An Order of Coffee and Tears

16





A good story can always get the feet moving, Ms. Potts told me once. And I never forgot it. I told the same to Suzette as I followed her to the counter, where a young, pregnant woman sat, crying. A white piece of paper, the one that had chased her husband away, lay on the counter, isolated and seemingly innocent. But it was hiding a dangerous secret that threatened a revelation if touched. Sitting half folded and wrinkled, the crumpled words held a power that piqued my curiosity. With her hands covering her face, I could see the wet of her tears running past her fingers. I stretched my hand with a linen cloth between my fingers, and tapped her arm lightly. My eyes stayed fixed on the paper.

She mumbled a thank you, wiped her face, and then fixed an angry stare on the paper in front of her. The woman froze. She remained like that for what seemed minutes. No movement from her. And, through the corner of my eye, I saw Suzette’s head leaping back and forth. We both flinched when the slap of the napkin hit the counter top. The woman had seen enough of the crumpled note, and swatted it away from her, as if it were a dangerous wasp, readying itself to sting.

“Ma’am, are you okay? Can we get you something?” Suzette began with a sympathetic tone.

“My husband is an a*shole. A f*cking a*shole,” the woman spat, her eyes stuck on where the paper had been. I blinked, and I think Suzette did too. We shared a brief raise of our eyebrows. The colorful language sounded odd coming from the woman in front of us. She was young, but not that young. She wore a cloud of curly reddish-brown hair, and had a round face with pout cheeks and blue eyes which were big and glassy. She dressed up with just enough makeup to keep things simple, but elegant. A thin frame held her eye-glasses, and carried two tones of the colors chocolate and purple. I hadn’t seen the style before, but immediately loved it.

“I’m so sorry – I never talk like that. I think it’s all the hormones, but he is… he is a f*cking a*shole,” she laughed, as her hands fell to the counter with a thump. Suzette’s eyes were wider, and a smirk formed on her lips.

“So, you are okay?” I asked, confused, but more curious than before. She waved a hand, shooing off the tears, and set her eyes on something behind me. A guilty look played on her face as she eagerly bit at her upper lip.

“My doctor says it’s okay – just one or two a day,” she started, and then pointed to the coffee, “Can I get a cup… a big cup?” She asked, and I understood the guilt was one of pleasure. Suzette tended to the coffee, the smirk on her face rising in the corners. An order of coffee and tears, I could almost hear her saying with her eyes. A door had opened in the conversation, and I wondered if Suzette had caught it. I certainly did. I jumped at the opportunity.

“Ma’am… doctors? Everything alright?” I asked, while Suzette brought over some creamer and sugar. The woman touched her belly, and her eyes beamed with the same look I’d seen earlier.

“Yes, everything is fine. I’m pregnant,” she answered quickly, and wrapped both of her hands around her middle. After a pause, she turned her attention to the counter. Bringing the cup of coffee to her mouth, she pulled in the whispery steam with her first sip. Delight reigned on her face, and she closed her eyes.

“Mmmmmm – that does taste good.” The bell over the door echoed, and pulled my eyes. Jarod entered the diner, tools in one hand, clipboard in the other. Was it Thursday already? Had we been so busy that I’d lost track of the days?

Dark bruising remained under his eyes. The worst of it, though, had passed, leaving behind patchy green-yellow, with fringes of blue and purple. He’d taken all of the white medical tape off of his face, and I wondered if it was more out of a sticky or itchy annoyance. The fracture on the bridge of his nose had scabbed over, leaving behind an ink-black lump that stood up high on his face. I hoped it would heal cleanly, and that the inky break on his skin wouldn’t scar. I hoped that every time he looked in the mirror, the ragged mark wouldn’t remind him of that day; the day when Suzette’s husband chewed up his dignity, and vomited it in a single back-handed swing of his fist.

My hand was up in the air before I realized it. I pushed a smile on my face, though, admittedly, there was little effort needed. I wanted Jarod to see me like he had before. I didn’t want any misgivings, or see him shy away out of embarrassment. Coming to my side that day was brave – braver than anything anyone had ever done for me.

Images of my Daddy flashed in my mind. Images of him pulling back his hands as I reached out for him and called to him. The jolt of a painful memory stabbed me, and I reached down where, years before, a sign post was pushed into my belly. The memory hurt. After ten years, it still hurt. I suppose it always would.

