11 minute read
HOME by Malcolm Glass
WELL DONE! Fiction
HOME by Malcolm Glass
Richard squinted in the glare of fluorescent light bouncing off the stainless steel and white of the diner as the heavy glass door shut behind him. The usual crowd of students had headed for home on Thanksgiving break, and the diner was empty. He shrugged off the overcoat and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt away from his face. Sitting at the counter, he folded the coat and set it on the stool next to him. It was more than fifty years old.
#
“I don't wear this no more, son. Never did much. Maybe of a Sunday, “
Grandpop had said. “Here. You take it with you to school. It gets cold up there.”
“Thanks, Pop. I’ll take good care of it.”
#
The double doors to the kitchen swung open with a bang. “Hey, Monk. I didn't hear you come in,” Louise said as she walked over to the grill. “How you been?”
“Okay, I guess,” he said.
“You guess?”
“I’ve been studying hard. They always give you tests right before a holiday so you won't cut class.”
“Yeah. It sure got quiet in here about five. You leaving tomorrow?”
“No, I'm staying in the dorm over break.”
“Should be nice and quiet around here. Bad for business, though.” She turned to the refrigerator behind her.
“It's a long way from Knoxville to Orlando,” he said.
“Never been there,” she said over her shoulder.
“I hate riding trains anyway.”
“Me, too,” she said. She pulled out a pack of hamburger meat and dropped it next to the grill with a thump. “Can't never sleep on a train.”
“Besides, it's only me and Aunt Thelma and Uncle Frank now, and she's got her hands full taking care of him after his stroke.”
“Aww, that's too bad. Poor thing.”
“She never made much of a fuss over Thanksgiving anyway,” he said.
Louise set a glass of ice water on the counter. “What'll it be, Monk?” She called him Monk because he wore his hooded sweatshirt pulled around his face. “Your usual?”
Richard nodded.
“Coming up.” She pounded out a patty and slapped it on the grill, pressing it down with a spatula, filling the diner with a crackling sizzle. He took a deep breath and settled into that sound, and the oily smell of the fries. He felt calm for the first time in days.
He reached into the inner pocket of the overcoat and pulled out the folded term paper and started to open it but set it down on the counter. He watched Louise working at the grill. He liked her look of strength, narrow in the hips and broad in the shoulders. She loved joshing around with the students at Drummond's Diner, and she was good at listening to everyone's troubles. She shook the fries basket and dumped a huge pile on a plate. He thought of his Gramma’s fries. She cut them thin so they’d be crisp.
#
“It's all I can do, son,” Grandpop had said. “I can't look after you like I have been, now that I'm cooped up in here.” He patted Richard's shoulder. “But you're going off to school, so you'll have a place to stay. I hate to, but I've got to sell the place.”
“I hate it, too, Grandpop. It's our home.” Richard had felt the tears starting.
“It's all right, boy. Had to happen sometime. At least this way I can help you some with school.”
Richard had turned away, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He turned back. “I'll work hard, for you Grandpop. I'll make straight A's for you.”
“Do it for yourself, son. Make a life for yourself.”
#
“You got a lot of family in Florida?” Louise asked.
“No. It's my aunt and uncle and me and Grandpop. He moved to a retirement place when I started school, so I stay with Thelma and Frank when I'm down there. Grandpop still takes care of me, too. With school. And this.” He patted the overcoat. “He gave me his old coat.”
“That's sweet of him. I'm glad you still have folks looking out for you. Sounds like real good people. Let me get you some fresh tomato and lettuce,” she said as she went through the doors into the kitchen.
He had wanted to tell Louise about his parents, but he didn't want her to feel sorry for him. And he didn't want to bring up sadness on a holiday. They were both killed in a car accident when he was two. He had very few memories of them, only bits and flashes, like riding in the shopping cart with his mother in a grocery store. And his father at the wheel of that old Plymouth, smoking and gesturing with his hands. One time, Grandpop had taken him and his parents to Sunday dinner at a restaurant in an old house by the railroad tracks. In his mind he could still see the thick, red goblets on the white tablecloth. When he asked Grandpop about it, he said he wasn't sure where the place was. Grandpop didn't like to talk about Richard's parents. He'd shake his head and say how tragic it was, his daughter and her new husband gone, just like that.
“Where you at, boy?” Louise set his plate down and laid a fork and knife on a napkin.
“Right here.” Richard looked up and smiled.
“You look like you're lost in a brown study.”
“Guess I was.” He bit into the burger and watched the drops of mustard and grease hit the worn plate. While he ate, Louise busied herself cleaning up, wiping down everything and setting chairs up-side-down on the tables.
“You need a warm up,” she said as she grabbed the coffee pot and rounded the end of the counter.
“Oh, thanks.” He picked up the folded paper and started to look through it while he drank his coffee.
Louise put the pot back on the burner. “So how'd you do?” she said.
“On this? Not so good. C minus. And it's bleeding pretty bad.”
“What?”
“His marks and comments.” He flipped the paper open and showed her a couple of pages with red marks.
“Oh, you'll get better, I'm sure.”
“Hope so.”
“That's how you learn, ain't it? From mistakes. That's how I've learned. All my life, I reckon.”
Richard tucked the paper back in the inner pocket. The door banged open behind him and an older man hugging a bottle in his gray carcoat stumbled toward the counter. He stood teetering several stools down from Richard.
“Louise,” he mumbled.
