Chapter Twelve
Sam
Sylvia pulls out a chair, taking a seat at the two-top where I’m working. Of late, she’s been wearing her hair in two braids, which she pins up and wraps around her head. It’s a darling style on her, reminding me of Heidi. Each week I notice something different about the woman, as if she’s trying on new looks, searching for the person she wants to become.
“Brenda printed out the stuffing recipe you sent her.” Her willowy frame appears to flutter in her seat. “Thank you, Sam. I’m so excited. This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve celebrated since Daddy died.” Her wide-set eyes are luminous, dancing in anticipation.
“She wants to know if you could get us some fennel,” she continues. “It’s a part of the recipe, and the grocery store where we shop doesn’t stock it.”
“Of course, Sylvia. How many people will the recipe be serving?”
“There will be twenty or so people. It’s mostly us women at High Hope. I guess we should triple the recipe.”
“It would please me and Addie to be able to contribute to your celebration. I’ll speak to Brenda about getting more ingredients to satisfy all of your recipes. After all, we buy everything wholesale.”
Sun Beam walks toward the table, carrying a plate laden with a hunk of Ginger-Molasses Bundt Cake. Sylvia glances up at the child and pushes away from the table.
“Here, honey, take my seat. I’ve gotta get back to work.”
Sylvia looks at me, her face flushed with happiness. “I’ll let Brenda know. She’ll be so pleased. Thanks, Sam.” She scampers toward the kitchen.
Sun Beam places the dish on the table and sits down. After pushing the ridge of the latest fashion-forward pubescent frames against the bridge of her nose, she takes a bite.
“Yum. This is tasty,” she mumbles, her mouth full of cake. She looks up, crumbs covering the sides of her mouth. “Whatcha working on?”
Her inquisitive expression, and those shining owl eyes never fail to lift my spirits. “Schedules. Holiday orders.” I push the mound of paperwork toward her.
“I hope you have lots of vegetarian food on that menu. Last week I turned myself into one.” She thumbs through the orders.
“You’re a vegetarian?” I try to suppress my amusement.
“Uh-huh. Mama’s irritated, says she’s got enough work without creating special menus for me. But Granny said we could make vegetarian meals together. Her doctor says she needs to lose weight.” She giggles. “This cake may be vegetarian, but I don’t think Granny’d lose weight if she ate it.”
“Not likely,” I respond, and then point to Babcia’s picture. “You know, Sun Beam, that’s a picture of my grandmother when she was young. The cake you’re eating is her recipe. Mind if I have a taste?”
She passes me the cake, and I help myself to a generous bite.
Mmmm. I close my eyes, and Babcia and I are again standing side by side in her sunny kitchen, beating ginger, lemon zest, butter, and sugar together. You beat the mixture until it is pale, she is telling me. I open my eyes and slide the plate back to Sun Beam, feeling a warmth radiate through my chest.
“My favorite memories are of us cooking together. But I’ve never been a vegetarian. So you’re telling me you’re not going to eat turkey on Thanksgiving?”
“Nope. Granny said she’d make a special trip to a natural store to find me some Tofurky.”
She picks up the Thanksgiving special-order menu and reads aloud: “Hmmm. Wild-Mushroom Paté.” She pronounces paté like pate and then narrows her eyes. “That got any meat in it?”
“Generally, patés”—I enunciate the e slowly, emphasizing the correct, double-syllabic pronunciation—“are filled with a variety of meat and liver.” She wrinkles her nose.
“This one, however, is vegetarian.” Her face lights up. “I’ll make sure to send your mama home with a container for Thanksgiving.”
I pick up a blank sheet and fill out an order. We’ve been booked for days, but we’d never refuse Sun Beam. She presses her forefinger into the plate to gather the last few crumbs and sticks her finger into her mouth. Then she takes her empty plate back across the floor and places it in the sink.
It’s Saturday and the breakfast rush has passed—we’ve a short respite before lunch. I’m coordinating the schedules that will take us through Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. Miniature pumpkins and gourds splash their oranges, mustards, and greens over tables and up and down the counter. Most of the leaves have fallen from the trees, but the cabbages, kales, and sorrel are thriving in the kitchen garden.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday—what could be more joyous than a day celebrating family and food? But even though Uriah will be meeting my family at our traditional feast at the farm, this year my heart’s not in it.
First the bad news. Another negative review was posted on Yelp. This time the concern wasn’t about hair found in the soup or undercooked chicken. The post, again anonymous, claimed the writer was employed at Detroit Water and Sewer.
They wrote that the pipes on East La Grande were antiquated and lead based, and the water coming into the diner was contaminated with lead. Tainted water is close to home. Flint, a nearby city, recently had a series of problems, culminating in lead poisoning the drinking water. It’s been an unprecedented public health disaster. Young children, in particular, have been subjected to irreversible trauma.
