An Order of Coffee and Tears

8





It was my turn to work the newspaper’s crossword puzzle. Mondays are a slow day at Angela’s. They have been every week that I’ve worked at the diner. Just why that is… well, that’s anyone’s guess. As for the crossword, I penciled in a word, and then a second and third. And then, I found the first word was wrong. Annoyance gripped my hand when I found the pencil’s eraser had been chewed off. Gross. I’m partial to word-searches and pencil-mazes, anyway.

The tick and clack of a bug bumping against the front window pulled my eyes. A blur of black and iridescence bumped the glass a few more times before deciding to move on. It was the first bug of the spring season, and it was a big one. I kept to my seat. Most of the Philadelphia winter had melted away. My first major snow storm was just a fading memory. And, like most, I was looking forward to seeing little green spring buds on the trees, and dandelions interrupt the emerging patches of grass.

By now, the snow was gone from the lawns, and the grass was already starting to come alive with brighter colors that seemed to glow in the orange light of the setting sun. A few plowed mounds of winter snow remained in the supermarket parking lots. Eclipsed with black soot from the pollution of passing cars and trucks, they were more an eyesore than playful snowy reminders. But these, too, were shrinking, and I think the entire Philadelphia area was happy with that.

The mercury in the thermometer outside our door was stretching its silvery finger for the top lines. The silver reached past more lines from day to day. And folks passing by the diner were beginning to wear less. One day, the wool hats and thick scarves were gone. Soon after that, the gloves and mittens were off their hands, and their heavier winter coats were put away for the year. Even the teenagers passing the diner were donning lighter jackets. Teenagers and business-types, and an occasional elderly couple passed by Angela’s Diner with the same smiles and focused eyes eating up the warming sunlight. Springtime was on the way.

I saw Mr. Thurmon’s car pull up in front of the diner. He pushed his arms around the steering wheel, and parallel parked in one move. It was impressive and swift. Down in Texas, Mr. Thurmon wouldn’t have to parallel park. There is more of everything, and everything is bigger. I snickered at the thought, and wished to share the joke, but I was working alone this afternoon. Ms. Potts had a doctor’s appointment, and scheduled it weeks ago; we all scheduled appointments and such on Mondays, when the diner was at its slowest. There was Clark and me, and, for the most part, empty booths, counters, and lonely stool tops.

Mr. Thurmon was slow to get out of his car. I watched as he struggled to open the car door. He heaved a push until it was open, and, when he was ready, he swung his legs out and firmed his grip to help pull himself up. When he was standing, his face cramped and swelled to a red shine. He was trying to push the pain away. It was his arthritis. From the history Ms. Potts shared, Mr. Thurmon was following a course that ultimately took his mother.

As the pain passed, an odd expression remained on his face. It wasn’t success, or the triumph of standing, or even pride from having accomplished something. It was sorrow and vulnerability. And I think I understood what he might be feeling – it made me sad when I considered it. From this point forward, every day, that day, was going to be his best day for the rest of his life. Today, as he struggled with living with the pain in his body, today was going to be as good as he was ever going to feel. Today was his best day. Tomorrow, it would get worse, and the day after that, even worse. I jumped when a rush of wind blew up behind Mr. Thurmon as a truck passed within a few inches of hitting him. He jumped, too, and the rush of the truck cleared his expression to one of awe and shock. Today might have been the best day of the rest of his life, but it was also close to being his last.

While the diner was home to Clark, Ms. Potts, and me, I didn’t want to see it sold. I understood why Mr. Thurmon would want to let it go, though. I don’t think any of us would have done differently. When Mr. Thurmon saw me through the window, he waved and pushed a smile onto his face. The crossword would wait; I was happy to get the door for him. Lasting for just a moment, the sound of cars and people and birds invaded the quiet of the diner. The smell of spring followed Mr. Thurmon, as the bell echoed above our heads. Almost on cue, Clark popped out from the back, and took to his station behind the grill.

“Afternoon, M-Mr. Thurmon,” Clark said, and motioned a wave with his spatula, as if saluting.

