An Order of Coffee and Tears

10





Regret and guilt can be a lethal combination. As I stood by Clark’s cot and glimpsed his old book on the shelf, I wanted to kick myself for having opened my mouth. Had I just waited, even for a few minutes, then there would have been time enough to ask what I wanted answered. But I didn’t. I sometimes did that; I interrupted conversations, and pushed what was sitting on my tongue and pressing on my lips. And, while I didn’t always interrupt, I found that I almost always regretted it when I did.

I heard the bell sound its metal chime from the front, and, before leaving Clark’s nook, I heard it ring a second time. One of them belonged to Jarod, I was sure of it. My heart leapt, and worry took my breath as I realized I couldn’t do another check. No running to the restroom to check my hair, or finding a toaster to see if I had anything between my teeth. A quick glance around Clark’s nook, and I discovered he didn’t keep a mirror. Not a one. Was that odd? I considered it for a second, and then saw the empty screen of his TV staring up at me. That would work.

The little white box sat precariously on a makeshift table: a turned-up vegetable crate with ashen gray colors showing the wood’s age. The screen was dark, and the face reflecting in the glass was more a silhouette than someone I recognized. But, in the dim gray screen, I could still make out enough of my teeth and my hair, and felt better about the reflection after tucking away a stray lock behind my ear.

My heart bumped again, and I hesitated. What if this feeling was just Ms. Potts putting a bug in me? What if I was growing her idea and feeding on an imaginary crush that really didn’t exist? I dismissed the thoughts, and straightened my outfit. Real feelings or not, I didn’t think I cared – this was fun.

An air of tension was immediate as I walked to the front of the diner. I felt the grin I’d rehearsed with the RCA’s reflection disappear. Two booths were occupied, and a few folks were seated at the counter and getting their first sips of coffee. The inside of our diner felt electric. It was filled with the static air of a storm that rumbled threats and echoed warnings. I thought at any minute lightning would strike down on someone if they moved suddenly, or spoke up too loud.

Somebody called my name, and, when I looked, I saw Suzette at the counter. Nearly healed of all injuries, she looked beautiful; a healthy beautiful. Maybe too beautiful. A twinge of jealousy fueled that last thought. Her cheeks were fuller, and flush with color. The dark circles that hung under her eyes were gone completely; their absence forgave five years in her age. And her hair: no more torn patches from her skull to hide – it was a new style for her, and it looked trendy and sexy. It was a new Suzette – maybe she really did leave her husband.

Another jealous pang grumbled in me as I sought out the owner of the second ring of the bell. I loved Suzette, but didn’t want to be next to her when Jarod saw me. Instinctively, I groped at the front of my outfit and pulled out any bunching, smoothing as much as I could. As a waitress, there wasn’t exactly anything appealing or elegant with what I wore. No sexy outfits. No cleavage to show off, or to help as an attention grabber. And Suzette was the type that could wear anything and still look as though she were modeling it. I felt frumpy again as I grabbed the sides of my outfit and pulled there, too. I hated that feeling.

“Miss Gabriella Santiago,” a thick and stony voice sounded from a corner booth. “That is your full name, isn’t it?”

A confused look filled Suzette’s eyes, replacing the excited smile on her face. I am sure the same look must have been planted on mine, and, in my next breath, all thoughts of Jarod were forgotten.

“Miss Gabriella Santiago from the little town of Fairview, Texas. Disappeared, it says here – disappeared from her home approximately ten years ago. But, what’s this? No missing persons report? So, can it be assumed that you left Texas? And why is that, Miss Gabriella Santiago? A runaway? Come on! You look too smart for that. Certainly you would not have considered such a cowardly act.” The reciting of my history was cut short when the detective threw his hands over his mouth to catch an explosion of coughs. He grabbed up one of the napkins and coughed a mess of phlegm into it. As he wiped his lips, his shoulders shuddered with another turn of coughs. He coughed again until his body fell forward, his hand keeping his balance on the table top. I thought he was going to pass out. I thought for sure we’d see him face down on the table.