But Jarod came to my side that day. When Suzette’s husband held me down, Jarod defended me. No questions or reservations. Just bravery. Jarod wouldn’t see it like that, though. How could he? He was hurt and ashamed. And I wondered what must have been going through his mind when he opened his eyes; the sheer confusion of it all.

I felt a heaviness, a knot in my belly. How awful for him. How terrible. My heart quickened a beat, and filled with a sensation that sparked another memory of something I’d felt before. Angst shuddered more emotion, and, at that moment, I knew. I knew what I was feeling was real. It wasn’t just something my mind had grown from a seed planted by Ms. Potts’ words. I felt something for Jarod.

My eyes felt moist as the realization of feeling something touched me. It touched me deep inside, where a decade ago I’d left a hole open in my heart. The hole remained there like an old dried well, sitting in a field, and spelling danger to anyone who’d dare set foot near the edge. But now, a finger of hope’s simple touch warmed me. Filling the hole, the emotion of it all overwhelmed me, and I had to take hold of the counter, uncertain if I was going to laugh or cry. Looking at my feet, I wasn’t running. In my heart, I wasn’t sad. I think I might’ve been happy.

“Psssst,” I heard from behind me. Ms. Potts waved her hand toward Jarod. I gave an abrupt nod, telling her I knew he was there, and saw him looking at me. His eyes looked beautiful. I offered him a sweet smile as he passed me along the way to the back. I mentioned I’d fix him something to eat when he was done, and he told me he’d like that. Suzette stood, transfixed by the two stories playing out at the same time. She listened to the woman. Claire was her name, and she watched the exchange between me and Jarod.

“My husband’s been cheating on me. And I think it’s been going on for some time,” Claire revealed. She spoke it plainly and directly, and passed a look to both of us. She lifted her eyes and gasped, “Finally, I said it! The words have been racing in my head, but now I said it.” I stepped in, and put a hand on hers.

“Did that have something to do with that piece of paper?” Suzette asked. It was a good question: she wanted more of the story. Claire patted the top of my hand, and lifted her coffee cup toward me. Jokingly, I told her I’d give her one more, but wouldn’t be held responsible for any more after that.

“Two years. That is how long William and I worked to get pregnant. We thought it would be so easy. All of our friends started a few years ago, and we felt it, too. We felt it was time… time to start our own family. We planned it all, from the cradle and the room, to a bigger house and colleges. Planning was fun… I loved it. But it didn’t happen like it did for our friends. We couldn’t get pregnant.” She stopped, and sipped at her coffee. The same delicious expression showed in a grin with relief and a contented smile.

“I could drink that all day,” she started to say, and then dropped her eyes to her middle, laying a hand on her belly, “But not for you. Only two cups, and no more. Have to keep you healthy,” she added with a baby-talk tone in her voice.

“Two years is a long time. But it happened?” I offered.

“It did. It happened. We have our miracle. It wasn’t easy. So many times we almost gave up – but our doctor was certain it could happen. And it did.” She settled her eyes on her coffee, and I could see she was tearing up.

“I’m not sure when it started, but when I smelled perfume on him the first time, I asked about it. He said something about a drive to a meeting with an associate. And then there was the receipt – it was a lunch meeting, he told me. But for two, and with wine, I asked him? And then he told me the fertility drugs were making me think things that weren’t real. He said that I was connecting disparate points in time to make up a story. I hated that he said that – who says that? I hated that he made me think that he was right. And that piece of paper… it’s a note with an address. I should go over there. I should confront the bitch.”

“But how can you know for sure?” Suzette asked, and refreshed her cup with just a few drops to keep it tasty hot. Clair motioned to her coffee cup, pinching two fingers, she whispered,

“Please?” Suzette put on a reluctant smile, but then added a couple more drops.

“I wasn’t really sure, at all. Not at first, but then I found the piece of paper. It was on the floor of his car, on the passenger’s side, and I grabbed it on our way over here. When we sat down, I asked him about it. He didn’t try to deny anything. I almost wished he had, though. He said a few things, but then ran. A guilty man runs – they always will,” she answered, and the tone of her voice went soft, almost quiet.

When I heard the words “a guilty man runs,” my thoughts went to Clark and his book. I thought of his list, the one that kept his life on a piece of paper – it spelled out who he once was, what he’d done, and who he was today. I thought of the man in prison who gave him his book. And then I thought I might know where Clark was.

