Chapter Twenty-One
Sam
My gut churns thinking of how my decision to leave Detroit will affect Addie. A pit sits in my stomach, and procrastination is making it grow larger by the day.
We’ve just closed the diner, and I’m at the counter placing daffodils in vintage teal bottles filled with water. The bottles’ globular bases are in the shape of teardrops, and Addie is arranging them on each table and across the counter. Trumpets of yellow-gold cheer brighten my mood, announcing the coming of spring.
Uriah’s mom is on her second round of chemo. Our plans are to move to Tennessee by the end of June, but he wants to leave sooner. It will be easier on him knowing he’s only a short distance away from his parents. Besides, he’s a Southern man at heart; his roots in the culture run deep.
Thank God David’s returned to Addie’s life. I feel as if a ton of bricks has been removed from my chest. My news will now be an easier pill for her to swallow; she won’t feel so alone. She doesn’t, however, want him to move back in quite yet, and she tells me her alone time has been fruitful. She seems relaxed, and her face glows.
She asks if things are OK between Uriah and me. I often catch her gazing at me, as if she’s wondering what’s up. We’ve always been able to finish each other’s sentences; she must know I’m harboring something. My actions in her presence—darting eyes and fluttering hands—surely betray my words. I’m a terrible bluffer, and my dimples, which puncture my cheeks even when frowning, defy my attempts at a poker face. Addie will need to make plans for my portion of the house. And she must replace me at work. I have to tell her soon.
Lella walks across the floor, her countenance somber, unblinking. Standing in front of me, she clasps and unclasps her hands, as if unsure what to do with them. Now they dangle at her side, her fingers clenched into fists.
“Sam. I need to talk to you.” She doesn’t meet my eye, and her chin falls to her chest. She glances toward my cousin. “Addie, if you don’t mind. I need to speak with you, too.” Her breath hitches, making a hiccup sound. “But someplace private.”
Addie is doing what Addie does best: ensuring each condiment is wiped clean of fingerprints, the pepper mills are full, and the flowers are placed dead center on the tabletop, each stem aligned to perfection. Forefinger on chin, she pinches her lips together, frustrated. When she moves the vase a millimeter to the right, her expression relaxes. After hearing Lella’s words, she strides over to join us.
“You OK, Lella?” she asks, catching the woman’s expression, which is dull, lifeless.
In the past few weeks, something has changed about Lella. She’s quit her impromptu little dances, and her smile doesn’t come easy. She’s even stopped chewing gum. Her life has always been an open book, but these days she’s quiet. Nevertheless, she’s punctual, is organized at work, and is pleasant with the customers. She’s just not Lella, so we assume it’s another man problem. I, for one, am sick of hearing about them.
“Let’s just get this over with,” she says with a sigh, looking for all the world like she’s lost her last friend. Problem after problem, issue after issue. I’ll be glad when Welcome Home is past history.
“Give me a minute to check on things,” I say. “Paul’s been itching to call it a day. I’ll join you two in the office.”
I walk into the kitchen as Sylvia removes strawberry pies from the oven. Their perfectly fluted crust is packed with the berries that we froze last spring. When thawed, they taste as sweet as jam. Juices ooze through slits in the pastry, and their fragrance casts a lingering perfume about the kitchen.
“I’ve finished my prep list for tomorrow,” Paul says. “Mind if I clock out? I’ve got friends coming over this evening to watch the Michigan-Minnesota game. I gotta clean my place. It’s trashed.”
“No worries,” I say. “You were so productive in such a short time—maybe you should invite your friends over more often.” I wink at him as he removes his apron, balls it up, and tosses it into the hamper as if it were a basketball hoop.
“Thanks, Sam.” He pulls out his card and places it under the time clock. Then, he walks over to the sink and bumps Gary on the shoulder with his fist. “You’re a Wolverines fan. Why don’t you join us?”
“I’d like that, man, I’d like that.” Gary lifts his gloved hands out of the soapy water, the sleeves of his faded khaki shirt turned up above his elbows. “I almost wept when LeVert suffered those leg injuries.”
Paul cracks his knuckles. “I hear ya, man, I hear ya. But Coach Beilein says he’s making progress.”
“I’ll bring over some sustenance. Spicy grilled wings are my specialty.”
