An Order of Coffee and Tears

7





A few weeks had gone by since experiencing my first actual snow storm. More than thirty inches of the white stuff was dumped on us. We took turns unburying the stoop and the sidewalk in front of the diner. A few of our regular customers even joined in and helped shovel during the storm, keeping our walkway clear by removing a few inches at a time. The snow was fluffier than I expected. It was feather-light, and didn’t pack together at all like some of the snow we had earlier in the year. I tried to make a snowball. I even tried to throw one in the street, only to see a confetti bomb of loose flurries explode from my closed hand.

The snow was so light that I played magic tricks with it. Waving my hand over the top of the snow, I could pull up a handful of flurries and have them chase my fingers before falling again. Someone mentioned it was a cold and dry snow, with very little moisture, so it stayed extra fluffy. It sounded funny, like something you’d order at a bakery. What I liked most was that shoveling wasn’t much of a chore, although I can’t say the rest of the city agrees. After all, thirty-plus inches of anything is bound to slow things a little. Or a lot.

In all, the storm shut down most of the greater Philadelphia area. Cars were buried – first by the drifting snow, and then after the streets were plowed. Busses, trains, and airplane flights were all cancelled. The winds that pushed the snow up into drifts also brought down phone lines and some power lines. At least five deaths were directly attributed to the storm. Two of those were an elderly husband and wife only three blocks from my apartment. Their house filled with a poisonous gas when a vent on their roof became blocked by snow and ice. The news reported that they went to sleep that evening, and never woke up.

Angela’s Diner was one of the few places that stayed open. We lost our phone lines for a day or so, but we never lost power. Clark said the grill ran on gas, anyway. He said he’d cook up whatever was in the fridge, and then leave it outside. I thought that was clever. According to the thermometer, temperatures were still hovering around twenty, which was already colder than any refrigerator we had.

The Irish Pub across from us stayed open, too. I’d seen a few comings and goings as I passed by in a walk to the diner from my apartment. And, as usual, some of their regulars were swaying, and some were falling, and most had overstayed their welcome. Fortunately for us, those stumbling had made their way home to their own beds, and didn’t stop in for a bite at the diner. A part of me was happy to see that the fast-food restaurant was shut-down by the storm. And it wasn’t just closed during the snowfall, it remained closed for the better part of three days. Angela’s saw more new faces during those three days than we’d seen in the previous two weeks.

One of the faces I’d not seen back at the diner was the detective’s; not that I’d care to see his face, anyway. He’d come in to bid his warnings to Ms. Potts and Clark, and then left. He said one case, just a single case of his remained open and unsolved. Days passed, and I wondered how it could be that the detective’s single case involved two of the most caring and loving people I’d ever come to know.

A few times, I caught myself wanting to ask about Detective Ramiz. I was a breath away, once – I’d had my hand up with a question on my tongue, as though I were back in grade school. Ms. Potts walked from the back and stopped where she stood. She fixed me a look as if ready to answer a question she hadn’t heard yet. She was like that – she could read me, especially when there was something on my mind. But I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if it was because I didn’t want to think any differently about my new family, or because I knew that, if I opened the book on their past, then maybe I’d obligate myself to opening the book on my own. I wasn’t ready to do that. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. I shrugged away the pending questions, and Ms. Potts lifted her chin in a quick nod before continuing on with her work.

By the time some measure of normalcy had become more a part of our every day, the snows had receded like the flood waters I remember seeing as a kid. Gone were the large drifts that swallowed the smaller cars. Gone were the lawn chairs from the streets and curb that folks used to claim a parking spot as their own. Some interesting fights grew out of that practice.

What were left were street-length rolls of blackened snow hugging the curbs, along with mountains of plowed storm remains in the supermarket parking lots. The only white snow that could be seen anywhere was the square patches of lawn that sat in front of row-homes and a few businesses. Angela’s Diner didn’t have a lawn to call its own, so I adopted the one in the front of my apartment: Ms. Potts’ house. But that, too, began to shrink as the weather warmed. And, by the time we entered into March, the edges of the snow melted to reveal the grasses that lay sleeping, waiting for spring to arrive. By then, I was itching for spring, too. I think we all were.

I jumped when I heard the shattering of glass on the diner’s floor. The tumbling pieces of reminded me of the coffee pot and Detective Ramiz. Thoughts of pending spring weather disappeared as images of a dark figure in a fedora entered my mind. I could see Clark kneeling, and Ms. Potts standing at the booth, their expressions tortured and afraid.

“Sorry about that, Gabby,” I heard, and saw Jarod Patreu, an ‘oops’ expression on his face, and an empty light bulb box in his hand.

“Shame, it was new, too,” I answered back, smiling.

“Slipped right out of the box. Last one, of course. Gonna have to go pick up more on my run to the hardware store.”

“Jarod Patreu – what’d ya do now?” Ms. Potts exclaimed from behind me. “We pay you to fix what we can’t fix. We ain’t paying you to break things, too,” she complained, but I could hear the playfulness in her voice. She was fond of Jarod, and was having fun with him.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Potts. Bulb slipped, just slipped right out of the box. I’ll replace it,” he answered, his voice sounded disappointed. I started to feel bad for him: Ms. Potts was teasing, and he had no idea.