That was the last I heard of Claire’s story, and the last I thought about Clark and where he might have gone. When the bell above the door rang out, bright afternoon light and a hot breeze pushed into the diner. An older man stood at the door, his silhouette keeping his features hidden from us. We were back into the throes of the spring season’s summer-warm days, and the figure at the door held his jacket over his arm, as though he’d been walking a while. The bell rang again, as the door closed behind him. I’ve made a habit of giving a brief look to those that enter, and then immediately a quick check of the booths, their linen and silverware, and the counter. We were between the rush of late afternoon lunches and the dinner crowd. It was quiet for the time being. If he was alone, he could sit at the counter.

There was something familiar about the man, and my eyes went back to him. When his eyes found mine, he stepped forward, and the air in my lungs became hot like the outside breeze, and I coughed it out. I wanted to run. Run to the back where Clark had been, and then run out the door. It was my father.

“Donut?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Ms. Potts said from the grill. I heard the sound of metal on metal when she dropped her spatula. She was around to the counter and by my side a moment later, holding my arm.

“Gabby, girl, it’ll be fine,” she started to say, but I couldn’t hear more than the whisper of her words. My eyes were stuck on my Daddy. He was old. So old. The thick black hair I shared with him was almost all gray, and the perfect skin on his face was a mass of lines around his eyes and cheeks. He looked more than just old, he looked tired.

“Gabby. Please,” he pleaded, raising his hand, and took another step into the diner. Images of him pushing my hands away came to mind once again, and I shook my head.

“I don’t want you here!” I yelled. He stopped abruptly, and shuffled back a step, as though he’d bumped into a glass wall he couldn’t see.

“I’ll sit,” he started, and motioned a hand toward a booth, “I’ll just sit, and… and I’ll order something. Can I do that?” Ms. Potts let my arm go, and, without a word, she brought two cups over to the table nearest my Daddy, and poured coffee into each. The diner was so quiet. I kept my eyes on my Daddy, and listened to the sound of the coffee pouring.

Ms. Potts looked up at me once as she poured, but said nothing. She didn’t ask. She didn’t seek out an objection. Nothing. Two cups – she took two cups, and poured the coffee. Not a word. But that said everything to me. When she was done, she glanced back at me and motioned with her eyes to the booth.

I shrugged at him, and saw in his eyes the man I remembered when I was a little girl. They were the same eyes that held me after a tumble while learning to ride a two-wheeler. They were the same eyes that told me I’d be okay, and planted a kiss atop my head after a nightmare. It was my Daddy, and, for a moment, the pain and anger fell away. I moved to the booth, and Ms. Potts followed with an arm on mine. I heard her say again that it’d be okay… that I just needed to sit and listen.

My Daddy was seated by then, stirring creamer into his coffee. His eyes stayed on mine. I sat down across from him, and, at once, felt old. I wanted to be nine again. I wanted to be running to him and crying after having scraped my knee in a fall. But I couldn’t do that. Ten years had passed, and never once did I consider my age. Inside, I still felt like a teenager, the one who learned her way across the country.

Seeing my Daddy was like looking into a mirror. The reflection showed me that I was no longer the teenager who had run from home. I wasn’t walking the blacktop of sleeping roads while the sun struggled to stretch an arm over the mountains. I wasn’t that Gabby anymore. I wasn’t Donut.

“What do you want?” The words just spilled out of my mouth. It was all I could think to ask. He cupped his hands around his coffee, and placed it on the table.

“Look at you, Donut, look at how grown up you are,” he said in a lilting Texas accent. The sound of his voice and the sound of home in his words touched my heart with a guttural volley of emotions. My tongue had lost the sound of Texas some time ago during my journeys across the country. It may have been the travels on the back roads of Colorado, or the rain-soaked walks in Seattle. And, like everything else from Texas, I buried the memory of it.

“What do you want?” I repeated, and then scolded, “My name is Gabby! Just Gabby!” He winced when I said that. But could he have expected anything different? Should he have expected anything different? In my heart, Donut died in a motel room ten years earlier. I buried Donut and my baby, and the bloodied motel towels. I buried them in a field behind the motel, five miles north of the Texas border. The winds whipped tall grasses around my body while I cried and dug with my fingers. I clawed at the hard dirt and stone until the hole was deep enough, and then put the towels in the ground. I remember staring into the hole, staring at the towels and the blood. Donut laid in the ground, too, and I covered them up. I stayed on the ground next to them until the fading stars and reaching sunlight told me it was time to go; to leave this place and never come back. I told myself that Donut died so she could watch over my baby. She stayed there, and I never saw her again. Fury was what I felt next, and I thought I might pick up the hot coffee from the table and throw it in his face.

