Chapter Six
Addie
“I know, Mom, I know. I can’t believe it, either. The press is back to get a comment, and the line out the door has never been longer. I’ve gotta get out there.”
She tells me, again, how proud she is. I’m grateful for the relationship Mom and I’ve been forging over the past two years, but I would never consider her my best friend. As an adult I get to select my closest friends, and I can defriend them, for instance, if they inflict wounds. But my mother, no matter the wounds that she’s inflicted in my past, will always be my mother.
Best friend also implies equality in a relationship. Our therapist counseled us that healthy mother-daughter relationships are built on a hierarchy rooted in a mother’s unconditional love.
Mom’s mother died when she was a child, and her dad, my deceased grandfather, was overwhelmed by the demands of his farm. I’ve never asked Mom if she had received unconditional love as a child. But from the snippets she’s shared about her solitary childhood and his heavy-handed discipline, I doubt it. Mom’s always been adept at not sharing information about her past.
Yet when the New York Times called to fact-check and said they were doing a review in their Sunday paper, I called my mother before any of my friends. Even David.
Most of Grosse Pointe, Birmingham, and Bloomfield Hills must read the Times. Our parking lot is filled with flashy cars, and the line outside the diner loops halfway around Welcome Home. Two photographers, I assume from the Detroit News and Free Press, wander around the building and snap pictures of the diner from across the street. I freshen my lipstick—I’m sure I’ll be in some of them.
The article was highly flattering:
Ask any patron about the Welcome Home Diner and their answer will be “charming, old-fashioned.” Known for their Heartbreakers—massive cookies that are the stuff of legend––the diner is the antidote to today’s hypercharged society. Don’t miss the Buttermilk Pancakes with Apple-Maple Syrup and Walnuts or the pork and savory greens. Their menu items are simultaneously unique and traditional . . . their desserts, ambrosial.
We’ve made Braydon the floor manager, and he’s at his happiest when the diner is packed. He’s learned every regular’s name, knows just what to say to elicit a smile, and wants everyone to like him. But aside from a couple of lawyers who’ve become regulars and Quiche’s pal Danita, our employees are the only African Americans who’ve ever taken a seat in our restaurant.
It’s as if our neighbors go out of their way to avoid us. In the press, the popularity of our diner is touted as a symbol of promise, our eatery a microcosm of a soon-to-be-realized Detroit. The city, however, will never live up to their pledge if our own neighbors refuse to join us for a meal.
My eyes travel across the line of patrons pattering about this or that while accepting a bit of cake that Braydon passes. Some are hipsters and live downtown. But most, judging from their appearance and the cars they’re driving, are affluent professionals venturing into the city from suburbia. I have a secret fear that one day Graham may be a face in line. Thankfully, I haven’t heard from him since we met last month. I told Sam about Graham and the rosary, but I’m uneasy that I’ve never mentioned any of this to David. He has enough trouble with my desire to get married. Our parents’ marriages paint a grim portrait of the institution.
My mood lifts as a woman wearing large hoop earrings and hemp-woven wedges enters and takes the one empty seat at the bar. She swivels in her chair and regards the customers surrounding her. It’s Danita, Quiche’s friend from church.
I greet her with a menu, glass of water, and relieved smile. Even if Quiche is the only reason she’s here, it’s a good enough excuse today. I carry the water pitcher from table to table, refilling glasses, asking patrons if they’d like something else. I’m hoping someone asks for the bill, so I can clear the table and lighten the line. One of the photographers and another young man approach me.
“We’re from the Free Press. We’d like to hear your thoughts regarding the article about you and your cousin in yesterday’s Times. It was quite flattering. We’d also like a picture of you two.”
“Wonderful. Of course, we’re thrilled about the piece. And the Times?” I shake my head. “Incredible.” I make a swooping motion with my arm across the tables. “As you see, we’re really busy. I’ll have our manager take Sam’s place in the kitchen.” I turn from them; then I stop. I’ve a better idea. I walk back to the men.
“Actually, it would be great if you could include our manager, Braydon, in the picture. He’s our main man, essential to Welcome Home’s success, and should be credited. Our prep cook will be able to handle the kitchen.”
