman, towering over a raw chicken.

  “A chicken is a gift from God, but only when it is properly prepared. A badly prepared chicken is a gift to no one.”

  Braverman nodded grimly.

  “And meatloaf,” Addie cried, “is not to be abused. You don’t shove it in a pan with tomato juice and oatmeal. You mold it with care. You mix it with onions and spices and Worcester sauce and form it into a free-standing loaf and never put it in a loaf pan. You slather it with barbecue sauce, which caramelizes over the loaf when it cooks.”

  It was clear Braverman had not spent much time thinking about meatloaf.

  I left them alone. Trekked outside to take my break. Sat on a bench in the garden. The sun smiled down on the rows of trees, a stone path curled between them. Nothing overdone, just natural beauty all around. G.T. walked from behind a big tree.

  “You had the tour out back?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, come on over here and meet my memories.”

  I walked over; he p
ulled a few dead leaves off the biggest tree. “I planted this oak twenty-five years ago when I got married. You would have liked my wife, Hope. Gracie was tough like you.”

  I smiled—a tough one.

  He walked over to a smaller tree that had lost most of its pink flowers. “Planted this dogwood four years ago when she died.”

  I gulped. “I’m sorry …”

  He picked up a pink flower from the ground. “She managed the diner from bed and the couch upstairs. Did the books, thought up the menus. Gracie’d been sick with rheumatoid arthritis for years, but it didn’t stop her.” He kept walking. “Those white birches are for the three grocery stores my parents owned. My folks were always half broke from giving food away to people who needed it. This Japanese maple went in the ground eight years ago when Al opened his church.”

  It had beautiful red leaves. “You must be good friends.”

  He slapped the bark. “He doesn’t walk out on me when I overcook a steak and I don’t walk out on him when his sermons get too long.”

  He knelt down chuckling, scooped up dirt from the ground, let it run through his fingers.

  I stood there wondering if he could beat the cancer or if it would beat him.

  “Know why I plant trees?”

  “No.”

  “I like thinking they’ll be here long after I’m gone. All those fine memories pushing up to the sky.”

  I thought about all the times I’d written HOPE WAS HERE above dessert cases, bedroom doors, and on boarded-up windows.

  A sweet breeze blew, rustling the tree leaves.

  “I hope you’re here for the longest time possible, G.T.”

  He smiled so full. He had the kind of smile that took over his face.

  Right then the back door creaked open and Adam Pulver slumped toward us in all-out grief.

  G.T. stood up. “What is it?”

  Adam shook his head like he was lost.

  “The Election Board said fifty-five of our names had wrong information.” He lowered his head. “G.T., they say you’re off the ballot.”

  “What?” I stormed forward.

  Adam was close to tears. “I don’t know how it happened. We checked every name three times.”

  * * *

  G.T. sat quietly at the counter, staring into his full coffee cup.

  Adam kept saying he hadn’t meant to mess up.

  Addie was pained, peering out from the kitchen.

  Yuri looked miserably into a bus pan of dirty dishes. “We are all together sad.”

  Braverman threw his Milwaukee Brewers hat on the floor. “Millstone got to someone at the Election Board!”

  Sid Vole ate a toasted pecan roll, hearing everyone out, which surprised me. He popped an ulcer pill, downed it with black coffee. “First lesson in politics. Don’t let a locked door stop you. I’d advise a showdown at the Election Board tomorrow morning. It’s the only way.”

  * * *

  Braverman and I had to work that night and I wasn’t in the mood for hassle. Lou Ellen was working, too. Skating on the edge was more like it. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. Her pale face was drawn. Her hands were shaking. She guzzled her fourth Coke of the evening.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Her eyes seem almost soft. “No,” she says, and starts crying.

  “You want to take a break?”

  “No.” She’s crying harder.

  “I think it might be a good idea.”

  The waitress bell. “Flank steaks up,” Braverman says.

  “That’s me, Lou Ellen. I’ll be right back.”

  “My baby’s sick, Hope.”

  I stop. “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s not eating right and the doctor says she’s not gaining weight like she should. She’s fourteen months old, old enough to be sitting up herself, and she’s not doing that either.”

  “Oh …”

  The bell again.

  Give me a break, Braverman.

  “My mom said I must have done something wrong when I was pregnant, but I did everything the doctor said. I swear to God!”

  “I believe you.”

  Two angry dings from the kitchen.

  I lead her to the counter to sit down. Run to the galley window. Grab the flank steaks. Braverman barks, “You got something better to do than pick up your order?”

  I say nothing. I’m a professional. I remind myself that cooks work all day in hot enclosed places and this alters their brains. Deliver the flank steaks as Lou Ellen breaks down crying by the dessert case. I never thought of her having such a trial.

  That’s when the front door opens and into my life pours an army of laughing, boisterous men who announce they’re all from the Elks Lodge and boy are they hungry.

