Chapter Nineteen
Sam
A man stands outside the diner, his shadow long in the afternoon sun. He reaches out to open the door; his hand is large and dark, with pinkish palms. The knob wiggles, and then his torso slumps, as if he’s dejected it’s locked. I recognize him—Angus’s grandson. Braydon pointed him out to me when the man was entering Angus’s house, carrying a bag of groceries.
My heart quickens, and I look toward the counter, pretending I don’t see him, relieved the door is bolted. He was released last month from prison. This man’s a felon. For heaven’s sake, what am I thinking? My eyes dart back to the windowpanes. Theo’s also a felon and one of our favorite patrons. And we’ve been hoping this dude’s granddad would stop by since day one. I stride across the floor, unlatching the door.
He enters and extends his hand, which I take. “Good afternoon,” he says, his voice deep and friendly. The tailored lines of his coat accentuate his broad shoulders, his slim waist. “I’m Gary, your next-door neighbor. I wanted to speak with someone about the dishwasher position.”
A smile bursts from my face. Progress!
“I’m Sam. So nice to meet you. Follow me to the office. We can talk, and you can fill out a form.”
As we walk across the floor, Lella bolts from the kitchen, bashing into my side, an empty tray above her head. I stumble into Gary.
“Rushes like today would bring most people to tears,” she offers as an apology for almost knocking me over.
Of late, she hasn’t been her upbeat self. It’s as if she’s lost her rhythm. She’s not asking random questions and making silly comments. I miss the old Lella. I hope her latest dude—what’s his name?—didn’t dump her.
I glance at Gary and shrug my shoulders as if to say, Not sure what’s up with that. We walk into the office. He makes a good first impression, but I’m uncomfortable. We’re desperate for a dishwasher, but will it look like we’re currying favor with his grandfather? At least transportation won’t be an issue for him, as it has been with the others. Unless his jail background creates a problem, in my mind, I’ve hired him.
I unfold a chair and motion for him to sit. I take a seat at the desk, open the drawer, and pull out a pen and a job application form. Then, I turn the chair around so that I can face him.
“It’s nice to meet a neighbor.” I shift in my chair and fiddle with a paper clip, uncomfortable not speaking the words I yearn to say. What the hell. I lift my chin. “Why’s your grandfather so angry with us?”
“You and your cousin were the catalyst,” he replies without skipping a beat, his gaze not wavering. “It’s not the diner. At least not directly. He’s angry about his neighborhood. Angry about Detroit. Angry about his life in general. Welcome Home’s the scapegoat, and I’m sorry for that. He’s complicated, but you’d find him a good man if he ever lets you in.”
There’s a depth of presence about Gary. He speaks from the heart. I like that.
“Does he know you’re applying for a job here?”
“He knows I’ve been applying for jobs. Many jobs, in fact. But, no. He doesn’t know I’m applying here. Your establishment has yet to break the ice with him.”
“God knows we’ve tried. But your granddad’s no different from the rest of the neighborhood. No one who calls this community home comes near the place. Our name, Welcome Home, in retrospect, is a joke. We’ve raised the flag of resignation.”
“Well, you obviously don’t lack for business. Every day your lot’s packed. Congratulations. Your place is a zoo.”
A zoo. And I, this tethered, dancing monkey, want to escape the organ-grinder.
I don’t know how I’m going to find the words to tell Addie, but I’m taking a leap of faith and moving to Tennessee. I’m aware Uriah and I have been an item for only several months, and there will be a lot of stress attached to this move. But, worst case, if we don’t work out, I’m thinking I’ll like it down there. But I make myself sick imagining Addie’s reaction to my decision.
My thoughts return to the man sitting in front of me, a pleasant expression on his face. He takes the application from my hands and scans the pages.
“Before we get started, I must tell you something. I don’t want to waste your time.” He points to the application. “The box isn’t here.”
He must be referring to the felony check box some companies put on their job apps. Twenty-five percent of Americans have some sort of criminal record, and I’m sure that stat’s higher for black men living in Detroit. It’s difficult for people with records to get hired.
I look at him, feigning ignorance. He’s not aware I know he was recently released from prison. “The box?”
“There’s a box on applications asking if I’ve ever been arrested for a crime. A few years back, I never dreamed I’d have to check it.”
“I’m familiar with the box. My partner and I revised our job application to exclude it. Detroit’s a ban the box city, but not so much outside city limits.”
The lines across his forehead ease. “I was wondering about that. But when I don’t see it, I blurt out the truth anyway.”