“Sure,” the photographer responds. “We’ll take a couple of you and Sam with the manager, and a couple with just the two of you. We know you’re busy. This will only take a minute.”
I trot to the kitchen. At the stainless-steel table, Paul is deboning and gutting trout packed into an ice-filled bus tub. His recipe for Crispy Corn Trout will be tomorrow’s special. I ask him if he can manage the orders so I can steal Sam for a few minutes. He agrees, delighted to be relieved of one of the more odious prep tasks. Lella darts into the kitchen, places several finished plates on a serving tray, and grabs a cloth to clean smudges of oil away from the edges. She places the tray onto her palm, then stretches her arm over her head and retreats to the floor, the doors swinging behind her.
I grab Sam’s hand and lead her into the dining area. The photographer is taking a light reading by the window. Cupping my hand over my mouth, I whisper into her ear. “Before they take photos, let’s position ourselves to ensure the photographer’s lens will capture Danita at the counter.”
She tilts her head to regard me, a question in her eyes. I head outside to get Braydon.
The man with the short, grizzly beard who lives in the house next door to Welcome Home is sitting in his chair, rocking back and forth, glaring at us. He wears the same short-sleeved denim shirt he always wears. When he sees me, his pace quickens, as if he’s ready to launch from his porch. Even from this distance I can read the anger in his eyes. I link my arm with Braydon’s.
“We want to make sure you’re in some of the photos. You’ve earned it.”
“Really?” His eyes widen into saucers. “I’ve never had my picture in the paper before. My aunt and uncle will be freaked.” He dips his head toward the man. “He looks more pissed off than ever.”
“What’s up with that dude?” I shrug.
We just closed the diner for the day. Braydon, Sam, and I are exhausted but elated, basking in our recent successes. Sitting in lawn chairs, iced teas in hand, we admire the vegetable garden. David just joined us, and I’m content watching the dogs stretched beside us in the sun.
“It’s crazy how long the days are in July,” I comment. “It feels as if the sun should be setting now.” I check my phone. “Three fifty-five. We still have five hours until sunset—another six until it’s dark. Maybe we should consider keeping longer hours in the summer.”
“Oh God, no,” Sam says. “Eight hours in a sweltering kitchen is all I can stand.”
“Next year we’ll install air conditioning and hire some more cooks.” I rise and stretch, placing my arms above my head and bending forward. “I need to place orders and restock the perishables before five. Today’s business wiped us out.” Walking toward the kitchen, I stop and turn to Sam.
“Great that the photographer caught Danita in the photos.”
“Why’s that?” Braydon asks.
My eyes meet his. “I hate the thought of the diner being portrayed as just another hip, white-bread restaurant testing the waters of gentrification.”
His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Is that why you also asked me to be in the photograph? To make doubly sure everyone knows the diner also serves pumpernickel?”
I freeze, at a loss for words. He’s never spoken to me like this before. “No, Braydon. Of . . . course not,” I stammer, feeling my face grow hot. What did he mean by that comment?
“Sorry, Addie. When you said white-bread, I couldn’t resist.” He shrugs. “But seriously. I’ve been thinking about our neighbor. Maybe he dislikes us because we ignore him.” Wearing an unreadable expression, he pinches suckers off the tomato plants. “None of us have even bothered to introduce ourselves.” He glances at me over the side of his shoulder. “I’d wager he judges me to be Welcome Home’s token black. A hire made to fill a quota.”
My pulse races and my response is quick. “By this time, Braydon, you must know that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“I know that, Addie. I know. I’m talking about our neighbor’s perceptions, not my own.”
Clutching my hands together, I take a deep breath, trying to settle myself.
“Braydon has a point,” Sam says, shaking the ice cubes that remain in her drained glass. “Trying to paint this so-called community of color seems forced. That photograph was contrived. It doesn’t reflect reality and makes me uncomfortable. It’s a different sort of discrimination, which is hard to articulate.”
“That’s too simplistic, Sam. It gets us off the hook. Dismissals are like a teacher who limits the number of questions that can be asked. We need to ask questions. We need articulation.”
“Perhaps the diner’s customer base should evolve without our meddling,” she replies, looking into her glass.