A young couple and child in one booth, and the Keep on Truckin´ guy at the counter looked up and waited. Nobody offered to help. They waited. These were my regulars. They were Ms. Potts’ regulars, too, and the detective had already set a tone. What a way to live; a life where your minutes and hours and days pass with the speculation and accusation of others, filling everyone around you with worry and trepidation.

When the eruption of coughs slowed, I approached the detective and brought another setup along with a clean napkin. Red rivers and creeks forked paths across the whites of his eyes with agitated tears brimming, and then falling onto his cheeks. He pulled the napkin back from his mouth, and asked for some water. There was blood in the linen. He wasn’t just coughing up the years of smoking his body was rejecting; there was damage he was paying for.

“So, what is it? What did you run away from in Texas? Was the state not big enough for you?” he joked, and coughed, and then laughed louder while searching for another laugh to join in with his. But nobody said a word.

“Why don’t you leave her be?” Ms. Potts scolded. The detective turned his head, the curl on his lips gone, and warned her with a narrowed stab of his eyes. When he was certain Ms. Potts was silenced, he turned back and continued,

“She’s a big girl. Miss Gabriella Santiago can answer on her terms. Isn’t that right?” I answered a quick yes to him, as I placed the glass of water on the table.

“Truth is, Miss Gabriella Santiago is as clean as clean can be. No felonies, no warrants. Not even a jaywalking charge,” he stated evenly. The detective was looking at me. His eyes narrowed again, as if studying a puzzle. “In fact, there hasn’t been much of you anywhere in the last ten years. Isn’t that right?” he questioned, his eyes widened, waiting for an answer.

“Yes. I suppose that’s right. And it’s Gabby. Not Gabriella. Just Gabby.”

The curl on his lips returned, and he eked out a giggle and chided, “So we’re friends now, Miss Gabby? Some pleasantries, and a thank you very much?” The detective sneered, and waited for me to say something. I thought it best to stay quiet. So that is what I did.

“Very well, then,” he started to say, “and now that we’re all friends, I have something to share.” From his coat, the detective pulled a manila envelope, and placed it on the table in front of him. It was old, and the edges had worn to thin cottony frays, like the corners of Clark’s book. The light-brown buff paper lay faded, with a heavy crease down the middle. Folded, I thought, and guessed the detective liked to fold the cover back. I could still read the case number penned in blue across a white sticker. But the lettering, too, was fading.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked in his thick, earnest voice, but I remained cautious.

“Case file?” I guessed, and was fairly certain I was right. His eyes brightened, and his earlier smile opened to a full grin, revealing two rows of nubby yellow teeth. One tooth stayed long, and protruded upward like a dying tree. In that moment, his upturned face resembled a badger with a toothy grin.

“Perceptive. I like that. This is my last case file. My only remaining unsolved crime. And it has everything to do with your friends over there, Clark and Ms. Potts. So, given we’re all friends now, I thought I’d fill in some of the details for you.” I took a step back from the table as he opened the case file. Regret surfaced again from interrupting Clark. I turned once to Clark, his face was statue-like, and his eyes stared at us, but I could see they were far away. Ms. Potts had moved to a stool and sat down. She’d raised her hand to her mouth, as though trying to hold in her words. At some point, the young couple must have decided a real-life police drama was too exciting. They decided that it wasn’t as safe to watch in person as it was on television. They picked themselves up and left.

Suzette remained. Her eyes were moving from person to person, and I wondered what she must be thinking. Maybe, when the air in the diner became electric, Suzette froze. Maybe, on some subconscious level, or from instinct, or just self-preservation, she knew to do that. This was one of her senses – we all have it, but she’d come to rely on it.

The detective must have read the look on my face. He must have known I was in the dark about such things, and empty of all knowledge of his final case.

“Ahhh,” he coughed out, and then grabbed the bloodied napkin to cover his mouth. When the threat of more coughing passed, he looked at me, and asked, “They haven’t told you, have they? They haven’t told you about the murder. How very interesting.” Again, he showed his nubby teeth in a grin. I didn’t want to move, or say or do anything, but I did. I gave a short nod of my head. Detective Ramiz stood up, and stepped out from the booth. Taking off the fedora from atop his head, he plopped it on the table next to the open case file. Papers ruffled and lifted, and threatened to fall to the floor. I hoped they would. I’d spill something on them if they did. But the pages settled, and the detective spoke.