“How goes it, there, Clark? Cooking up a storm?” Mr. Thurmon asked, his voice fading, as he glanced around to the empty corners of the diner, and then back to the clean counters. He looked in my direction, his face a bit pinched with disappointment. “Anything today? Anything at all?”

“I saw a few tickets come in this morning, but nothing since Clark and I have been on,” I answered with a shrug of my shoulders. I hated having to tell him we opened this afternoon empty, and had stayed empty since.

As he walked around the counter to the cash register, there was a slow drag in his step; a stutter. Had it been there before, or had it just developed? I could see the tip of his right shoe catching some of the floor. Mr. Thurmon wore his lawyerly best, and looked handsome. I could imagine him twenty years younger – very handsome, indeed. His shoes, especially the right, bore scuff marks from the shoe tips and across the faces. Just how long has he had the arthritis? Maybe he felt something was wrong with him, but was quick to dismiss it. Maybe he pushed off any visits to the doctor’s office in favor of working. Or maybe he knew all along what was wrong, and that there was little to be done about it. He intentionally pushed the inevitable.

From the cash register, he gave an apologetic look, as if it were his fault the diner remained empty. As he stood there, arranging the register’s drawer, he flinched and pulled his hand up. He made a fist, then shook his fingers down at the ground. The same cramped expression showed briefly on his face before passing. My heart gushed, and I wanted to hug him and tell him how sorry I was that this was happening to him. I didn’t know his mother, but I did know him, and he was one of our family, too. I thought of him as our goofy uncle, the one who visits unexpectedly, and gets everyone riled up and laughing before disappearing until his next visit.

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t expect much different on a Monday. The day has never been a particularly good day,” he explained in a matter-of-fact way, and then asked, “Gabby, you alright?” The question was a surprise, and I wondered if I was just staring. I sometimes did that, not on purpose.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Thurmon. I’m fine, just a little tired, is all. Been cleaning, you know, time to lean, time to clean,” I answered back, and offered a grin that I hoped didn’t look as goofy as it sounded.

“Okay, then. No need to tire yourself,” he began, and gave the diner a once over with his eyes, “Does look good and clean enough to eat off of.”

“C-Can I fix you something, a q-quick meal?” Clark offered from behind the grill.

Mr. Thurmon paused, as if considering when he last ate, and looked at his watch to maybe confirm it.

“Ya know, Clark, yes. I think I’ll do just that. Thank you. How about a grilled cheese and some fries? And I’ll get my own coffee. And, Gabby, you have a customer,” he finished, and motioned to the door.

What I saw next was like something that had walked clear off the front of a magazine cover. A beautiful woman entered our little diner, wearing an emerald green evening gown. A glamorous figure with white skin and red hair draping around her shoulders with piercing green eyes that matched her gown, the woman looked stunning. I had to admit to being glad it was any day other than Thursday, and that Jarod was somewhere else – anywhere else.

Insecurity tugged at me, and I pulled my hands around my collar and waist apron, and tried to tidy my outfit. Next, my hands were in my hair, pushing back what might’ve strayed. I felt uncomfortable and frumpy standing in the same room with someone so lovely and radiant. It was a struggle to stay where I was. I wanted to go to the back, but Ms. Potts wasn’t here. Shuffling my feet, I watched and waited for the magazine cover in front of me to realize she’d entered the wrong building.

The woman seemed to float across the floor, her green dress hovering just above her feet, as glimpses of expensive heels peeked from beneath. A pearl necklace hung around the nape of her neck, their colors and sheen reminding me of the early spring clouds pushing out the winter. A foot in high heels appeared briefly through the dress’ slit, her shoes gave her a few inches of height, and were adorned in tiny gemstones, which reflected all the light in the diner.