  They fill the eight window booths.

  In seconds, I’m in the weeds.

  I ram into fourth gear.

  Run past Lou Ellen, who’s a basket case. Tell her I’ll be with her in a minute. Give everyone menus. Calmly tell the Elks that I’m going to get to them one at a time, I swear.

  “This herd’s not going anywhere, little lady,” an old Elk says, which breaks the others up. I laugh, too, although inside I’m dying.

  I break free, rush to Lou Ellen, who says, “I’m too upset to work, Hope. I don’t mean to leave you flat. I just don’t think …” She’s crying again.

  I grab her hand. “Go home.”

  My head’s spinning with sick babies and election boards. Six more Elks take the corner booth. The herd is growing.

  I run to the kitchen, raise my finger to Braverman. “I’ve got four dozen hungry Elks out there that could start a stampede at any minute. Don’t push my buttons, Braverman.”

  “Do they all have antlers?”

  “They all have menus. Get ready.”

  He swings into action.

  I shout, “Yuri, I’m in the weeds!”

  Yuri rushes out from the supply closet, confused.

  “Explain, please … weeds.”

  “Lines like Russia!”

  “I help for you!”

  I burst from the kitchen, Warrior Waitress, stand by those booths, yucking it up at bad jokes.

  How many elks does it take to change a lightbulb?

  None. They can see in the dark.

  Flash my pearly whites at them and they grin back.

  To make it in the food biz you’d better know about feeding animals.

  “Welcome, men.” Yuri’s running with water and setups. “You come … from afar?”

  “Just down the street,” the head Elk says.

  I’ve faced hungry herds before. If a lot of them order the same thing, it’ll be easier on me and Braverman.

  “Just to let you know we’ve got a delicious pork-chop sandwich and a meatloaf special that is famous up and down the East Coast.”

  That gets them. Meat men order fast.

  Fourteen pork chops; twenty-one meatloaves. Six burger specials. Seven bowls of chili.

  But there’s always a turkey.

  He was big with an attitude. “I need my order fast,” he informs me, checking his watch. No eye contact.

  “What did you order, sir?”

  “I just told you.”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve just taken dozens of orders. “You’re going to have to give me a little hint …”

  “Begins with P,” he says.

  Pig, I think, pushing down anger. “Could that be pork, sir?”

  I don’t wait for his answer. That’s what he’s getting.

  I race to the galley. Call in the orders. “And fire me one pork pronto for a bozo.”

  “It’s going to get crazy in here now!” Braverman shouts, moving like a machine.

  Serving salads, tossing rolls in baskets. Keep focused, keep the smile. Everyone’s talking between booths, so I play the room like my mom taught me.

  “How many want coffee?”

  A sea of hands.

  “I’m going to make an extra pot. Would the
most caffeine needy raise your hands higher?”

  Good laughs.

  I pour, grinning. Deliver Bozo Man’s pork-chop sandwich. He doesn’t say thank you.

  Ding. Ding.

  Six plates layered on my left arm. I make the trip again and again from the kitchen.

  “Is everybody having a good time?” I shout.

  Oh yeah, we sure are!

  “More coffee?”

  Oh yeah.

  And I move through it.

  I always do.

  Braverman doesn’t mess up once either. Yuri gets Bus Man of the Year.

  Finally, the herd leaves. I pick up my excellent tips and wave good-bye like a frontier woman in an old Western.

  I give Yuri a big tip. Waitresses always tip bus people at the end of the shift.

  I clean the tables and the counter; fill ketchups, mustards. Wipe down the coffee urns. Walk back into the kitchen.

  Braverman is chopping onions. He has a lighted candle that casts a weird shadow by the chopping block. His big hands move slow compared with Addie’s. He doesn’t say anything; I don’t either. I wonder where he lives and how he feels about not going to college.

  Braverman looks at his onion. “You did a good job tonight, Hope.”

  “So did you.”

  Chop, chop. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you about the flank steaks.”

  I never once had a cook apologize. “It’s okay, Braverman. It’s been a hard day.”

  “You look tired. I’ll lock up.”

  I can hardly keep my eyes open. “I’ll let you.”

  9

  Election Board desk, 9:00 A.M.

  Present: G.T., Braverman, Adam, Sid Vole, Brice, Jillian, Pastor Hall, and me. We were all wearing red-and-blue campaign buttons—STOOP FOR MAYOR was a little off-center. Adam had stayed up late making them with the button machine he had gotten for his birthday. He knew they were off-center and he didn’t want to hear any comments because we were a campaign without T-shirts, bumper stickers, or decent giveaways of any kind. This was it, and we’d better be grateful.

  I was working hard to be grateful as the Election Board administrator looked past the buttons and refused to smile at several key moments.

  When Sid Vole told her that he knew the governor.