“Ms. Potts,” he began, and stepped in her direction. Like a moth turning away from the heat of a flame, she leaned closer to the counter, away from the detective. “Ms. Potts, where is your husband? Where is Mr. Louis Potts?” he asked, as he approached, and then waited, standing in front of her. Married? Had I heard him correctly? I’d never considered there to be a Mr. Potts. Or maybe I had, but just assumed he passed on long ago. The detective pushed himself up on his toes, and then back, slamming his heels to the floor. Ms. Potts flinched at the sudden sound. “Come now Ms. Potts – Mr. Louis Elmore Potts. Your husband of –” he paused, and tapped the side of his head, “forty years? Yes. Forty years. But, the last time you saw him, or anyone saw him, was twenty years ago.”

“My husband is dead. You know that,” Ms. Potts blurted. She quickly bumped up the thick frames of her glasses, and continued, “Dead twenty years now, God rest his soul. But we told you this a dozen times before. Why can’t you just leave it be?”

“Well, sure, official reports list him as dead. Even that case file could be closed, if I let it. But at one time, your husband was a missing person. You had him declared dead. Never found a body, though, did we?”

“If my husband were alive, he’d be with me. But he ain’t,” Ms. Potts stated, and put her hand back in front of her mouth.

“Only a matter of time – Angela’s will be sold. Interest is heating up, and they’re not keeping your precious diner. Did you know that, Ms. Potts? How about you, Clark?” The detective continued, raising his gravelly voice. “They’re not going to preserve or rescue your safe haven for the likes of convicts and runaways and dead bodies,” he declared, passing his eyes to me and Clark. The detective’s expression went flat and exacting: he intended to close his last case.

The tension and strain bled a congestion that was thick and ugly, and it overwhelmed Ms. Potts. She bolted from where she sat, and faced the detective. Fear struck me as I thought she was going to hit him – cartwheel her short arms, and swing them down on him. But she stopped herself. She faced him with a stern expression and pensive eyes.

“You don’t know! You don’t know me and Clark and this safe haven! My husband is dead! Ain’t nothing more to know than that! So, take your last case, and…”

“Ms. Potts!” the detective yelled, “I haven’t finished. Now, if you would,” he stressed, and motioned his hand to the stool behind her. The fiery expression she had moments before faded, as though in a classroom that had been reprimanded by the principle. Ms. Potts took a reluctant step back, and sat on the stool. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. The detective had a vendetta that was fueled by some notional theory about a man who’d disappeared twenty years ago. That is what I thought, anyway, before hearing more of what he had to say.

Detective Ramiz coughed a new butterfly-splatter of blood and phlegm onto the white linen. He studied it a second, and found me staring, too. He snapped the napkin into a fold, and tucked it into his pocket. I could see he was afraid. He might have seen butterfly blood spatters a dozen times a day – every one of them scared him some. More than that, I could see that he knew he was running out of time. He shrugged, as if to say it was nothing, and then turned to face Clark.

“And Clark, you’ve been here almost as long as Ms. Potts. If my memory serves, that back room of yours wasn’t always there. Was it? Angela Thurmon bumped it out and put on that addition.” The detective walked around the counter, and stood opposite of Clark. When Clark said nothing and only offered a vacant stare, the detective took a cup from the back counter, and poured himself some coffee. We watched him drink half of the cup without so much as a wince of his eyes, or a flinch in his face. Hot and black. He drank the fresh coffee straight – when he brought the cup down from his mouth, steam rolled up over his lips like a dragon’s breath. The sight of him with his badger grin and coffee steam bleeding from his mouth was sinister, if not downright frightful.