Mr. Thurmon and Clark were both stopped, and standing in fixed poses – their eyes wide, mouths open. At some point, I began to wonder what in the world a magazine cover was doing in Angela’s Diner. But then the magazine cover was approaching me. She was looking at me. Lips the same shade of red as her hair filled my view, as the woman leaned in and kissed my cheek. Smells of herbal shampoos, and perfume, and expensive bath soaps filled my nose. She smelled as beautiful as she looked. And I thought I must smell as frumpy as I looked.

“You believe this looker, here? A real stunner. Mmmm!” I heard a shout from behind the magazine cover. It was Ms. Potts’ voice. Stepping back from the woman, I peered around the emerald green evening gown to find Ms. Potts standing behind her. Shaking her head, she eyed the magazine cover up and down, and repeated, “A real stunner, Suzette. You cleaned up good. Real good!” It was Suzette, and, yes, as Ms. Potts stated, she cleaned up good, real good.

“Gabby, do I look that different? I mean, I’ve got some make-up on, and had my hair done. I wanted to stop in and see you guys,” Suzette’s voice sang out in a surprise. And, as I looked at my friend, I found my eyes wandering to study different places. You know the ones. The place where there was a deep cut on her lip. And the place above her cheek that swelled and had blackened her eye. But they were clear. In fact, there was nothing there at all. Even the flower-petal bruises on her arm had disappeared. Like the winter storm, they were just a memory.

I’d seen enough by now to know that the bruises and the cuts healed, but the damage done was deeper. It was rooted in a place that make-up and heels and a nice dress couldn’t cover up. Suzette was my friend, though, and I was happy that she was happy. She was beautiful; a stunner, as Ms. Potts said a few more times.

“Oh my gosh, Suzette, you look amazing! We almost didn’t recognize you walking in here and looking like that. Did we?” I complimented, and turned to Clark and Mr. Thurmon. They continued to stand statuesque, their mouths agape, and shaking an agreeable no to my question. I looked for the drool to slip from their mouths, but it didn’t.

“Okay, boys, you can close your yaps, now.”

Mr. Thurmon blinked a comical flurry of his eyes, and giggled. “You look very beautiful. Special occasion?” he asked.

“We’re going to a dinner party – a celebration. And then later, I have some news. It’s a surprise for him,” she gleamed. “He is going to be so happy!”

Suzette twirled around for the men, smiling with an elegance that was so very fitting for her. There was a glow and confidence that made me happy to see it. She deserved a night to be a queen, a night to be waited and doted on. I was happy for her. We all were.





Suzette was back in the diner later that evening. I’d hoped I wouldn’t see her again. Not tonight, anyway. I think we all hoped we wouldn’t see her again. I’d hoped that the night she told us about would be hers. A fresh memory, a good memory. A memory that she could draw on when she needed to smile. That is what I had hoped for her. But that wasn’t what happened.

When Suzette entered the diner that evening, her hair was a twisted mess. Some of it had been pulled and ripped out. Just above her left ear, a large patch of her hair was missing. The color of her scalp stood out bright against the red of her hair, and was covered with dots of blood that had bubbled and dried. She repeatedly tried to cover her exposed head with some of her longer hair, but, after a minute, it would fall back into place.

The cloudy pearls that draped across her neckline were gone. The elegance and beauty of Suzette’s dress was lost. The ripped and torn green fabric from below her neck line hinted to us the dress’ secrets of what had happened. From the top of her shoulder and down her left arm, a long patch of her skin was scraped away. Some of her skin remained torn open and bleeding. Blood traveled down, and dripped from her elbow, leaving crimson spots around her feet. It was a huge rash of scratches. Tiny stones sat embedded in her skin, with blood pushing around them. Some of the torn skin was beginning to weep a clear wetness, and scab over.

Suzette wasn’t crying, or telling us that it was her fault. Suzette didn’t say much of anything, at all. I think it was the silence that scared me. We’d seen her beaten before, far worse than this, in fact. But always, she talked to us, and let us talk to her. Her hand trembled, and her fingers felt like ice. It was cold outside, and she had nothing on but her ruined evening gown. I wondered how far she’d walked. She was just a pale version of the beautiful magazine cover that’d earlier come in to say hello. Her lips were a gray shade of blue, and it was then that I noticed how pale she actually was. While her skin was fair, Suzette looked pallid, almost ashen, with an empty stare in her eyes.