Paul smiles, rubbing his hands together.
“That sounds good, man. Real good. Bring your granddad with you.”
“I’ll let him know you made the offer, but his buddy owns a barbershop. They’re meeting there to watch the game. It’s good to see him getting out, socializing with old friends. He’s been a hermit a long time, man.”
If these guys had to remove the word man from their dialogue, and sports were also taboo, would they have anything to say to each other? But I smile; it’s good to see Gary’s making a friend. And an ambitious friend, like Paul, who’ll be graduating from Wayne State in a couple of months.
“There’ll only be a few dishes to clean after you finish that batch,” Sylvia says. She covers the pies in foil and puts them into the reach-in. “I have some prep work to finish. I can handle my own mess.”
“Settled,” I say. “You guys can clock out now. Go have fun. Sylvia, stay as long as you’ve the energy to work.”
“I’ll do that.” She casts a smile over her shoulder. When Sylvia is alone—cooking and cleaning in the kitchen—she appears to leave her sordid past behind, content with culinary tasks. I sometimes watch her through the kitchen window when I’m pulling weeds and harvesting vegetables in the garden.
Standing before her flour-dusted prep table, a pile of dough in front of her, she plunges her hands into the snowy mound, forms it into a ball, and then presses, reshapes, and kneads the pastry into submission. She said her father called her angel. She reminds me of one, floating about the sky, fluffing up the clouds, looking down upon us mortals and praying we’re behaving.
Paul scribbles a note onto a pad and hands it to Gary, who is draining the sink. “Here’s my address. Around five thirty or six. Gotta bounce.” He grabs his jacket before dashing through the swinging doors.
I exit the kitchen and walk into the office. Lella is leaning her head against the window, staring outside, her palms flattened on top of the desk. Addie stands nearby, head bent, fiddling with her phone.
“Stunning day, right?” Lella asks. “I can’t recall the last time it’s been this warm so early in the year. It’s hard to believe things are popping in the garden.” She juts her chin forward, squinting her eyes. “What’s Sun Beam up to?”
“She’s painting the doghouse,” I say, closing the door behind me.
“Sweetness and innocence. God. I could use a helping of that right now.”
“Quiche is at the church, organizing the hymnals for tomorrow’s service,” Addie says, placing her phone on the desk.
“I’ve missed hearing them sing. I can’t wait until they open up their windows. I could use a dose of sweet gospel soul.” Lella leans more into the pane, craning her neck to the right. “You can barely make out the side street from here. Lucky you. You never had to watch that van. In the kitchen, it would park right in front of Sylvia’s pastry table. Poor thing. She was always so spooked by those dark tinted windows. But it hasn’t been around in a couple of weeks, right?”
“Not for a while,” I reply, tapping my foot. “That episode’s past tense.” Come on, girl. Cut to the chase. Quit hemming and hawing.
She turns to face us. “I’ve been dreading this talk. You may have found me a ditz before, but I’m worried you’ll hate me now.”
“Lella. You’d have to do something evil—like torturing-animals evil—to make us hate you.” Addie touches her shoulder. “We all make mistakes. What’s up?”
“What if I slept with something evil? Would you hate me then?” Her face crumbles.
“Just tell us what’s wrong.” I stand tall, crossing my arms in front of me. I’m sick of hearing about other people’s problems when I have enough of my own. And I’ve errands to run shortly.
“You can put away your fears that the troll was driving the van,” says Lella. “Brett’s ego’s attached to his wheels. He’d never drive such a heap.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I drop my arms, and my shoulders slump.
“I am. Brett’s your troll. He’s the author of those snarky Yelp reviews, and he cooked up your grandmother’s profile on Twitter. He hates you ladies and wants to bring you and Welcome Home down.”
“Why? What could we possibly have done to make him so angry?” I pull out the chair from the desk and collapse into the wooden frame.
“As he put it, you asked for it.” Lella touches Addie’s arm. “Specifically, you, Addie. The electrician who screwed up the wiring before opening day was his brother. Apparently, your review on Angie’s List embarrassed him, and he claims their family business suffered. His brother was just as pissed. Blood runs thick.”
“You’re kidding me,” Addie says, her voice a snarl. “That guy was arrogant, his services were overpriced, and he screwed up the wiring. The place could have burned to the ground if Braydon didn’t catch his mistake.”