“Let me ask you something. Back then, before the addition, what stood behind you, Clark? Hmmm? Don’t know? Maybe this will help. I used to sit right there, where Ms. Potts is sitting now, and she’d serve me up two eggs and a side of bacon. And I used to see you working the grill back there, and the only thing I could see behind you were some… what was it?”

“Sh-Shelves. J-Just some shelves, is all. N-Nothing else.”

“Right as rain, son. Nothing else. Nothing but a wall, and a door out to the back of the building. Angela Thurmon had grand plans, and bumped all of it out for refrigerators and a dishwasher. Not the kind you buy for your home – these were the big ones, big and professional.” The detective poured the remaining coffee down his throat, and let out a steam-filled ahhhh that rose and disappeared like smoke just beyond his lips.

“When you build in big appliances, you have to add all sorts of plumbing and electricity. Don’t you? Angela Thurmon had to dig new trenches to tap into the water lines. For a while, it looked like a moat back there. Didn’t it? Deep one, too. Wasn’t it? But they cleaned it up all nice and pretty-like. Poured in that concrete pad you’re standing on now. Didn’t they?”

“I-I suppose? Yes. Y-Yes, they did,” Clark answered, and looked briefly at the detective, but then turned away. Ms. Potts held her hand to her mouth, and Clark glanced at me, but again turned away. The detective spun around to face the front like a lawyer in a courtroom, facing a jury.

“Mr. Louis Elmore Potts was last seen entering Angela’s Diner. Eye-witnesses from the Irish Pub saw him leave the bar, walk up the street, and enter the diner. Mr. Louis Elmore Potts was never seen again. Clark… just when did they pour the pad?” he asked, leaning his head over his shoulder in Clark’s direction.

“Pad?”

“The concrete,” the detective raised his voice, “When did they pour the floor you’re standing on?”

“D-Dunno, not too g-good with dates,” Clark answered, and shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s okay, I can fill in the blanks for you. It was the next day. The very next day. Isn’t that right, Ms. Potts – I know you know the date. You reported him missing on that day. Just one day. Not two, or three, or five? Nope, one day. And that, my dear was a mistake. Raised suspicions at the station right away.”

“But he always come home. No matter what his business was at the pub. My husband always come home to me,” Ms. Potts finally said. Her voice shook as she spoke, and her hands trembled. She pulled her hands together when she saw me watching. She pulled them together, as though praying. The detective turned away from his imaginary jury to face Ms. Potts. His eyes gleamed, and his face looked younger, more vibrant. He welcomed the rebuttal. He orchestrated it. He wanted to hear the contradiction so that he could put Ms. Potts on the spot.

“I know. I’ve heard you say that before. In fact, it is in my case file over there on the table. But, you know what else is in my case file? A report stating that you and Clark were the only two people working in the diner that night. Convenient? And the next morning, men in big trucks rolled down this narrow street, and poured the concrete. Did anyone look in the trenches? Was there an inspection before the pour?” the detective finished. I waited a second to hear more, but the brightness in his eyes dimmed, and the vibrant excitement on his face faded. He was spent. He clutched at his chest and sucked in air – I could hear crippled rattling in his chest as another flurry of coughs threw him forward. A moment passed, and the quiet in the diner was replaced with the shuffling sound of the detective’s shoes as he made his way back to his booth.

“You see, Gabby… we’re still friends, right? My last case, my remaining case, is as real as any missing persons case. And the shared opinion is that this has always been a case of murder,” he finished in the same tone that he started. A loud wheezing sound came from his mouth, and he began to fall forward. He reached out and clutched the table for support. We all passed looks back and forth, and I wondered if there were images in their heads of the detective falling over and dying. When he composed himself once more, he placed his fedora back on his head, and unrolled a few dollars from his hand.

“Your tip is for bringing me the water. That was a civil thing to do; very civil of you… amongst friends,” he grinned, “and the extra dollars are for you to call home. Call your parents. Children should be civil to their parents.” Holding the dollar bills in the air, he waved them, and then dropped the collection to the table. And, like before, the bell above the door rang out, and seemed to clear the electricity in the air. But did it? Could it? The detective talked of murder. He accused Clark and Ms. Potts of murder.