“Suzette, girl… can you tell us what happened to you?” Ms. Potts asked in a concerned voice. With a small towel and clean water, I started to wash the blood and what I thought might be road gravel from her shoulder.

“Suzette, are you hurt anywhere else?” Ms. Potts asked again, sounding like one of those shows on television with the emergency room doctors asking twenty questions. “Girl’s hurtin´ the way no woman should hurt,” Ms. Potts mumbled as she worked her way around Suzette.

When Suzette lifted her chin to look at us, a broken, thin voice escaped her lips, “I think my baby is dead,” was all she said, and then moved her eyes in a blank stare to the floor,

Both Ms. Potts and I looked down. We didn’t see anything, except the blood from her arm. When Ms. Potts pulled up on Suzette’s emerald green dress, we saw that Suzette was standing in a tiny puddle of blood. Thin lines of bright red cut through the white of her long legs. A new line of blood ran from the insides of her thigh, and then covered the gemstones of her right shoe. Another line formed, and ran past my fingers. It covered the top of her other shoe, washing out more of the gemstones with her blood. We wasted no time. I yelled to Clark to call for an ambulance. Suzette saw the blood, too, and began to tremble all over. From her head to legs, she shook, and grabbed at her middle.

“Girl’s in shock,” Ms. Potts said as we took hold of Suzette’s arms, expecting her to faint. But she didn’t.

“My baby,” she murmured, and then began to scream. She continued to scream until the ambulance arrived. By then, Suzette lost any of the remaining strength she’d used to get to Angela’s Diner, and collapsed.

A day later, we learned through some of our regulars that the official report from the hospital named a Suzette Wilkerson as having sustained injury after falling down a set of steps. Of her injuries, none were life-threatening. In addition, Suzette Wilkerson suffered a miscarriage; she was three months pregnant.

Ms. Potts and I looked at each other, and considered what the report said. Could she have fallen? Certainly a fall down some steps could cause a miscarriage. But, if she had fallen, then why did she come to the diner? Why didn’t her husband rush her to the hospital? And her hair, what had happened to her hair? The debate lasted just a minute. We looked at each other. Although we didn’t know exactly (we’d learn that later), we knew her injuries were by the hand of her husband.

We didn’t see Suzette again for almost a month. By then, she was well enough to stop in for coffee. A few injuries remained, some puffiness and scratches and bruises, but nothing we weren’t already familiar with. She pulled and pinned her hair over to one side in way that anyone who didn’t see her that night wouldn’t know that she was hiding a shallow patch of new hair trying to grow in. All of us greeted her at the door. Even Clark came around front and gave her a peck on the cheek, and a big hug. The three of us stood there with Suzette, and we circled around the same comments about leaving him that had been said a hundred times before. Suzette started nodding her head. She nodded, and then said I know, I know, at least a half dozen times. As we continued to spout more of the same, she finally hollered a stern I know, and then followed it with a quick smile. She was ready.

Unlike other times, she didn’t defend her husband. She didn’t stick up for him, or justify what he’d done. If anything, she sounded cold, maybe callous. She was different. It was easy to understand why. Who wouldn’t understand that? She was different because the life she was carrying inside her for more than three months was gone. A new kind of pain was in her eyes. It was loss. She made a decision that night. She was ready.





It was a fairy-tale evening. We were witnesses to the start of it, and to the end of it. Suzette and husband were the handsome couple at the party. It was a high-society invitation-only gathering of some of Philadelphia’s most influential people. Suzette’s husband, Jim, had been made partner at his law firm earlier that week. This was a celebration for him.