“The truth will set you free.” I try keeping my features void of expression.
“Funny you’d choose those particular words. I was just released from prison.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“The stunt I pulled my senior year in high school was the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done in my life.” He pauses a few seconds, before handing me the application, as if assuming I won’t ask him to fill it out.
“When I was a senior in high school, my granddad and I, as usual, were strapped for cash. We were two months behind on our car insurance, and I needed a vehicle to get to my part-time job.”
“Car insurance in The D is more than twice what it is anywhere else in the country,” I remark. “My friends who have a car and live here pay over ten grand a year. That’s why I bum rides and use public transportation.”
He nods, and his features relax. Maybe he was worried I’d ask him to leave after his admission.
“My buddy coerced me into robbing a convenience store. But the gun he claimed was a toy turned out to be for real. The fact that he was carrying, and I was his accomplice, was bad enough. But my conviction exploded any prospects for college. Michigan was in the process of recruiting me for an outside linebacker position.”
“Not good,” I say, shaking my head. “And I’m sorry. But I appreciate your candor, Gary.”
“Admitting the truth hasn’t helped my job prospects,” he continues. “No one wants to hire a man with a record. At this point, I’d be grateful for any job. You can bet I’m a hard worker.” He leans forward in his chair and speaks to me in earnest. “Despite my past, you can trust me. I’d never put my grandfather through any sort of pain again. When I was convicted, he turned into an old man overnight.”
He was only a step away from a scholarship. One lapse of toxic stupidity, and he threw it all away. He could have been so much more than a dishwasher. Who knows? He might yet be.
“I believe you, Gary. And yes, you have the job. I’m afraid the pay’s not great and—”
“I’ll take whatever,” he interrupts, his eyes widening in surprise at my offer.
“But what about your grandfather? You don’t want to cause him further pain. How will he handle your crossing enemy lines?”
His mouth twitches. “For the past several weeks, I must have filled out a hundred applications online. I’ve been called in to interview at a dozen or so of them, but when they find out about my record, I’m denied the job. They figure out some other reason I’m not qualified. But I know the truth.”
I nod my head.
“When I return from the interviews, and he sees my face, the look on his breaks my heart. He knows that for me to be happy, I must work. Not just because we need the money, but for my self-esteem. At this point, even if it’s just washing gravy off of plates, it’s something. Besides”—Gary smiles—“my granddad’s used to crossing enemy lines. You know he received a Purple Heart for his bravery? I’m not sure it was worth his finger and thumb, but he’s a good man.”
“Let your grandfather know that you were hired because of your honesty—you’ll make your granddad proud.” I fasten the application forms together with a paper clip and hand them to Gary. “So, let’s meet some of the crew. You can also meet the sink. You two will become quite intimate in the coming weeks.”
He chuckles. “Thanks so much for taking a risk on me, giving me a second chance. I can start tomorrow, if that works.”
“Wonderful. Complete the forms and bring them with you.”
I lead him into the kitchen. Pies are baking in the oven, and the air is filled with their sweet and buttery fragrance.
“Paul, Sylvia. You’ll be thrilled with our latest addition to the staff. Meet Gary, our next-door neighbor. He’ll be the new dishwasher.”
“Gary. My man,” Paul says, catching his eyes and grinning ear to ear. “Ever been a dishwasher before?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Gary replies, shrugging.
“You’re gonna love it,” Paul says with a wink. He stretches his hand toward the man. “Seriously. We’ve been missing you. A good dishwasher is key to efficient kitchen flow. The constant pileup’s been a handicap around here. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” The men shake hands.
“Are you the one who offered to fix my granddad’s steps?” Gary asks. “The stairs leading up to the porch?”
Paul’s face colors. “We were worried they’d rot. That he might trip walking down. One of the waiters was also going to help. We didn’t mean to interfere.”
“No, man, no.” Gary shakes his head and wrings his hands. “He appreciated the offer. He’s just not used to strangers reaching out, seeming to care. But I’m not opposed to your help. Thanks, man. Maybe we can fix them together when the weather breaks.”
Sylvia stands at the window, paying no attention to the men. Distracted, she wrings her hands. Her lips are pale and her face, ashen.
“He’s back,” she utters, her words cracking.
Gary and I approach the woman.
“You’re talking about that van, right?” Gary asks, gazing out the window. “Gramps and I’ve been wondering why it always parks in the same place and nobody comes out.”