Ms. Potts walked around front with the broom in one hand, and passed me the dust pan. She was smiling by now, and said, “Baby, you ain’t gotta buy nothing. Heck, Gabby, here, dropped more dishes her first month than you done broke anything in all the years you been helping.”

“How did I get dragged into this?” I jokingly complained, but knew I was only playing a supporting role in the conversation.

Shallow relief settled on Jarod’s face as he stepped down off the chair. “You must have broke a lot of things, huh?” he said, smiling, and then added, “thank you, Ms. Potts. I’ve got to pick up a few more things tonight, anyway.”

When we finished cleaning up the broken bulb, Jarod gathered some loose tools he’d brought out, and tucked them away in the yellowing tool bag he wore around his waist. Watching him, I had a memory of home and my parent’s garage. A workbench lined the far wall, black drawers, and a wood top. A back board stood behind the bench with pegs sticking out to hang tools on. Growing up, I learned how to fix things; a lot of things. That sounds odd for a girl, but I enjoyed it. And I was good at it.

“You carry a lot of tools with you. Heavy?” I asked, as Jarod tucked a screwdriver away. He gave me a half-smile, then shuffled his feet before answering,

“Yeah, a little. Need to have a variety, and all – time to time, stores need something different… that is, I’ve gotta lot of places to manage,” he answered in a shy voice with sweet eyes. Until now, I hadn’t really noticed his eyes. But, standing closer to him and talking a little about nothing at all, I realized I liked his eyes.

Taller than me and a few years older, Jarod was the diner’s handyman. With unkempt brown hair that hung over his ears, and stray locks that fell in front of his eyes, I liked the messiness of his hair. Ms. Potts liked his hair, too – she’d poke fun some nights after he’d left the diner, motioning a whoosh of her hand to mimic him throwing back his thick bangs from in front of his eyes. While she might have liked his hair, she loved his dimples. Don’t you just wanna pinch 'em cheeks, eat 'em up? she’d squeal, and clap her hands, laughing.

Jarod showed up once a week. You could set your clock by him. He was never late, never missed a date. He always came once a week on Thursdays. He’d spend the afternoon fixing whatever needed fixing, and, when our list of to-do work was short, or when we had no list at all, which sometimes happened, he’d fall back on a list of his own. He called it his preventative maintenance list, and, with it, he’d work from corner to corner, and front to back. Angela’s Diner was just one of a dozen of his regular customers. He tended to all the stores on Park Street, and even a few on neighboring avenues.

“Gotta run to the hardware store,” he began, and lifted the empty light bulb box, “So, umm, I’ll see you when I get back?” he finished, raising his brow, as though asking.

“Well, duh,” I joked, and flipped up my waist apron. “I work here. Tell you what, when you get back. I’ll fix you a late lunch, early dinner. A man’s gotta eat, right?”

Jarod’s eyes grew, and his dimples appeared on his cheeks out of nowhere, like a magic trick, “Sure – I’d like that.” I offered a warm expression; not waitressy, but instead, just me. Walking him to the door, I couldn’t help but wonder if he liked my eyes too. When he was gone, Ms. Potts was waiting like a cat, ready to pounce on its prey.

“Mmmm-hmmm, you’re gonna fix my Jarod something? Girl, you like that boy, don’t you? You do, don’t you?” she said, letting out a small laugh. At first I thought she was joking. But then I considered my offer to fix him a meal, and thought of his eyes. Confused feelings stirred in me. I mean, I liked Jarod, but he was Jarod. Did I like him in that way? Years, I heard in my head. Not weeks, or months, but years. I hadn’t looked at anyone, or considered anyone, in years.

“Uhhh, no. Don’t get me wrong, Jarod is cute, but I was only being polite,” I answered cautiously. But hearing the sound of my voice, I wondered if Ms. Potts knew I was lying.

“Gabby, you know that boy likes you. As far I can see, he’s liked you the better half of the year. Didn’t you see the red warming up his cheeks when you was talking to him? So, you got nothing for him?” she asked, sounding disappointed. Heat crept up on my neck, and embarrassment settled deep inside. Grabbing a towel, I took to the counter, and wiped what didn’t need wiping. Ms. Potts joined in, and also wiped what didn’t need wiping. An unexpected rush of emotion squeezed my insides. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, and tried to keep my eyes to the counter in front of me.

Finally, I mumbled, “I haven’t looked at a boy like that in a long time.” And, suddenly, I felt terribly sad and unimportant. I stopped wiping the counter. I had to. Ms. Potts came around the counter to face me.

“Girl, it’s okay. Just thought you keeping company with someone your own age might be a good thing. Might be good for you,” she answered, and then added, “The boy does like you, though,” she finished with a whispered cheer to my ear. My heart thumped, and a warm feeling followed. The thought of a boy liking me wasn’t unknown or alien, it was just something I’d forgotten about until now. Ms. Potts nudged my arm. She nudged it again and again until I broke a smile and nudged her arm back. “Jarod got eyes for you, Gabby-girl… Jarod got eyes…” she sang to me with soft words.

“Do you think so?” I said, delighted. “Really?” I wondered if it was so, and then giggled at the thought, and at the song. We spent the next fifteen minutes talking about boys. Talking like two teenage girls would talk. And we even talked a little more about Jarod, and his dimples, and that hair. Before I knew it, I felt somewhat comfortable – maybe even a little normal.