Chapter Nine
Sam
“Jesus, Lord, I’m sweating like a pig. But I’m not complaining. Early September heat’s good for growing garlic.” Jessie glances out the window as she holds the door for Jévon. “But we could sure use some rain.”
Judging from the empty truck bed, we must be their last delivery. In contrast to his mother’s mud-caked overalls, Jévon’s tall frame is dressed in a minimalistic look—clean and fresh. Today he’s wearing a white crew-neck T well fitted to his muscular build, and his pressed, dark-wash jeans are rolled up at the bottom. He walks into the diner and slides the case of sauce and bag of garlic onto the counter.
“Good to have my boy helping me again,” Jessie says, linking her arm into her son’s. “Saving my back from the chiropractor.”
“Sam. Quiche.” He nods at us. “Good to see you ladies. It’s been a while.” He looks around. “Where’s Braydon? I wanted his opinion on the Banksy mural sale.”
Banksy, whose real identity is unknown, is a graffiti artist from England who creates artistic works of social commentary around the world. Five years ago, he stenciled an eight-foot mural of a forlorn African American boy who’d just written I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS TREES with a can of red paint. Urban explorers discovered the work on crumbling cinderblocks in the sprawling, abandoned Packard plant.
Amid a huge amount of controversy, the 1,500-pound mural was excavated by a local nonprofit art gallery, who then fought and gained legal ownership of the piece. Now the gallery’s decided to sell it at a Beverly Hills auction, with plans to use the proceeds for an art center.
“Braydon’s out back working on Sun Beam’s house,” I say, returning a chair to its table, taking deliberate steps to avoid slipping on the freshly mopped floor.
“It’s for the dogs,” Quiche corrects, before laughing. “Not my child.” Her back is to us as she speaks, and she’s arranging the china cups and saucers we’ve been collecting from estate sales, putting them onto shelves. “She sure loves those dogs, and figuring out how to build that house was the highlight of summer. Braydon drew up the plans and showed her how to build it. But he claims she did most of the work.”
Addie emerges from the office, her hands filled with paperwork.
“Uriah’s bringing his class to the garden late afternoon to demonstrate a math formula,” I announce to the group. “Uriah’s not Sun Beam’s teacher this year, but she’s tagging along.”
Addie’s brows furrow, a question in her eyes. I know what she’s going to say before she says it. Irritation clouds my excitement over Uriah’s visit. Kevin collects the bookwork today, and the two men could cross paths. I speak before she has time to open her mouth.
“Yes, Addie, Uriah. He’s coming to the diner with the children. Remember? Part of our vision before opening was to have a garden that also served as a learning lab for local kids. Uriah happens to be their teacher.”
She shrugs, as if saying whatever, and takes a seat at a four-top. She spreads last week’s time cards in front of her and removes her calculator from her bag.
Addie was pissed at me after that evening in the garden and told me I was insensitive with Kevin. She said I should have given him more time to adjust to my new relationship before rubbing it in his face. I said I couldn’t live my life hiding my reality from Kevin, and in the next moment, we were off to the races. I thought she’d calm down by now and accept the fact Uriah is a fixture in my day-to-day. But by the look on her face, I can tell her feathers remain ruffled.
“Sun Beam liking school?” Jessie asks, sensing our annoyance with each other and trying to change the subject.
“Yep,” Quiche replies, securing stray bits of hair with bobby pins. “She just started fourth grade a couple of weeks ago. She can’t wait to introduce the kids to the dogs and show them the house she’s building with Braydon. I told her not to brag.”
“I’ll pull him away from his project,” Addie says, looking up from her work. “He mentioned being curious about your opinion, Jévon. Whether you thought the mural should be sold or kept in Detroit.”
“That’s a hot-button issue—I’d love to chat,” Jévon replies.
Addie stands. “I’ll get him.”
“Hey. Can Mom and I trade a pound of garlic for a couple of plates of greens?”
“Of course. Help yourself.” She nods toward the simmering pot on the back burner, a cloud of steam wafting above the top lip of the kettle.
“I can’t eat those greens, son.” Jessie wrinkles her nose. “They’re cooked with pork.”
“Well, I don’t share your aversion to the mighty pig,” Jévon says. “It’s been sustaining our people for centuries.”
Quiche fills a bowl with greens and hands them to Jévon. She gives Jessie a piece of cornbread wrapped in a napkin. Braydon and Addie enter from the back door.
Jévon puts the bowl down and grabs his hand, pulling him in for a backslap hug. “Been a long time.”