“Brett claims it was no big deal,” Lella replies.
“How did you find out?” I ask.
Her chest heaves, and she takes a deep breath. “I’ll start at the beginning.” She twists the ends of her apron ties. “I tried to make it work with him. He’s the first guy I’ve ever dated I felt comfortable introducing to my folks. He looks good on paper: steady job, suburban bi-level, snazzy car paid off. But he bored me to tears. And he was so uptight. Constant road rage, angry with this, pissed off about that. A meat-and-potatoes man—we had nothing in common.”
“And this went on—how many months? How could you stand it?”
She shakes her head. “You ladies are with nice, smart, good-looking men. And look at you. Both beautiful. You also own a really cool business. Maybe it’s my flat chest, my nutty personality. Maybe it’s because I’m just a waiter. Whatever the reason, I haven’t been as lucky in love as you.”
“I’ve walked in your shoes, girlfriend. Paid my dues.” I turn to Addie, touching her shoulder. “You remember that creep—what’s his name—the one I dated in Manhattan? The barista who made me feel like a twice-stuffed potato? I wrote off men for two years after him.” I return my gaze to Lella. “You’re a living doll who’s loaded with talent. Don’t settle. The price is too high.”
“And pardon me, Lella?” Addie says, swatting her arm with a laugh. “Just a waiter? Allow me to tick off the attributes of being a good waiter.”
She lifts a finger, one at a time, as she enumerates each of Lella’s strengths. “Good with numbers. Can multitask. Energetic. Can think on her feet and memorize a litany of ingredients.” She catches her breath and levels her eyes at the woman. “But most important of all, a good waiter is a gracious people person, who wants to ensure their guests have a lovely meal. It’s not a job for the pretentious.”
Lella nods, then drops her head, her words directed at her coffee-splattered Crocs. “You’re right. My head knows you’re right. But I was tired, lonely, so—once again—I lowered the bar another notch. I ignored the obvious and lost myself in the process.”
She raises her head. “Long story short, a few weeks back I broke up with him. He didn’t take it well. Things got nasty, and he was furious. Made comments like how dare the likes of me break up with a guy like him? He even pulled his fist back like he was winding up to hit me. But what he told me was so much worse than a nosebleed.”
“I’m gobsmacked. You were dating the troll. I played out dozens of theories of who it could be, and all of this time you were going out with him.”
“Yep. Sleeping with the enemy. I had no idea he was such a creep. A wound-tight dweeb, yes. But a creep? Honestly. Not a clue. In retrospect, I figure that in the beginning, he used me to get more information about you guys. Then, I guess, he got used to having me around. I’d cook for him, we’d watch TV, have sex—I had no idea what was up his sleeve.”
I emit a long, soft whistle. I’m going into hibernation, off the grid forever, when we move to Tennessee.
“He’d ask questions about the picture of your grandmother,” she continues. “Who was she, where was she born, stuff like that. He took a picture of her photograph with his smartphone. He said it took him all of fifteen minutes to write and upload the profile.”
She puts her face into her hands and begins to whimper. After a moment, she looks up to regard us, purple mascara streams running down her cheeks.
“As I was walking out the door, he said creating the account and pumping out her tweets were the highlights of his workweek.”
Addie’s eyes cloud over, and she folds her arms across her abdomen. “But it’s odd, right? He decided to quit hounding us after we conducted the smudging ceremony. Jessie and her charms continue to amaze me.”
She plucks a pen from her desk and waves it over her head as if she were about to rope a horse. “He may be done, but we’re just getting started. Brett needs a visit from Nemesis.” She lowers her arm and slips the pen into her pocket, a smile working the sides of her mouth. “Nemesis is the goddess of revenge and exacts a fate on people who have thwarted her. In the end, she’ll level a curse on the troll.”
“Nemesis or no Nemesis, cyberstalking’s a crime,” I say, shoving my hands into the pockets of my apron. “I spoke with Tory and Wally about the incidents on Yelp and the fake Twitter account. When a person spreads lies, which they assert to be factual—like our water contains lead, and we serve undercooked chicken—it’s a crime. Now we know the criminal.”