We know for a fact this accusation is erroneous. Our water was tested as part of our purchase agreement. There were no traces of lead or any other toxins. It’s poor form to feed the trolls by posting a response to negative comments. Acting defensive is a sign of weakness. But this was an outrageous post we couldn’t ignore.
I framed and hung the water-test findings at the entry of the diner and invited Yelp readers to come and review the results. Mr. or Ms. Anonymous’s sole intent was to scare away our patrons with false accusations. Ironically, we drummed up new customers who were delighted with our attentions to a sanitary environment. Addie and I are confident that the reviews are coming from one person. They’re using different computers so it seems to be coming from different people, but the style’s the same; all anonymous, with every letter capped.
Worrisome reviews aside, our business is booming. Even with the substantial increase in payroll, we’ve remained in the black.
Placing my head between my hands, I regard the stack of special orders. Not even one of our neighbors is a part of this pile. Three weeks ago, Braydon distributed the discount cards and menus to every barbershop and beauty shop within a two-mile radius. Quiche distributed cards to her congregation. But they still hold back. Because of the chilly temperatures, Angus has abandoned his rocker on the porch. Although he’s never placed a foot through the diner’s door, Braydon said he’s pleased when he pays him a visit, a bag of goodies always in hand.
Customers are beginning to fill tables, and Lella’s taking orders. Addie enters from a Detroit Mobility meeting with that virtuous save-the-city glimmer in her eyes, an annoying look I know so well. As she walks to the prep area, her jet-black coat billows about her ankle boots like a sail flapping in a storm. She sheds her outerwear and then grabs an apron. I collect the orders from Lella and retreat to the kitchen. Paul and Sylvia won’t be able to handle this crowd on their own.
Sage-Crusted Pork Chops paired with Baked Apples Stuffed with Orange-Scented Sweet Potatoes are today’s lunch special. Paul also made a Shaved Brussels Sprouts Salad, using the last of our harvest, for the side. The next two hours pass in a fury, and then the orders slow to a trickle.
Addie has retreated to the office, and Sylvia is washing dishes. I turn to Paul. “Can you take over from here? I’ll start breaking down the cold station.” He nods.
A couple of four-tops idle, and the counter is half-filled with customers sipping coffee. Sun Beam is having an animated conversation with some enormous, rough-cut, balding man. The seat can’t contain his massive butt, which mushrooms off the stool on either side. Uneasiness creeps into my gut. Why does he seem familiar?
I approach the counter. My pulse quickens. It’s Earl, the linen delivery guy. He’s not wearing his uniform and cap, but I recognize those eyes, like red-rimmed saucers. Why the hell is he talking to her?
“May I help you?” I look him dead in the eyes, which are milky and vacant, set into morbidly pale skin. There’s something off about him, but this fatheaded savage with his red-haired arms doesn’t frighten me.
“This pretty young thing was just telling me how she wanted to be . . .” He turns to Sun Beam. “What did you call it?”
“A meteorologist. ’Cause I’m interested in weather. Especially hurricanes. And you also have to be good at math and science.”
“That’s right,” he says, placing a swollen forefinger into his glass, stirring the ice cubes. He regards her in a way adults don’t normally observe children. “You wanna be a weather girl. Wear one of dem tight dresses and shake and jiggle around a weather map.”
His voice sounds scratchy, given to highs and lows, like an instrument being tuned. My nostrils twitch at the odor of his breath, which is the smell of decaying garbage. Bile rises in my throat. I snarl, spitting, “She wants to be a scientist.”
“That so?” He swallows his drink in a gulp and rattles the ice in his glass. Pushing his face into mine, his voice rises, close to a shout. “You pissed at me? Can’t a customer enjoy a cream soda while making friendly conversation with a cute little girl?” He places his palm on top of Sun Beam’s hand.
Conversation in the diner stills. Quiche turns from the flattop, her tranquil expression turning to horror as she darts, spatula in hand, from the grill toward her daughter. Quiche was witness to our last scene with this man, and although he’s out of uniform, his odd voice would be difficult to forget. I place my hand on her forearm to quiet her and nod at Sun Beam.
“Go to Addie.”
Sun Beam, lower jaw trembling, slides her hand out from under the beast’s, scoots off the stool, and runs toward the office.
Pressing his meaty palms into the counter to brace himself, he pushes his butt off the stool, leaning farther over the counter, wheezing with the exertion. I take two steps backward, toward the two-burner. This man is a giant.
“You gonna have that black bitch come curse me? Place another hex over my head? Why dontcha just come after me with that knife?” He points to a large stainless blade next to the grill. “I ain’t scared. Go ahead. I dare you.”