“It is a bit strange,” I acknowledge, placing my hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. I hope the heat in my palm will melt her fears, but I also hope that she doesn’t launch into a diatribe about pimps and trolls. I’ve just hired the guy. I don’t want him to think he’s stepped into a nuthouse within the first five minutes.
Paul, thankfully, walks to his side. “Let me introduce you to the three-compartment. Each sink has its own sanitation procedure.”
“Hold on, Paul,” I say as they turn away. “You’re a bit overeager. He’s not on the payroll until tomorrow.”
Gary removes his jacket, tosses it on the prep table, and rolls up his sleeves. “I’ll do a load on the house.”
“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.” I point to the paperwork. “According to law, you can’t work until all of the forms are filled out.”
Gary raises his brow at Paul and shrugs. “Sorry about that, man.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Paul says, as the men bump fists.
Gary grabs his coat and shakes my hand. “What time do you want me here?”
“If you can clock in at eight a.m., that would be perfect. We’ll discuss a permanent schedule tomorrow.”
He nods. “Tomorrow.” He grabs the paperwork and practically skips out of the kitchen. I approach Sylvia.
“Look,” she says, chewing on a thumbnail. “It just circled the block.” Her eyes follow the van, which creeps forward in front of the window. “See, it slows down when it passes us. It’s done that twice.”
Her eyes are crinkled, and the edges of her lips quiver as she tries to suppress tears. She turns to face me.
“That van’s latched on to other images, images that are the stuff of my nightmares.” Her hand hovers over her mouth as she speaks, which, when open, always reminds me of a gaping wound.
“I see Bobby laying out the clothes I had to wear on the streets. I see all those men.” She grabs my hands, wild-eyed. “I see that everything my dad told me about God was a lie. No God who ever loved me would ever let such a thing happen to a loyal follower in his flock. And it’s about to happen again.”
Her voice has lost its soft, sweet drawl. It sounds angry and unforgiving, like the swoosh of cracking whips, or the thwack of arrows being launched by avenging angels. She lifts her head to the ceiling, and her mouth moves silently as if she were pleading with God. She tries to give a brave smile but bursts into tears.
“Enough of this bullshit,” Paul says, darting out of the kitchen. As he sprints across the yard, the van speeds up and drives away. I place my palm on Sylvia’s back and feel her unsteady breaths, the quiver of her shoulder blades.
Sniffling, Sylvia swipes an apron string under her nostrils and then pulls her phone from her pocket. “I’m callin’ Kevin.”
Head down, whispering into the phone, she begins to pace, circling the station. She trips on the rubber floor mat and grabs the rounded edge of the stainless table to keep from falling. After several moments, her movements slow down, his words, I’m sure, dividing her fear in half.
Paul returns, panting, pen and pad in hand.
“I got the first few numbers of his license plate. Whoever it is, at least now they know we’re on to him.” He looks up. “Or her.”
He shakes his head at Sylvia. “Sorry, Syl.” He turns to me. “Isn’t there something we can do?”
“I doubt it. But it can’t hurt to call the police.”
“I’ll clock out now,” Sylvia says, her composure regained. “I know it’s early, but I’ve been good for nothing for thirty minutes. Kevin’s on his way—he wants to take me out for an early supper.”
As she inserts her card into the time clock, she turns her head to me. Now her eyes are dry and steely, like sharpened blades.
“Nothing is fair in this world. Nothing. And no one knows this better than me. Girls like me are pitied and despised, considered something less than human. But I won’t be counted in their numbers. Not anymore. I won’t let my past sabotage my future.”
I rack my brains trying to come up with a response that wouldn’t sound feeble. Something commensurate with the grit of her words. She wants me to understand the misery she’s suffered. That it matters. All I can do is gaze at her, hoping my wet eyes communicate that she does matter. She matters, indeed. I pinch my nostrils, which are stinging, and hastily turn away. If I approach her, if I hug this woman, I’ll lose it.
Busying myself by stacking dirty dishes onto a tray, I wonder where it all began? Since man first pulled a woman into a cave by her hair? Underreported, stigmatized, and normalized, rape is woven into social fabric and custom. No civilization is immune. Babcia expressed her weariness with the evil of the world in a phrase: Sytuacja swiatowa jest tragiczna, meaning: The situation in the world is tragic. I usually take a positive spin on circumstances, but those words enter my mind more and more often these days.
Kevin enters the kitchen, breathless, the doors swinging wildly behind him. His eyes zero in on Sylvia. She takes a couple of steps toward him and stops, tilts her head. He moves forward, pulling her into his arms.