He looked around, took it all in. For months Aldine had walked across this room, carrying trays, touching the silverware that lay within his reach, talking to strangers, thinking . . . well, who knew what she was thinking. He rubbed hard at his forehead. It hurt him physically to remember her slender hands, the way they curved up at the fingertips like a hawk’s wings in flight.
Ansel sat down on one of the stools and opened the menu. Beef Steak Frascati. He’d watched Ernie cook so many of those he remembered it A to Z. Breaking an egg yolk on each tenderloin, sprinkling it with pickled capers, minced onions, parsley, and garlic salt. The rich taste of seared beef in a pool of Bordelaise, the way the salty capers spilled onto your tongue.
“Selmo!”
Gilbert Dorado walked out of the kitchen smiling hugely, his funny shock of black hair thinner but still flopping over one eyebrow, his short body with big feet pointing outward as he hurried close. “Selmo! Selmo! Selmo!” he said. “At last you’ve come for your cooking lesson! I’ll teach you everything I know!”
“Which is damned little, if I remember right.”
He’d stood, and was grinning, too, but when Gilbert extended his hand Ansel leaned back, smiling and appraising. “New mustache,” he said, softly knuckling his own upper lip, “and maybe a few new pounds”—he touched his own stomach—“down here.”
“No!” Gilbert said. “Not an ounce! Well, maybe an ounce. But not a pound! Certainly not a pound!”
The waitress with the 2 badge had again drawn close, as if waiting for an order, but taking everything in, too.
Ansel glanced vaguely toward the window and remarked on the drought.
“Drought, depression, wind, dust, death,” Gilbert said. He smiled and shook his head. “Maybe God doesn’t like us so much anymore.”
That thought lay in front of them for a moment, and then the waitress said, “He don’t care so much about a girl’s tips, I know that.”
Gilbert gave a small laugh and turned to Ansel. “So!” he said, changing subjects. “How is the beautiful Ellie?”
“She’s good,” Ansel said. “She’s opened a café out in California that’s doing just fine.”
“A café! Always the smart one, Ellie. It’s what I should do, but, no, it’s me and Fred Harvey till death do us part.”
Ansel laughed and felt the tickle in his throat.
“How many kids? Two?”
“Three,” Ansel said and gave Gilbert the quickest summary. The waitress standing nearby made him feel funny talking about his family, he wasn’t sure why. “So, Gilbert, did you ever talk somebody into marrying you?”
“Me? Nobody! Nobody thinks I’m a good bet! But I am a good bet!” He grinned at the waitress. “Tell my old friend Selmo, Glynis. Tell him that I’m a good bet!”
The waitress gave Gilbert a thin smile. “I’d rather not fib if you don’t mind.” She had a strangely husky voice, which, along with her searching eyes, gave her an exotic aspect, as if she could tell fortunes or read palms.
Gilbert grinned and shrugged. “Then bring my old friend Selmo some of your hot coffee, Glynis. And maybe an apple croquette.” He turned to Ansel. “Cook fried maybe a few too many and”—a wink—“we don’t want them lying around when Mrs. Gore comes in.”
Once the waitress was gone, Gilbert said, “So, Selmo. This is unexpected. A pleasure of course, but an unexpected one.”
Gilbert’s black eyes were curious, but unsuspicious. Ansel turned from them and regarded his own gnarled hands folded on the varnished wood countertop. “I’m going to check on the place,” he said, “but first I’m here for business.” He forced himself to look Gilbert in the eye. “Papers to sign at the bank, in front of a witness.”
Gilbert began shaking his head. “The bankers!” he said. “I’d like to line them all up in front of a wall and shoot them!” Glynis was strolling toward them with a coffee urn and a small plate of crispy croquettes. “Tell the man, Glynis. Tell him how I would line the bankers up in front of a wall and shoot them.”
To Ansel’s surprise, the waitress gave out with an actual laugh. “He even chose the wall,” she said.
“Yes! I showed it to this girl so she’d know how serious I am about the bankers!” He began heaping sugar into his coffee. “So, Mr. California. Did you bring us some of your fancy avocados? I think you promised us fancy avocados.”
“Wrong season,” he said. “Spring’s the best time for avocados.” He caught the waitress staring at him again. Maybe he looked ill. The Chinawoman on the train had herded her brood to the farthest corner of the car. But the waitress named Glynis merely said, “You’re from California, then?”
Ansel nodded. “For now, anyway.”
“Place called Fallbrook, right?” Gil asked.
The girl said in a slow voice, “My old roommate used to get letters from there.”
Ansel tried to keep his expression neutral. “From California, you mean?”
“No, from Fallbrook.” Glynis kept her eyes fixed on him. “A Scotch girl. Name of Aldine. You wouldn’t know her, would you?”
Ansel nodded at once, and said, “Yes, I do,” and took two sips of the boiling coffee before his throat felt wet enough for him to go on. “You a friend of Miss McKenna’s?”
“Mmm,” Glynis said, glancing at Gil, then back at Ansel. “Really close friends.”
Ansel looked at the girl, waiting for her to say more, but she said nothing more. The black coffee and rich croquette on an empty stomach were making him feel light-headed and queasy, but he sipped more just for something to do that wasn’t talking.
“But you got my letter, right, Selmo?” Gilbert said, smoothing his mustache and looking both concerned and confused. “You know she’s not here anymore.”
“I know,” Ansel said, determined to follow through. “I thought you might know where she went.” He didn’t know what to say. He wanted the waitress named Glynis either to tell him something or to go away, but she didn’t go away. “I feel—I feel responsible for her,” he said, and he knew that if his words didn’t give him away, the way he’d blurted them did. Still, this was what he’d come for. There was no going back. “She was in our house,” he said. “The school board couldn’t pay her and she had to come here. She had no money and nobody to look after her. It didn’t sit right with us.”
Half-truths to hide a bigger truth. He felt the shame beginning to rise within him again. He looked out the enormous windows of the restaurant, hoping to see where he should go next, but the windows faced the train tracks and the loading docks, the stained gray buildings that had become even shabbier since he left twenty years before.
Glynis said, “Is your name Selmo?”
Ansel turned, but already Gilbert was saying, “I just call him that. From Anselmo.” He set a knuckled hand to Ansel’s shoulder. “His name if he’d been luckier with his place of birth.”
“Anselmo?” Glynis said.
“Ansel,” Gilbert said. “That’s his sorry gringo name.”
Now the girl’s eyes were drilling into him. “Ansel,” she said. “Your name is Ansel?”