Now I’m upset. I slap my fist into the palm of my hand. “Our meddling? Welcome Home’s more than a diner, Sam. Remember? We had a vision. We operate in a culinary wasteland. Besides us, the only edible options are to be found in gas stations, liquor stores, and that godforsaken burger joint. We wanted our neighbors to have something better to choose from. Our dream was to shape an old-fashioned neighborhood gathering spot—authentic and welcoming to all races and creeds—where everyone has a seat at the table. Not some trendy, shabby-chic, elitist establishment.”
“I haven’t forgotten our mission statement, Addie. And I am asking the questions. For example, what have we done to integrate ourselves into the community?” She places her glass atop an overturned produce crate and stands to face me. “Just because we rehabbed a decrepit diner, should we expect our neighbors to fall at our feet in gratitude? And try this one on for size: Is it wrong to open old wounds? Maybe that will cause too much pain for everyone.”
“But, Sam, most of those wounds never healed. Prayers and hopes won’t make them disappear. Detroit is being shaped and changed by actions, not wishful thinking. Wishful thinking is just another way of worrying.” I place my hands on her shoulders and peer into her face. “And we’re spending too much time worrying about the wounds, worrying about relationships that have broken down. Pressing the bruises, prodding at the sore spots, ironically, just might be the sweet spots for healing our community.” The muscles along my jawline clench. I drop my arms and turn to Braydon. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” he asks, looking startled, as if he thinks I’m planning to gag and stuff him in the back of David’s truck.
“You’re right, Braydon. Of course you’re right. Let’s introduce ourselves to the neighbor. We should have done this a long time ago. I’ll grab some food. Make him a goody bag.” I dash to the kitchen before Sam and Braydon can make further comment.
Walking to his home, I never realized how close we were to him. The edge of our garden can’t be more than ten feet from his lot. We climb the rickety stoop, pass the empty rocking chair, and Braydon knocks on the door. A minute goes by, and he raps the door again, with a heavier fist.
A voice from behind the door. “Can’t you read? The sign says No Solicitors. Get outta here before I call the cops.”
Braydon clears his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re your new neighbors. We want to introduce ourselves.”
“You’re the last people I want on my property. So get going.”
“Sir, I’m sorry to hear that. My name is Braydon. I manage the restaurant, and one of the owners, Addie, is with me.”
“I said get outta here,” he shouts, his voice rising to a threat.
“You may know my aunt and uncle, Sam and Paula Stokes? They live a few blocks away. My aunt sings in the Tabernacle Choir. The choir director, Laurice, your neighbor down the street, is one of their good friends.”
Two bolts unlock and the door cracks open. A yellow eye threaded with red veins peers at us over the brass chain. The man behind the eye unlatches the chain and opens the door. For a minute he examines us, mute, before pointing his forefinger in my face.
“You and your restaurant are turning my neighborhood into a three-ring circus.”
He turns to Braydon. “I quit going to church a while back. But I do remember your aunt and uncle. And of course I know Laurice. He keeps pestering me to come back to service. My name’s Angus. You can stay.” He turns to me. “But she goes.”
My throat tightens, and I hold the bag toward him. “We’ve brought over some food we thought you might enjoy. It’s raining cherries in Northern Michigan right now. So we made cherry pie. The house-smoked chicken is also tasty—I could bring over some sauce if you like.”
“I smell that chicken smoking every Saturday morning.” His voice is at least triple the volume of mine. “How can I avoid it? I smell everything that goes on in your place. Most times it stinks.” He grabs the bag from my hands. “But not that chicken.”
I emit a shaky breath, feeling the moisture collect under my armpits. I don’t know if I’ve ever been faced with such rudeness.
I turn to Braydon. A shadow crosses his face. “Like I told you, Braydon. I’ve got to place orders for tomorrow.”
My head bobs at Angus, and I stumble down his porch steps, restraining myself from breaking into a run. The group remains in the garden, in the same position where I left them. I couldn’t have been gone for more than five minutes, but the emotional roller coaster I just exited made it feel more like five hours. Plopping on David’s lap, I feel one of the vinyl pieces beneath our weight dislodging from the aluminum frame. I jump up, afraid the seat will collapse.
“Whoa, baby. You look like you just met the devil.”