“I told him I’d tell you guys,” Lella continues. “And he said to go for it. Brett’s done his homework. He said filing a case would be time-consuming for you. And it would cost a fortune in legal fees. Besides, you could never prove it was him. He’s pretty savvy about all things tech. It would be my word against Brett’s, which wouldn’t stand up in a courtroom.”
“He doesn’t know the extent of our arsenal,” I say to Addie, winking. “Two weapons going by the names of Tory and Wally.”
“I don’t know, you guys,” Lella says, shaking her head. “After all you’ve been through this past year, it would open old wounds—be emotionally draining.”
“Actually, it would heal old wounds.” My gut still clenches when I envision Babcia’s picture above those detestable words. That dude must suffer.
Lella’s shoulders drop, relieved. “I’m so sorry for the role I played. If you want me to help nail him in any way, it would be my pleasure.”
She unties the back strings of her apron. “I’m off to the pottery studio. It’s time to spin my wheels with mother earth. I’m sick of dealing with men.”
We take turns hugging her. She executes a tight pirouette—a feat, wearing clogs in such a small space—and then flounces out the door, wearing her pixie grin. The girl’s back in business.
I regard my cousin and emit a long-drawn-out sigh. “At last we can cross this nightmare off the list. Brett underestimated us. I’ll call Tory. As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold.”
Addie laughs and lifts the palm of her hand. I slap it, giving her a high five, relieved. One less worry as I pack my bags. I’ll tell her my plans on Monday.
I check my phone. “Oops. Gotta dash. Theo’s picking me up, and I’m running late.”
“Tell him thank you. Kev said insulated windows will save us thousands in energy costs over the long haul.”
My lips twitch. There’s no long haul here for me. I try ignoring the sadness tugging at my heart and turn my head so my trembling chin won’t give me away.
“His company’s giving us the employee discount. They’ll knock thirty percent from the top,” I say, looking out the window, blinking back tears. “All these windows also cost us valuable shelving space.” I catch Sun Beam in the corner of my vision. “But they’re worth it.” I grab my handbag and retreat, closing the door behind me.
The diner’s empty; everyone is gone for the day. Theo’s at the door, hands shoved in his pockets. I unbolt the locks.
“Afternoon, Theo. Sorry to keep a good man waiting. Another episode of Welcome Home—this one more bizarre than the last.”
“It’s a soap opera around here. What’s it this time?”
“Dude. What a story. I’ll tell you on the way to the factory.”
“Did you take the measurements per my instructions?”
“I’d screw it up for sure. Uriah measured them—he’s a math whiz.” I remove a sheet of paper from my pocket and hand it to Theo.
He studies it, glancing at the windows. “Looks good. All you need to do is to select the frame. That shouldn’t take long.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Let’s go the back way, via the garden. You have to see the doghouse Sun Beam and Braydon built. She’s painting it now.”
To say it’s a beautiful day could not begin to describe it. It’s an impossibly beautiful day. A day that might have inspired Shakespeare to pen a love sonnet, Monet to paint his Water Lilies. The first of the sorrel and chives are pushing their way through the soil. The sky, an intense shade of blue, captures my attention.
A gentle breeze blows through the garden, stirring the ribbons in Sun Beam’s ponytails. Wherever she goes, she sprinkles a trail of fairy dust behind her. She holds the paintbrush above the can, and it drips with red paint. She brushes the excess away against the rim, and then her hand glides across the wooden frame in one unbroken stroke.
“That’s quite a palace,” Theo says, bending to admire the house.
“Thank you,” she says, looking up into Theo’s face, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. “The dogs like it, too. It’s big enough for both of ’em.” She resumes her work with the quiet deliberation of Picasso.
As we leave the garden, a smell passes beneath my nostrils. A whiff of something rancid in the air. I glance at the garbage cans lining the gutter across the street, their lids balanced atop bulging black bags. The rubbish must be decaying in the sun—the city didn’t pick up yesterday’s trash. I glance over my shoulder at Sun Beam. I shrug.
Theo’s truck is in the lot, waxed and glistening crimson in the brilliant light. As he opens the door for me, I glimpse the top of his wrist: La Vie Est Absurde.
“OK, Theo,” I say, climbing into the truck. “Ready to roll.”