“Hey, man, I loved your work on Cass.”
“Yeah? Thanks for that. The kids were a big help.”
“So, what do you think about the gallery selling the Banksy piece to private collectors?” Braydon asks. “Should it stay in the city where it was created or end up in some West Coast mansion?”
“Hmm. A tough question. So much of the sale is based on speculation. That Beverly Hills auction house estimates its worth at two to four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Damn. You’re kidding me.”
“That amount of money could remodel the new gallery and provide a hands-on learning center for our kids.”
“But it’s a pity it would leave Detroit. Some people were even pissed the gallery removed it from its original site,” Braydon comments. “Claimed the location was part of the artistry.”
“That, my friend, is a no-brainer.” Jévon picks up the bowl of greens, stabs them with a fork, and takes a massive bite before batting his lips with a napkin. “They had to remove it before vandals wrecked it or bulldozers destroyed it. Look what’s happened to half of my work—vanished under a jet hose.”
“I’m with you on that one,” replies Braydon. “But I don’t think they should sell. The mural is part of our history. Remember what almost happened at the Detroit Institute of Art? To pay off debt, the museum came within a hair of plundering their finest pieces. Can you imagine Detroit without Diego Rivera? If Detroit loses its art, it loses its soul. Why would people want to even visit our city? There’d be nothing left to see.”
Jévon finishes his greens in three large bites, tips the bowl to his lips to slurp down the potlikker, and then puts the dish in the sink. “Mmmm. Just what the doctor ordered. So let me see this doghouse of yours. Maybe it could use some art—a stenciled dog denouncing the mural’s sale.”
“We’ll have to run it by Sun Beam. She’s my boss, and I don’t know her politics.”
Quiche guffaws, shaking her head. “Sun Beam’s only political concerns are animal rights and ways of preventing global warming. She’s worried if Michigan loses its cold weather, we may be threatened with hurricanes.”
“Girl’s got a point. I was my most noble self at nine years old,” Jévon says. He chuckles and puts his arm around Braydon’s shoulder, and the pair amble out the back door into the garden.
A couple of minutes later, a truck pulls in front of the diner, LINEN EXPRESS written on the side. It stops and a man exits the van. He towers well over six feet, and his massive torso and legs strain against the fabric of his copper-toned uniform. A baseball cap is perched on his head, the brim shadowing his face. He walks toward the back of the van, opens the rear doors, and places folds of aprons and dishcloths onto a cart.
I hang the CLOSED sign on the front window and scurry to the door to lock it. What would we do without Braydon? He was the one who first scrutinized the fine print and told me our linen costs would skyrocket.
Wheeling the cart to the entrance, the deliveryman sees me through the windowpanes. Finding the door locked, he bangs it with the bottom of his fist. His eyes are rheumy, red rimmed, and saucer shaped, the irises the faintest of silver, almost colorless. They appear to be disembodied from the rest of his face, which has stubble and is pocked and weathered like an old tweed jacket. The nametag clipped to his pocket reads EARL.
“Why don’t you let the man in?” Jessie asks.
“Long story short, this linen delivery is a big mistake.”
“He looks exhausted, all red and huffing,” Jessie says, perhaps in sympathy for a fellow vendor. I unlock the door, open it an inch, and speak through the crack.
“The contract was bogus, so we canceled the service. Please take your linen and leave.”
He wedges the cart into the space in the door, forcing it to open. A thick hand, covered with freckles and a down of burnt orange–colored hair, flings a piece of paper toward me. It flutters to the floor. “This contract was signed by someone who works for you.” His voice is barbed, wheezing, seesawing from a high octave to low.
The heat rises in my cheeks. “Your office should have a letter from our attorneys by now.”
Addie joins me by my side. Her voice is as commanding as I’ve ever heard it. “Leave. Now.”
Jessie rises and with one boot-clad foot, kicks the bottom of the cart, shoving it out the door. “You heard what the ladies said. Now git.” Jessie’s a big woman, yet she appears petite next to this giant of a man. But the malice in his bulging eyes begins to ebb, turning into the fear of a man confronted by a grizzly. The deliveryman takes a step back and grabs the careering cart.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Earl spits, his face tight with rage. “You’re playing with fire.”
“You come snooping around here again, I’ll put a curse on you.” Jessie’s words are a deep, resonating growl finished with a snort. She removes several strands of beads draped around her chest, the ones she claims were carved from the bones of her ancestors.