“That man, David. His name is Angus.” I pinch my lips between my teeth. “He hates me, David. He doesn’t know a thing about me, but he really hates me.” My jaw and hands are trembling, out of control.
David stands, brushes my hair away from my face, and peers into my eyes. “What did he say?”
“That we’ve turned his neighborhood into a circus. That our place stinks.” I raise my voice, my breath catching in my throat. “He doesn’t get what we’re trying to do. He was yelling in my face.”
Sam approaches and rests her palm on my shoulder. “Where’s Braydon?” she asks.
“He was invited in, but the old man demanded I leave. What have I . . . what is it about Welcome Home that could have made him so upset?”
Anger swells in my chest, and I stomp my foot on the ground. “For God’s sake. Billions of dollars are being invested in midtown and downtown, but they’ve left out the neighborhoods. So we’re busting our butts trying to improve the area, but our neighbors want us to leave.” I burst into tears, emitting long, rattling gasps as I try to compose myself.
“Black, white, rich, poor—we all have problems to deal with,” David says, gathering me into his arms, wiping away my tears with a corner of his sleeve. “And face it. Change is inevitable. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a disintegrating house around here. You and Sam have made significant improvements to the East Side, and it’s catching on. I’ve had my eye on those two dudes down the street who just purchased a home. They replaced the windows, began scraping paint away from the siding, and last week they tore down the porch. You guys are inspiring change already.” He shakes his head, stroking my hair as if trying to settle a spooked mare. “I don’t know, baby girl. I don’t know. Don’t cry. He’s just one old man, and we’ll fix it with him.” He turns his head toward Angus’s house. “I don’t know how—there’ll be some heavy sledding up ahead—but we’ll fix it.”
“What if we’d turned the old diner into a strip club? The action would have gone on through the night. Pimps. Prostitutes.” I lift my arm, fanning it across the landscape in a shaky arc, before bringing my fist to my chest. “Would the neighborhood be safer then? Would he have preferred that sort of clientele?”
Shaking my head, I grab my phone from the table. “Yikes. I’ve only forty minutes to place the orders.” I look at David, a surge of love bubbling to the surface. My man is here, right now, exactly when I need him to comfort me. “I love you so much, David. Sorry to get all histrionic.”
His mouth brushes against my ear. “It will all be fine. You’ll see.”
“Let’s do the orders together,” Sam says, putting her arm around my shoulder. “Focus on what a terrific day it’s been, not on what just happened.” Regarding me, her brows furrow, and a crinkle of lines crawl around the corners of her eyes. I must look a wreck. I give her a tight hug.
“Thanks. If you do perishables, I’ll deal with the rest. But let me order the trout.” I look at David and summon up the old Addie with a wink. “Our fish vendor has the hots for me.” A collective laugh of camaraderie. Relief.
At least we know the enemy. But that the enemy is our next-door neighbor fills me with a profound sadness.
The orders placed, I hang up the phone. I check myself in the reflection of the windowpane, then grab a cup of ice in the prep area. I’ll rub some cubes under my eyes, which are puffed out like marshmallows. My hair hangs in singular ropes, and my face is oily in the humidity. A vague plum line edges my lips; I’ve chewed off most of my lipstick. I look like a corpse pulled from the Detroit River. Serious repair’s in order. As I head for the bathroom, David enters through the back and grabs my arm.
“Braydon’s back from his reconnaissance mission. Thought you’d want to hear what he has to say.”
“Just give me a couple of minutes. Need to visit the loo.”
I scurry to the bathroom, splash cold water across my face, brush my hair, and freshen my lipstick. No time to ice my eyes, but I rub off the mascara smeared beneath them. Mental note: replenish Visine. With these pink eyes, I look like a frightened rabbit. I scamper to the garden.
Iced tea has been replaced with cold beer. Even Braydon has a brew. Although he’s of age, he’s never joined our after-hours tippling. Today’s put a toll on us all.