Addie
Through the window, I watch as Theo bends down to admire Sun Beam’s project. Sam’s eyes are cast to the sky, a gentle smile on her face. Theo stands, and they walk away, retreating from my vision. This is what I’ve been working so hard on, an appreciation of the moment. It’s not so arduous a task today. I feel good. Grateful. I’m in the best place I’ve been since those Sundays spent cooking with Babcia. I reach for the phone to call my mother. I wish she could come to know this feeling, too.
Mom and I shoot the breeze for close to an hour. With earbuds in place, my hands are free to organize the office. This week’s receipts in the first folder, special orders organized by dates in the metal bin, cookbooks returned to their proper places on the shelves. Mom tells me she’s thrilled about my reunion with David, and I explain the changes I’ve been making with myself. She believes my happiness hinges on the work with my therapist, but I know it’s something else. Something not so easily explained.
I prod her gently, ask her how she’s doing. It saddens me that Mom tries to erase her past. That she’s never learned to love herself. Aside from our relationship, it seems she’d like to erase the present, too. She unloads a fragment of her misery with Max on me. Last week he insisted she cancel a dinner date with a girlfriend, an old roommate from nursing school. Max had caught a cold, and if he’s feeling bad, so should she. He’s such a controlling, arrogant prick. But Mom’s frozen in place, afraid to leave him. She knows the beast and is willing to live with it. Fear trumps change. Mom’s always believed in beautiful things.
We say our good-byes, our can’t wait to see yous, and I pick up the picture of David. My thoughts drift. We’re working on our stuff now. Separately. But we see each other several times a week. There’s been a shift in our relationship. An honesty invading our dialogue, which is healing. With my forefinger, I trace the contours of his cheekbones . . . those beautiful lips . . .
A bloodcurdling scream. Sylvia! I drop the picture to the floor, shattering the glass, ready to rush to the kitchen. Out of the corner of my vision I catch a thick reddish hand grabbing Sun Beam’s shoulder like a thief. She drops her paintbrush and looks up at the man. A second death-defying shriek. And now a third, choked back, frozen in my throat.
A hulk of a redheaded giant. Sun Beam looks about wildly as he bends to grab her. He tosses her onto his hip, as if she were a bag of feathers. A wave of terror wells up from my belly. Her face is contorted, and her arms and legs thrash in his grasp. He stumbles away, his lionesque head shifting left to right, his prey in his arms. I grab my phone. I press 9-1-1. A surge of adrenaline courses through my veins as I bolt for the back door.
My pulse roars in my ear as I scream into the phone. “Welcome Home Diner, 15953 East La Grande. A child’s being kidnapped. Get here. Now!”
Sylvia is on him, clawing at his back. With his free hand, he flicks her away as if she were a pesky fly, knocking her to the ground. He staggers into the garden, moving forward, booted feet trampling through the chives. I must stop him! And then I see it. The rusty van. Dark tinted windows. The side door open.
Sun Beam’s screaming our names. “Addie! Sylvia!” The terror in her voice shatters my heart.
A rustling behind me, and now a roar. From out of the shadowy bushes, Hero springs forward like a crazed white phantom. Head down, his lips are pulled back, and he snarls. Fierce teeth tear into Earl’s leg as the man screams, staggers backward, and then sways. He tosses Sun Beam as one would a bag of trash onto the ground, to fend off the attacking dog. His arms swing by his sides; his eyes bulge out from their sockets, red rimmed and vacant. He tries shaking his leg free from the pointed daggers, which are digging, digging, digging into his leg.
Sylvia hurls herself at Sun Beam, who is crawling toward her with a wild look on her face. Sylvia wraps her in her arms, bending over her, using her body as a shield to protect her.
I race toward them. “Out of here. Now!” I pull them to their feet. My mind is racing, my head scanning the scene. We can’t return to the diner. He could trap us there, like the Cyclops trapped the Greeks in his cave. “Forward,” I shout. “To the street.” Holding hands, we run, staggering, across the yard. I raise my head to the sky and wail, screaming, “Help us, someone, oh God, please help us.”
Earl’s pants are ripped away, shredding around his calf and ankle, exposing flesh dripping with blood. He falls to the ground, pulls his knees into his chest, clasps his hands behind his neck so his elbows protect his face. The defensive instincts of a rodent. Hero rams his muzzle into the man’s armpit, and Earl has his moment.