He retreats as Jessie moves toward him, the gold light vanished from her eyes. She waves the beads in front of his face, growling, “I said I’m gonna curse you.”
He turns and rolls the cart to the back of the van.
“Earl reminds me of someone . . . something,” Addie says, folding her arms across her chest and shivering. Earl tosses the linen-laden cart into the truck without effort, as if it were a pillow.
“Got it,” she says, clicking her fingers. “Polyphemus. He reminds me of the hideous Cyclops in The Odyssey. Polyphemus was the one-eyed giant who trapped Odysseus in his cave.” She is biting her knuckle, and her forehead is beaded with sweat.
After slamming the doors shut, Earl staggers to the driver’s side of the van, heaves himself up into the seat, and makes the wheels screech as he tears out of the parking lot. The vehicle, hurtling onto La Grande, hits a pothole. The back doors reopen, and the cart flies out. In his haste, Earl must have forgotten to secure the doors.
Braydon and Jévon reenter the diner. “What the hell is this commotion about?” Braydon asks.
“Don’t worry, boys,” I say, clasping my hands together so no one will observe their shake. “We took care of things. Business as usual.”
“Why was he forcing those rags on you?” Jessie asks, as I hug her.
“It was my fault. I signed an agreement without reading the fine print.” I pick up the contract and place it on a table. “Thankfully, we’ve customers who’re attorneys. I showed it to them, and they said the contract’s crap.” I point my forefinger at Jessie. “That dumb dude’s also scared of you.”
“Dumb? If you ask me,” Jessie says, her nostrils flaring, “he’s more like certifiable.”
“They should have received the attorney’s letter by now. We won’t be seeing him again.”
The linens and cart are scattered across the road, causing a traffic jam outside the diner. Horns are blasting, and vehicles are at a standstill on La Grande. Angus is standing on the sidewalk, staring at the commotion. He turns to face the diner, fists on hips, legs planted wide. At this distance, it’s hard to read his expression. But as he walks toward his home, he shakes his head from side to side, as if disgusted.
“Braydon. Jévon,” Addie says, grabbing their hands. “Help me get that crap out of the road. We’ll dump it on the sidewalk.” Addie turns to me. “Sam. Maybe you should call the police and have them haul it away. With all this commotion, Angus must be livid.”
The police came, we reported the incident, and they cleared away the linen and cart. After Uriah arrived, Addie retreated, closing the office door behind her.
It’s late afternoon and the students from Uriah’s class have just begun their after-school project. Some of their parents have joined them. The group is busy measuring the dimensions of the garden to determine how much soil would be needed to fill it. Not one to cede the floor, as they work, Sun Beam recites to them a blow-by-blow description of how she’s building her beloved doghouse. Once completed, all it will need is a coat of paint. That can wait until spring.
I glance at my phone––it’s time to organize the snacks and lemonade I’d made for them to enjoy after completing their assignment. Uriah and I leave Quiche and Braydon outside with the group. With one hand, he opens the back door of the diner for me. With the other, he slides his fingertips down my arm. So this is what it’s like to walk on clouds. Our hips brush together as I walk past him, and a new flame travels up my spine.
I pause at the sight of the crumpled contract on the table. Uriah squeezes my shoulder, knowing my thoughts have gone back to the incident. I pinch my lips between my teeth, feeling heat surge through me again, driving the bad moment away.
I glance at the photograph of Babcia. She would be pleased I’m with a man of such fine character. I point to her image, as if to introduce her—I so wish I could.
“My grandmother taught me how to cook. I could feel her love when I ate the meals we prepared together.” My eyes well with tears, understanding he will never know Babcia, never know her grace. “I suppose you could say I cook professionally to spread the love. This woman, Uriah, this woman is my world, part of who I am. Even though she’s gone.”
His eyes gaze above my head, distant and shining, lingering on the photograph. Then he returns his gaze to me, his forefinger tracing my face.
“Your eyes have the same shape as your grandmother’s. So do your lips, your nose, even your chin. All your grandmother’s. Her physical form may be a memory”—he lowers his hand to my heart, thumping his fingertip between my breasts—“but her spirituality rests here.”
My heart pounds under the touch of his hand.
“She’s with us,” he continues. “Right now. Your eyes, you know, are windows to your soul. At least that’s what they say. And if the saying holds truth, they’re portals to your grandmother’s, too.”
Searching his face, I have the oddest sensation that I’m not only watching him, but I’m also watching him enter my heart. Watching him meet Babcia.
I’m watching him fall in love.