David has a small speaker attached to his smartphone. As if aware of Angus’s silent presence, the volume’s half of what it usually is when we meet in the garden. Aside from fifties jazz, our group prefers the songs our parents enjoyed from the sixties and seventies, the era of Woodstock we’ve musically enshrined. David’s mom gave him her record player and original vinyl collection that she’d listened to in high school and college. Jimi Hendrix; Crosby, Stills & Nash; Creedence Clearwater Revival; and Marvin Gaye, to name a few. Although the music is fifty years old, it’s about freedom, revolution, and change. We relate to the lyrics.
“Well, Braydon,” I say, dragging a chair next to David’s. “I hope your interaction with Angus was more fruit bearing than mine.”
“I’m not sure. I mainly asked him questions about his story. His life. How he came to live in his home.”
“And?”
“He’s an old dude, Nam vet, Jim Crow in his eyes. What little he’s worked for has been taken away. Except his home. You know his thumb and forefinger were blown off? The right hand, the one he used on the assembly line at Ford. When he returned from the war, he said it was hard to find a job. Said the line was all he knew, and the—”
“That war was such a waste,” David interrupts, leaning back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Such bullshit. Did I ever tell you guys about the trick my dad pulled to keep from serving?” I nod at David, my forefinger at my lips, shushing him. I turn to Braydon, whose mouth twitches, no doubt annoyed himself.
“Did he buy his house after the war?” I ask.
“The house belonged to his folks,” Braydon continues. “It was the home he was raised in and the home he returned to after he served. He was their only living child. His twin brother was killed in the war, and he inherited the home after his folks died.”
“Is there a silver lining in this story? Did he ever marry? Raise kids?”
“He said he never married, but he did have a child. At least one that he was aware of.” Braydon sips his beer, and his back, usually pencil straight, is humped over. His eyes travel around our group.
“He saw his daughter from time to time, but she lived with her mother and was always in trouble. At sixteen she gave birth to a boy. She couldn’t take care of him, so the old man stepped up to the plate. He raised his grandson ever since he was an infant.”
“So where’s the kid now?”
“He asked me not to talk about it.” His lips purse together, and he shakes his head. “But you can guess. A young black man raised in Detroit? He’s locked up—the same ol’, same ol’. Angus said the boy did well in high school and was a good athlete. Two or three Big Ten schools were even considering him for a football scholarship. But apparently the boy also learned to play defense on the streets, by keeping his head down and the focus on his body.”
“Malcolm X said if you’re black, you were born in jail,” David muses, his voice low and gravelly, picking at a cuticle on his finger.
Braydon’s nose twitches, and he pinches his nostrils. I’m sure he’s annoyed that David quoted the man most famous, and most vociferous, in his condemnation of white crimes waged against blacks. David sometimes talks like some badass raised in the ghetto, but he doesn’t understand the scope of what he’s talking about. I don’t either, but at least I admit it. We really could use a road map. And I really could use a beer. I rise and grab one from the cooler.
“During his senior year in high school, a friend coerced him into robbing a convenience store,” Braydon continues, “and the rest is history. A history looping itself round and round and round. It was the only time he’d ever screwed up, but that time was for real.”
Braydon puts his beer down, clasps his hands behind his neck, and leans back into his chair, his words directed to the sky. “The other kid was armed, but, thankfully, not Angus’s grandson. Which meant less jail time. Angus said he should be released in a few months, and is moving back with him.”
“Maybe his grandson’s return will be his silver lining,” Sam says, a gleam of hope in her eyes. Braydon, shrugging, bites his lower lip.
“So he’s lived in the very same spot for over sixty years,” she continues. “Did he share any memories about the way things used to be in this neighborhood?”
“He remembers the old diner. To him it was his second home. He and his parents ate there at least twice a week, and always on Sunday after church. The church and diner were the heart of the community. It sat vacant for thirty years before you two bought it. Maybe that’s what’s sad to him,” he continues, his voice heavy with emotion. “The diner’s rebirth reminds him of the old days. Of good times. Today, he’s an outsider.”
Bon Temps sleeps in a patch of shade. Hero trots to her side, lies down, and joins her, emitting a yowling yawn before laying his head on the ground.
“So what was your response?” I ask, directing my gaze to Braydon.
Braydon sighs, shaking his head. “I just listened and acknowledged his feelings. No resolutions were made. Of course not. His point of view encompasses more than the diner.”