He rolls over on top of the dog and places his forearm against Hero’s throat. With his enormous heft, he leans into the dog’s neck, putting pressure on Hero’s windpipe. Their roles reversed, Earl has the advantage and is choking the dog. Hero’s bloodied mouth emits a high-pitched keening whine. A fist clenches my heart. Horrified, I push the women forward, away from this spectacle of gore.
I take a last glance at the scene. Earl’s and Hero’s bodies are locked together. Amid our screams, our pleas for help, Gary dashes into the garden, racing toward the scene. We run toward La Grande just as Theo and Sam pull into the lot and screech to a halt. They bolt from the car.
“Earl tried to take Sun Beam,” I shout, pulling at Theo’s shirt. “Now he’s killing Hero.” I point to the scene. “Gary just got there.”
Theo and Sam race toward the dog and Earl. Gary has Earl’s arms pinned to the ground. Theo bends over and crashes a heaving fist against Earl’s face. Theo keeps smashing his fist into Earl, again and again and again, until Earl’s face slackens.
And the Greeks who remained alive in the cave heaved the stake of burning coals into the Cyclops eye, buried it deep into the socket, twirling it around as a carpenter does his auger, saying, “It is the stroke of the Gods, and thou must bear it.”
Hero rolls away, onto his side. Sam falls to the ground, cradling his head.
A siren’s wail drones louder and louder as it approaches. Relief floods my body as a police wagon roars into the lot. Two officers jump out of the vehicle. I point to Theo, now sitting on Earl’s chest, while Gary struggles to hold down his thrashing arms. The police run toward the scene.
Theo stands, gasping, pointing to Sun Beam. “This bastard tried to take the girl.” Releasing Earl’s arms, Gary staggers to his feet and backs away. Earl jumps up and dashes toward his van.
The cops grab Tasers. Barbed electric bolts flash from the gun with a rapid stream of clicking sounds: tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Earl falls to the ground, his body convulsing. One of the officers drops to his haunches and cuffs him, and the other rushes toward me, Sylvia, and Sun Beam, issuing commands into his phone.
Theo limps backward and leans against a tree, his shoulders heaving up and down. The tattoo on his bicep, Fate Fell Short, is streaked with blood.
“‘And the abominable shall have their part in the lake, which burneth with fire and brimstone,’” pants Theo, his hand cradling the other bloodied fist. Gary staggers toward him, shaking out his arms, and stands by his side. Angus, his fingers spread over his heart, walks toward the scene. His steps are uneven, as if he’s aged fifty years.
The wind is still. Nothing is stirring.
Sun Beam, Sylvia, and I are clutched together. My blood is pounding in places where I’ve never felt its rhythm before—the backs of my knees, my elbows, the lobes of my ears. Sylvia and I try to catch our breaths, and Sun Beam is sobbing wretched, heaving sounds. Red paint is splattered across her face and arms, but the girl appears to be unharmed. She breaks away, sniffling, trying to compose herself.
“I’ve got to see Hero.” We follow her to the dog.
Hero staggers to his feet, disoriented, and Sam holds him to her chest with such fierceness the dog whines and shivers beneath her clutch. And I start to shake, as well, uncontrollably, as I gaze at the wreckage surrounding me.
Our garden is ruined, defiled, purged of all of its beauty. The splintered sunlight is garish and the air smells rancid, stained with sweat. Trampled sorrel and chives are smashed into gaping holes of soil. Sun Beam’s glasses lie in the dirt, bent, but miraculously unbroken. I pick them up, try to straighten the frames, and hand them to the child.
Quiche rushes into the yard and stops dead in her tracks. The officer is leading Earl to his patrol wagon. One look at the man—his bloodied leg, purple face, his gaping mouth with spittle running down the sides—tells the story. His face is pulverized beyond recognition. He’s handcuffed, and his swollen fingers dangle like the paws of a prehistoric simian; man can be the cruelest of beasts.
The policeman locks Earl inside the back of the wagon. Quiche slaps her palms across her mouth.
“Baby,” she screams, running toward Sun Beam. She falls onto her knees and pulls the child into her arms.
A wail of sirens circles our tangled knots of quivering bodies. An ambulance pulls into the parking lot. Two attendants leave the vehicle, and they rush to the police officers. As the police give instructions, their eyes dart around, surveying the scene. One attendant breaks off and heads to Sun Beam, while the other approaches Theo and lifts his fist, examining his injury.