“Henry. Ain't you a mess. You need to get on home.”
“Now Louise, don't be like that. I'm fine. Just need some coffee.”
“You ain't fine at all. I've never seen you so bad off. I told you. Don't be coming in here like this.”
Richard stared at his plate, then glanced over at them. The man's hair was a rat's nest, and a heavy smell of alcohol hung around him.
The man reached across the counter towards her. “Louise,” he pleaded.
“You need to leave, Henry. I bet Sue is worried sick.”
“No she ain't. She's off at the movies. Where is my coffee, damn it!”
“No swearing. And no coffee tonight.”
“No coffee? What's the matter with you? You always give me coffee to come out of it.”
“How much have you had to drink?” she asked.
The man stood up straighter and scratched at his scraggly beard. He pulled out a fifth of whiskey. “I've still got all this left.”
“No,” Louise said. “Get out of here with that.”
The man staggered backwards a couple of steps and started to unscrew the cap.
“I said . . . get out!”
Richard stood up and started to move toward him.
The man waved the bottle at Richard. “Who the hell you think you are, kid?”
“It's okay, Monk. Let me handle this.”
The man waved the bottle at Louise.
“I don't want to call the police now,” she said.
“Call 'em!” he yelled. He threw the bottle down, sending glass shards and liquor across the floor.
Richard jumped up. “Hey! That's enough!”
He grabbed the man's arms. The man fell forward, and he broke into sobs as his head fell on Richard's shoulder. Louise came up behind the man and pulled him back.
“Louise,” he wailed. “You’re my friend. Help me.” He looked up at Richard. “I'm sorry, son.”
“I'll call Sue to come get you,” Louise said.
“No, no, no, no.” Henry lowered his head. “Please don't. She'll yell at me.”
They helped him to a nearby table, settled him into a chair. He put his hands on the edge, staring down as though he wasn't sure where he was. Richard sat down next to him.
Louise went behind the counter, poured two mugs of coffee, and brought it to them. She picked up the phone by the cash register, and, dragging the long cord, went into the kitchen. Henry sipped at the coffee and sat up straighter.
Richard poured some sugar and cream, and the clinking of the spoon filled the diner. He took a deep breath. “Good coffee,” he said. Henry looked at Richard and nodded slowly.
Louise came back, sat down and patted Henry's hand.
“Martin,” Henry said, and he started to cry again.
Louise looked over at Richard. “His son. It was a long time ago, but . . .”
Henry grabbed her hand and looked around the diner. “Oh, God, Louise. I'm so sorry. Let me help clean this up.”
“No. Not now. I'll get it later.”
“I'm so sorry,” he said. He slumped back in his chair, holding his head as his tears fell again.
#
Henry's wife came in, apologizing, and the three of them managed to get Henry into the car.
“Let me fix you another burger and fries. Your dinner's cold by now.”
“You don't need to do that. I was done,” he said. “I hate that he messed the place up. Shouldn't we clean this up?”
“Don't you worry about it. I'll get it.” She swept up the broken glass.
“We've been friends since high school,” Louise said. “My husband and me used to double date with him and Sue. It's so sad.”
“What happened?”
“His son Martin. He was killed on Omaha Beach. You know, D-Day.”
“We just studied about it,” Richard said.
“Henry was the smartest kid in our school,” she said. “War has a way of . . . changing people's lives.”
“My Grandpop was in the first war. He won't talk about it.”
“Poor Henry,” she said, as she mopped and straightened tables and chairs. “And it's Thanksgiving, too. That's what got to him, I guess.” She cleared the counter and carried the dishes to the sink.
“Hey, you like turkey?” she said over her shoulder.
“Oh, I've had plenty. I'm fine.”
“I mean tomorrow.”
“I thought you were closed.”
She turned around and came to the counter and leaned on it, a wet rag under her hand.
”I am. But my home is open,” she said, smiling.
“No, I wouldn't want to put you out.”
“Not at all. We need some company.”
“That's awfully nice of you, but . . .”
“I always cook a big dinner on Thanksgiving. Out of habit, I guess. More food than we can handle.” She laughed.
“But it's your family time.”
“All the kids are gone. It's just me and Earl. Kind of lonely without the boys.” She wiped the counter slowly. “You got to meet Earl. Has he got some stories to tell. Lord.”
“Stories?”
“I've heard 'em all. He'd love to tell somebody else.”
“About the war?”
She laughed. “No. Back when he was an iron worker.”
“A what?”
“Construction work. High steel.”
Richard frowned.
“Skyscrapers.”
“I bet that’s pretty scary.”
“Oh, his stories can give you some chills. Thank goodness he finally went back to working on the ground. He saw too many of his buddies hurt bad, killed. So Monk, you join us tomorrow. How about it?”
“I'd like that,” he said. “Me and you and . . .”
“Earl.”
“Sounds great.”
“I'm coming down here to check on a few things about ten in the morning. Meet me here a little after. We'll go have us some good old turkey and fixings.”
He slipped on the coat and pulled the hood over his head. “I'll be here.”
#
As he started up the dark street, he noticed some bits of lint on his sleeve. suddenly they vanished. Then they reappeared, as though emerging from the wool. He flicked them away. Snow. Under the streetlight at the corner he could see the white flecks swirling in circles. His first snow. He started to jog, and he could feel the gentle sting on his cheeks as he headed up the hill toward the dorm.