The celebration with her husband felt fresh and new, like it had when they first met. Jim was a gentleman, attentive, touchy, and loving. He wanted to dance with his wife, and he told her how much he loved to hold her. The evening took Suzette back to when the two of them were first falling in love; when it was simple and easy, and when a kiss from him carried her heart for the evening, and sometimes into the next day. He showed a side of him that she remembered falling in love with. They were twenty stories up in the sky, looking out across the Philadelphia skyline, when he held her and told her he loved her. She wanted to get him home and into bed to make love to him all night, the way they used to.

Driving home, she’d saved the biggest news of the evening for her husband. She waited until they were alone, when it could be more intimate, and so that they could remember the moment for the rest of their lives. They were driving down Frankford Avenue, and had just crossed over Pennypack Park. Suzette unbuckled her seat belt, leaned over the car’s center console, and whispered in his ear that she loved him. When he smiled, she leaned in closer, and pressed her lips against him with a kiss. She whispered that he was going to be a father. His smile disappeared. His expression went flat, and then his face erupted. He shoved the car’s brake pedal to the floor, throwing Suzette into the dashboard, and the windshield, which spidered a web of cracks that stretched and bulged.

Dazed, Suzette pushed and pulled her body down, and fell back into the passenger seat. Her ears were ringing, and her vision blurred. She could make out her husband’s voice, and his screaming amidst the low hum stinging inside her head. He was screaming that she’d done this on purpose, that she’d gotten pregnant just when she knew he’d been made partner. But, of course, none of this was true. Suzette couldn’t have known about his promotion – not three months ago.





“When he took hold of my hair, and pulled, I knew.”

“Knew what?” Ms. Potts asked.

“I knew it was over. I knew that I had to leave him. He pulled my head down, and punched, and kicked me!” she hollered, as tears filled her eyes and ran down her face. “I mean, who does that? Who punches their pregnant wife?” She’d told us almost everything, but reliving it was a lot for anyone. All of us stayed huddled at the counter as Suzette recounted what happened that night. Even Clark joined to listen.”

“Ma-Ma’am, your hus-husband, he know where you are?”

Suzette shook her head. She wiped at a tear in her eye, and shook her head again. “He thinks I am visiting my family out west. I told him that I needed time, and that I’d call when I call. He was so mad, he’s still mad, and trying to blame me…” she stopped as an errant sob caught her breath.

“I wish I could smoke in here,” she revealed, and laughed. “Boy, that’d set him off.” Suzette then became very still, and narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what he did? That son-of-a-bitch, do you?” she spat out. “When I saw my hair in his hand, I knew he was going to hurt me some more. He was going to hurt my baby. Our baby. I knew it, and I knew I had to run. When he wasn’t looking, just for a second, I threw a punch and landed my hand on his face as best I could. I’m not strong, but I caught him off guard. I pulled up on the car’s door handle, but it was locked. I bloodied his nose. I bloodied it good, and thought that maybe it was broken. And then he got so loud, he was screaming at me, and spitting blood from his lips. When I got the door unlocked, I pushed and got the door open, and then got my feet under me, and… and he hit the gas. My hand was still on the door! The car pulled me straight up into the air,” her voice faded, and sounded breathy. Ms. Potts motioned for some water, and I eagerly set up a glass in front of Suzette.

After she sipped at the glass, she nodded, and then continued, “And you want to know what I thought about when my body was flying through the air? I remember this as clear as this glass of water in my hands. I thought about having a husband that I’d give my life for, and for our new baby that I was carrying inside of me. I thought that our child was going to solve us, cure us, and finally make us whole. But, you know what? You can’t cure a man like that. You can’t cure someone who’s broken deep down. That’s what I thought about while I was flying through the air,” she stopped and thumbed the glass of water, pushing the sweat that beaded up on the outside.

“I landed so hard on my shoulder… so hard. And my baby,” she paused, and reached down with her hand over her belly. “My baby landed so hard, too. I can still smell the tires, the burning rubber. He was racing away like a f*cking coward,” she stopped talking, then and sat there with the glass of water, as we did our best to console her. When we tried to offer some words to her, or food, or anything, Suzette waved them off, and only asked if she could sit with us for a while. She stayed with us the rest of our shift.