Quiche lifts Sun Beam into her arms. “I’m takin’ you home. Gettin’ you away from this mess.” She cradles the girl as if she were an infant and stumbles away from the attendant, toward the back door of the diner.
Sam is giving the policeman a brief rundown on our history with Earl. The officer, taking notes, says, “Strong emotions combined with a mental defect can trigger violent, impulsive behavior.” Then, noticing Quiche’s retreat, he leaves the conversation and follows her. He taps her on the shoulder.
“An attendant’s here to examine the child,” he says, his Taser reflecting a piercing sliver of light. “An ambulance will take her to the hospital.”
“She’s not injured.” Quiche releases a strangled cry. “She needs to go home.”
“It’s protocol. A social worker will also be there.” He places his hand on her shoulder. “We must be absolutely sure this child has not been injured in any way.”
Sun Beam clutches her mother around her neck, her glasses lopsided across her face.
“I’m her mother. I need to go with her.” She bursts into tears.
“Of course.” The officer nods.
Quiche turns and staggers to the ambulance, Sun Beam cradled in her arms. The officer turns to Sam.
“The dog needs to be cleaned and examined. We’ll make a report and call a vet.”
“My dog saved this girl.”
“Again, routine stuff. We must check the dog to make sure he doesn’t have rabies. Please put him on a leash until the vet arrives.” He glances at Hero, who is twitching, his eyes at half mast.
The officer turns and approaches a paramedic, and they hurry toward the police wagon. Sam reaches into her handbag and pulls out a leash. She bends down to hook it onto Hero’s collar, and the dog’s creased forehead relaxes, as if relieved that at last he will be tethered to his master. Sam fingers the silver disk—the imprint of HERO glimmering beneath our gaze.
“So now we know how Hero got his name,” I say, trying to calm the shake in my voice. “He must have been a guard dog or something.”
“Something magnificent, no doubt.” Sam crouches on the ground, running her finger under his collar. She looks up, squinting into the sunlight. Shielding her eyes with her palm, she catches my eye. “Good doesn’t always trump evil. But this time it triumphed.” Hero’s eyes brighten as he looks at Sam. He pulls his lips back, shows his teeth, and appears to smile at his master. She kisses his forehead and then stands, his leash in her hand. The dog rises and presses his rib cage into the side of her leg. “You know how sweet he is around children. Hero’s the protector of purity and innocence.”
“You should breed him. I’d like one of his offspring. I can’t bear thinking about what would have happened if it weren’t for this dog.” I bend down and trail my fingers down his spine. His tail wiggles, not quite a wag, and then he falls back into the earth, closing his eyes. The dog’s exhausted.
“Time’s a thief,” Sam says, tucking her shirttail into her jeans, before running her fingers through her hair. “With any luck, maybe it will steal Sun Beam’s memory of today.”
Sylvia’s nostrils flare, and color rises to her cheeks. Veins stand out in ridges on her temple and throat. “She will never forget this day,” she says, ferocity attached to each word. “She will carry forever the memory of the wretched man who tried to capture her.” She rubs her eyes with her apron string.
“But we’ll be here to remind her he failed,” I say to her, brushing away bits of grass stuck to her forearm. “That he’s forever gone. And we’ll remind her that most of her childhood was not like today. Most of it was filled with love.”
I take Sylvia’s hands. “And when she’s an old woman, she’ll remember that once upon a time, she loved a dog named Hero. She also loved a young man named Braydon, who loved a dog named Bon Temps.”
She squeezes my hands, looking into my eyes. “And there were two brave women, Addie and Sam, who made a family from scratch, using what others left behind.”
My jaw begins to tremble, and the tears roll down my cheeks. “And she’ll remember a beautiful princess named Sylvia, who possessed the soul of goodness.”
Sylvia drops my hands and wraps her arms across her stomach, her hands cradling her elbows. Her eyes moisten as she whispers the words—
“Troubles came, troubles passed.” She lifts her face to the sky. “And they all lived happily ever after.”
Her cracked and broken teeth glimmer as pearls in the sunlight, and then she unleashes a smile of such magnificence I shiver.