My voice is icy. “Sir. Please leave.” He cuts a swift glance to the left and right of him. The patrons who’ve cashed out are scraping back chairs and sliding off stools, leaving the diner in a rush. One customer at a four-top is flapping her hands like a startled bird as her friends leave, pantomiming scribbling on a bill to get Lella’s attention. Another man leaves twenty bucks for a ten-dollar half-empty plate and makes a swift exit. These days you never know what sort of lunatic will pull out a gun.
Lella drops a plate, which shatters on the floor in an explosive crash. She puts down her tray and stands frozen in place. For a few seconds, time is suspended, and the diner becomes eerily quiet. Earl’s anger slides into a shrugging nonchalance.
“I weren’t threatening nobody. Just wanted to have a neighborly chat.” He thrusts a hand into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and lays two dollar bills on the counter. “This should cover the cream soda, with a nickel left over. Keep the change.”
As he slides his rear from the stool, Sylvia, Braydon, and Paul are entering from the kitchen. Wiping their hands on towels, uneasy looks cross their faces. Earl locks eyes with Sylvia, and she quickly looks away, anxiety drawing sharp creases in her forehead. When he leaves, I place the CLOSED sign on the door, even though it’s thirty minutes early. I grab a rag from a sanitizer bucket and clean the stool he’d been sitting on with fierce, angry swipes. The stench of decaying garbage lingers.
“I told you they’d hunt me down,” Sylvia cries, putting her face in her hands and shaking her head. She looks up, directing her words to me. “That’s gotta be one of Bobby’s buddies. Was he asking about me?”
I hurry toward her, shaking my head. “That man has nothing to do with you, Sylvia. It was Earl, that asshole from the linen company.” My eyes hold steady her gaze. “I told you about that guy. Remember? A total nutcase. If he ever comes in here again, we’ll all take turns with a bat. We’ll bust him open like a piñata.”
She attempts to smile, but the sides of her mouth twitch down, and her voice trembles. “One day they’re gonna come lookin’ for me. I just know it.”
Addie and Sun Beam cross through the swinging doors, fingers entwined, and stand in the prep area. Quiche rushes to her daughter and bends down, her eyes hooded with relief and miserable resignation. Addie releases the girl’s hand, and she falls into the arms of her mother.
“He didn’t hurt me, Mama. He only touched my hand.”
Quiche’s cheeks are wet, her features twisted. Sun Beam is the reason she gets out of bed in the morning. This woman’s had her share of heartache; I can see it in the dimness of her gaze. Another wound to etch its name across her face.
Sun Beam touches her mother’s tears, her voice soft. “He was big and red. And he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
I turn and walk toward the back of the room, kicking away pieces of the shattered plate. Addie follows.
“I’m calling Tory and Wall,” she says, pulling out her smartphone. “I’ve got their private line on speed dial.”
My heart’s pounding, my entire being quivering with rage.
“Tory? Addie here. That linen delivery dude, Earl, paid us a visit. We told you about him. The lunatic who got so pissed about the delivery? He just threatened Sam and scared the crap out of all of us.”
As Addie speaks, I take a deep breath, my optimism taking charge.
“No,” Addie says in response to Tory. “It didn’t have anything to do with the linen company. We never heard from them after you sent that letter. Obviously, Earl took the episode personally. He’s not playing with a full deck of cards.” Addie nods, pressing the phone to her ear. “Perfect. A restraining order. Thank God. And, yes, we’ve a diner full of witnesses.”
A sharp knock on the window. Startled, Addie and I jump. It’s Kevin, files in hand.
“Tory, I’ll call you back,” she whispers breathlessly into the phone. “Sam and I can supply details later.”
I unlock the door. Kevin enters the room, lines of worry crinkling his forehead.
“Closed already? What’s going on?” Everyone, except for myself, is frozen in place, like a group of startled animals paralyzed in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Addie’s words break the stillness.
“That linen guy stopped by and gave us a little scare. Frightened our customers away, too.” At once everyone begins talking, telling their version of the story.
Kevin nods at me and walks to Addie, handing her the folder. It would have been more natural if he’d handed it to me since I was standing beside him. But, whatever. Sylvia slumps onto a counter stool, Braydon pours her a glass of water, and Kevin takes a seat at her side. Their eyes meet, and he cups his hands over hers, which are shaking. I’m sure he’s saying something soothing to calm her down. That’s the kind of guy he is.
Walking back through the corridor to the kitchen, I cross paths with Addie and remark, “Water under the bridge.” Her head jerks back, as if I’d slapped her, and she follows me, close on my heels.
“Is that all this is to you? Water under the bridge? Our car is crossing the Mackinac Bridge, and it’s collapsing beneath us. We’re about to drown, Sam. We’re about to drown.” She paces around the prep table, disoriented and out of control, swatting her hands in front of her, as if she were batting back flies.
“A creep is preying on Sun Beam right beneath our nose.” She leans into the counter, her nostrils flaring. “And then there are the Yelpers. Who could this person, who could these people, be?”