“I think I get where he’s coming from,” Sam says. “Welcome Home’s symbolic of change. He’s coming from a place of fear. And fear makes everyone lash out.”
“You’re right, Sam,” Braydon agrees. “His car was repossessed last year because he couldn’t pay the insurance premiums. Then he sees two white women sniffing a bargain and moving onto his turf, settin’ up shop. He’s on a limited, fixed income and worried about gentrification. He’s concerned taxes on his home will rise and he will lose it. He has no place to go. Why wouldn’t he consider the diner’s resurrection to be just another betrayal in the city’s history of economic abandonment?”
Braydon places the tip of his thumb in his mouth, closes his eyes, and shakes his head. We’re all silent, fixated on this man who has experienced so much that we could never, and will never, fathom. But we can, at the very least, listen. He opens his eyes, breaking the silence.
“Angus is scared. He’s lonely. And he wants someone to talk to. But I didn’t leave without saying my piece.” Braydon shakes his almost-empty beer, takes a last lingering sip, and places the bottle on the table at his side. Standing, he walks to the garden’s edge and lifts a green tomato.
“You should see the tomatoes growing in his garden. Twice the size of ours.” He gestures toward the large fence behind Angus’s home. “His lot shares space with broken-down equipment he’s repairing. My dad liked to fix things, too.” He turns to face us.
“To me, the twenty-foot plot of land separating the diner and Angus’s home is like the center line of I-94 at rush hour.” His palms are upturned and his fingers outstretched, as if he were cradling the city. “Half of the expressway represents your people, and the other half represents mine. The line divides us, and we’re both driving away from each other in opposite directions, as fast as we can. Meanwhile, the air shrieks with the sounds of honking cars, trucks, and deafening sound systems, and stinks with the smells of exhaust.”
Bon Temps, sensing anguish in her master’s voice, ambles awkwardly onto all fours and walks to his side. The pom-pom tipping her tail drags across the ground. He leans over to scratch beneath her ears.
“Since I’ve started working at Welcome Home, I’ve begun to feel like my home is in the middle of the road, dead center on the line. But no one wants me here. It’s as if I must make a decision to cross over and join the traffic in the left lane or the traffic in the right.”
He sighs, exhausted. “The trouble with me is”—his eyes move around our group, lingering a second on each of our faces—“I don’t want to make the choice.”
Sam stands, rushes to Braydon, and grabs his arm, shaking her head. “You know us better than that. All of us are with you in the center, all of us on neutral ground. There’s no choice to be made.”
He winces, and his eyes take on a wounded look. “I get what you’re saying, Sam. But I feel as if someone, something, is going to force me to choose sides.” He drops his head. “And it makes me sad.”
Bon Temps looks up at her master. Her ears tip back and she whines. “I’m OK, girl,” Braydon says to the dog as he bends to stroke her back.
“And there lies the holy conundrum,” David says. Folding his arms across his chest, he raises his face to the sky, shaking his head. “To quote Rodney King, ‘Can’t we all just get along?’”
Braydon straightens, his chest rises, and he looks askance at David. I know David’s trying to be sympathetic, but the next thing you know, he’ll change the music to Jay Z, pull Braydon in for a backslap hug, and call him a brother. David’s overdue for a smackdown, but I refrain.
Braydon clears his throat. “As I was saying, that’s what I said when I spoke my piece to Angus. I didn’t talk about the diner. I wanted him to understand that I, speaking as a black man, have my own concerns about the future. And I don’t want to choose sides. Maybe I laid it on thick, but I wasn’t there to make small talk. I didn’t expect a response from him and didn’t receive one.”
I regard Braydon. “Did you get a sense whether he feels friendlier to Welcome Home after your visit? Friendlier towards me?” I steel myself for his response.
He gives me a long, appraising look, as if he were summing me up, gauging whether or not I was strong enough to hear the truth. Then, he shakes his head, as if dismissing a thought, and smiles. “Well, he polished off all the food you gave him. He’s loyal to your chicken.”
We laugh, trading quick glances.
He walks to my chair and places a hand on my shoulder. “You can’t take what Angus said personally, Addie. We must all be patient. Remain sensitive.”
His eyes soften, and the sound of his voice fades under the blast of horns on La Grande.
“The conversation has just begun.”