“I hated you. Did you know that?” I yelled, and didn’t care if the few in the diner heard me. My Daddy winced again, and raised his fingers to try to say something. I wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t listen. He put his hand down and said nothing. Words tripped on my tongue as I tried to say something mean and hateful. Rage stole my voice. Thousands of confused words raced around my head. They felt like hurtful bees, stinging my mind and feeding on my fury, spewing sour honey.

“Gabby, I am so sorry. I see that day at the demonstration in my head all the time, and wish I could do it over again. I wish I could have acted like your father, and not like that man you saw. I’m not that man anymore; haven’t been since the day you disappeared.” He explained, but then his expression changed. “Where did you go? How could you disappear? We thought you –” he stopped to catch a shaky breath. “Your momma and I thought you were dead. How could you let us think that? How?” More bee stings followed, and the sour honey poured into my mouth. I wanted to hurt him, but then I considered what he’d said, and thought of my momma. And then I heard Detective Ramiz’s voice. Be civil to your parents. Be civil.

“You don’t get to ask me that. You never get to ask me that!” I spat at him.

“But… but Gabby, your momma and I spent years looking. How could you let that happen?” Shock staved off the bee stings, as I realized my Daddy was angry, too. His Donut disappeared, and they thought she was dead. He might’ve even hated me for disappearing. But didn’t I want him to think that? Did I care what he thought?

My emotions twisted into a knot, and turned my insides. I sought out the faces of my family, Ms. Potts and Suzette. Their eyes were welcoming when they found mine. Suzette blinked an “I love you” while Ms. Potts nodded, and brought us over some more coffee. She didn’t say a word, just poured the coffee, and rested her hand on my shoulder before returning to the counter. The warm touch of her hand settled me and gave me strength.

“I had to leave – and I never wanted to see you or anyone from home, again.”

“Your friend Jessica told us everything. We saw her days after you disappeared. She told us that you didn’t go through with it. She said that you changed your mind and that the two of you were trying to leave, when…” he stopped then, and I thought it was because of my expression.

“Go ahead and finish it – say what happened next! I want to hear you say it!”

“… when you two were confronted by the demonstration,” he finished in a breath that was choked and tortured.

“They killed my baby, Daddy, they did it! Did you know that, too?” I screamed at him, and the swarm of bees stung me as the pain and hate poured from my eyes. The brief stoic expression my Daddy held disappeared in that moment, as he took in the realization of what had happened.

“No, no, no,” he mumbled, and shook his head. He fell apart and cried. We both cried, and, before I could stop it from happening, I reached for him. I reached for him like I did that day at the medical center, and this time he reached back. I hated myself for doing it, but I needed my Daddy. I fell into him and held him, and let myself love him.

The moment was brief, and when he was sitting across from me again, I told him, “This doesn’t change anything. I left home – had to leave home, and won’t be going back.”

“Tom Grudin was looking, too,” he started to say, and the image of Tommy came to mind. “He never knew about what happened.”

“Is that how you found me? Tommy’s parents?” I asked. A dull ache touched my heart when I saw images of Tommy and the baby chick. My father nodded, and added,

“His mother stopped in to tell us about her son and her trip to Delaware. She told us she didn’t recognize you. I never knew you and Tom Grudin were close. Not a couple, anyway.”

“Only one – ,” I told him, then breathed, “Just once.”

“I was sorry to hear he died. He was a hero, saved some lives, his mother told us.”

“Did you and Momma go to the service?” I’m not sure why I asked him that, but it seemed right for one of us to be there. I felt a pang of guilt thinking about Tommy. My Daddy nodded.

“You said you hated me. Does that mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

I considered his question. Ten years had passed, and every day since made the next day a little easier. I told myself I stayed away because I hated him, but wondered if I stayed away because it just got easier than thinking about going back.

“I don’t think I ever hated you, I hated who you were that day. But you’re my Daddy…” And then I couldn’t finish what I wanted to say. The emotions of it all knotted my insides until my words were gone again. He reached across the table, took my hands, and finished for me.

“Maybe we can be okay again one day. I know that isn’t today, and don’t know when that might be. I just couldn’t live with you hating me. I love you, Gabby. You’re my daughter, and there is nothing you can do that will ever change that.”

At some point, I think we both realized what had happened that day at the center. What had changed who we were, who we all were, wasn’t something we could make better in a conversation. After all, how do you fix, in a few words, something so terrible? I suppose the only thing he could do next was to tell me he loved me. And he did.