She looks about the room wildly and snaps her fingers. “Oh. Yes. Angus. We can’t forget him. Let’s never forget Angus.” She slams her fists into the counter. “Why does everyone hate us?” Her face is tight, eyes pinched into slits.
I glare at her from across the table, the glinting stainless splintering my vision. Anger blooms in my chest. I close my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms.
“You’ve got to settle down, Addie.” My voice is close to shouting, breaking under the stress. “You’re always the voice of doom. Everyone does not hate us. And if you go batshit crazy, our business will self-destruct for real. You’ve got to get over yourself. The world, your neighbors, David, me . . . your parents. No one owes you anything, Addie. Anything.”
I lower my voice almost to a whisper, speaking between clenched teeth. “And I can’t be the only one strong enough to keep the pieces glued together while you’re out spinning your wheels in therapy.”
She clutches the lip of the counter, leaning into the table, her voice taunting and crackling with irony. “Oh, Sam. Always the toughie. Always so cool. Performing so well under stress. Especially with your latest man, all touchy-feely, not caring who you run over. I think it’s you—I think it’s you who I’m beginning to hate.”
Red splotches stain her cheeks, and she looks at me, shaking her head as if trying to take back her last word. But the word hangs low and heavy in the air, like an ominous storm cloud.
“Sorry for that,” she mumbles, looking down at the floor. But the damage has been done. My first cousin, my closest friend and ally, just told me she hates me.
I regard her dropped head, hair hanging down and covering her face like a veil. My mouth is agape, for once at a loss for words.
At that moment, Jessie stalks into the kitchen. “What’s all this screaming and hollering about?” She looks from me to Addie.
“Braydon got me up to speed on my ragman.” She kicks the toe of her boot against the leg of the prep table. “He needs to be served a cold helping of karma,” she says, her voice booming.
She looks out the window, and her next words are murmured, as if she’s thinking out loud. “I never did put a curse on him. I need to be damn sure it’s justified, or the hex will turn back on me. Thought a little scare would do the job.” She drums her fingers on the table. “But it’s time to reconsider.”
Grim-lipped, she crosses her arms over the bib of her overalls, and her voice returns to its usual thunder. “But in the meantime, you two are scaring your team even worse. Quiche took little Sun Beam home after you two lit into each other.”
Her words diffuse the charged atmosphere in the kitchen, and Addie and I exchange looks, ashamed we contributed to making their bad day even worse.
“There’s some bad juju moving about this kitchen, swimming round and round.” Jessie sniffs the air, and her eyes cloud, as if something is taking possession of her. She circles the space and lifts up a cutting board, as if seeing apparitions visible only to her. Then, her gaze returns to us, the gold spheres surrounding her pupils beaming.
“What the hell are you girls fighting about? Don’t you have enough problems without killing each other?”
“We were arguing about . . .” My voice trails off, raw and pained. What were we fighting about? I can’t remember what caused our argument, but our words wounded each other, and we are standing here, faced off, blood on our hands.
“It was stupid, really stupid,” Addie says, breaking the silence, her eyes on mine, glistening with tears. My first impulse is to hug her, but I stop myself. She said she hated me. I wonder how long that sentiment was locked and loaded in the barrel. Something has started that neither of us can stop.
With care, Jessie removes two strings of glass beads from around her neck and holds them in our direction.
“These are healing beads, which will balance your positive and negative energy flow. But they’re not yours to keep, because they’re precious to me. I’m lending ’em to you ladies because they’ve done their job for me, and they want to keep working.” Gazing at the beads, her eyes soften. It’s a look I’ve never seen worn on Jessie.
“Their origin is the West Coast of Africa. The slave coast, where millions of my people were exported and traded for tobacco and alcohol.” She turns the beads over in her hands, as if she were in a trance. “These beads are my birthright and used in the practice of African healing.”
The beads dangle, falling between her outstretched fingers. The sunlight streams through their crystal cuts, making rainbow prisms that shimmer across the kitchen, glittering like fairy dust.
“Here’s your prescription. Wear them every day, under your shirts, touching the skin above your heart.” Her eyes scan our bodies up and down, as if taking measurements. “I think four to five weeks should do the job. But take ’em off before you sleep. Lay them stretched out beside you on your bed stand.” She shoots us a warning glance. “They reclaim their energy at night.”
Addie and I nod furiously at Jessie, like obedient school children when disciplined by their headmistress.
“I’m not done yet,” she says, her voice fierce, the apricot glow in her eyes casting a warning flare. “Make sure you also drink half a cup of Braydon’s potlikker every day. Stir a tablespoon of my hot sauce into the brew for good measure.”
Jessie says her hot sauce contains magic. A good thing. Because only sorcery can rectify the damage made by the hurricane that swept through the diner today.