8

Quietly as I could, I got myself ready for work, waiting to put my shoes on until I was out the door so I wouldn’t wake Mom or Joel. Banana in hand, book in the bend of my elbow, shoes dangling from fingers, I stepped out onto the front porch.

The air was crisp that morning in a way that would fade as the day wore on. The sky held the satiny color of blue that promised an explosion of vibrant hues in just a matter of minutes as the sun lifted up, breaking the darkness by inches.

Since I was small, I’d loved the still of morning. It was why I didn’t mind taking the job at Bernie’s. I could have time to myself first thing, without anyone interrupting. Early mornings were the best for solitary walks because nobody else in Fort Colson got up so early as I did. Except for Bernie, but he just lived in an apartment above the diner. There was no chance of running into him on the way to work.

Before stepping off the porch, I shoved my feet into my low-top sneakers that were still tied from the day before.

Mom hated that I wore those shoes. She hated even more that I’d stolen them from Joel when his feet had outgrown them in the winter. He’d only gotten to wear them once or twice.

With a lazy, in-no-hurry stride, I made my way down our front walk and onto the street, taking in the morning and glad for the sweater I’d grabbed on my way out of my bedroom.

Checking my watch, I saw that I had a few minutes to sit by Old Chip. I made my way down the dirt road that served as a public access to the lake and sat myself down on the rickety dock.

It was light enough for me to see the letter I’d been writing for the past few days. I would have been embarrassed to admit that I’d drafted more than one edition of the note, especially for as little as I’d written in it. Most of the drafts had ended up crumpled and tossed in my bedroom waste paper basket, hidden under tissues so that my mother wouldn’t find and read them.

The last thing I needed was for her to know that I’d written to Walt.

For the slimmest of moments, I contemplated tossing the letter into the lake and watching it sink to the bottom. But I thought better of it, tightening my hold of it and standing up.

I’d already affixed a stamp to the upper right-hand corner of the envelope, and my Dutch heritage prevented me from even entertaining the thought of wasting it. I was committed. I left the dock, making my way to the main street of town. I dropped it into the mail slot of the post office just before I walked toward work.

I had more than a few twinges of regret throughout the morning.

Bernie had hired a high school boy who I didn’t think had ever been made to wash dishes in all his life. When Bernie told him to get to scrubbing, the kid looked at the soapy water and the stack of breakfast dishes as if they might attack him should he get too close to them.

“He’ll toughen up,” Bernie whispered to me as we stood back and watched the kid pull a pair of yellow rubber gloves onto his hands.

“Let’s hope,” I said.

The kid winced when he put his hands into the hot water.

Bernie kept the “help wanted” sign close at hand just in case.

I spent most of the morning showing him how to scrub and wipe, rinse and dry. While we worked, I asked him questions, and he was more than happy to provide me with answers. His name was Larry Roberts and he lived in a neighborhood on the other side of Old Chip with his folks and three little sisters. His dad had been in Vietnam for about three months. A career Marine whose shoes Larry was eager to fill once he was old enough to enlist. Once he got talking, the words came tumbling from him, and I wondered if having three sisters in the house left little room for him to say much of anything.

In fact, by the time I left his side to prepare the dining room for the lunch rush, he was still chattering on about something or another.

I thought Larry was going to work out just fine. For the rest of the summer, at least.

I’d left Larry to the dishes after the lunch service was done and stood at the counter to wrap clean silverware in paper napkins for the next morning’s breakfast crowd. Bernie had found himself in a good mood and let us turn the radio on. Not only that, but he’d allowed me to pick the station.

My back to the door, I hummed along with the Beatles about holding hands and feeling happy inside. I couldn’t hardly help but let my head bob along with the music. Caught up with the song, I didn’t hear the bell above the door as it jangled a welcome. I didn’t realize anyone was standing at the counter, waiting for me, until he spoke.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said.

I spun around, gasping and holding my hand to my chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

The man on the other side of the counter had dark skin, brown eyes behind a pair of Coke-bottle lenses, wide smile.

“It’s all right,” I said, reaching for the radio and turning down the volume. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you all right?”

“Sure.” I breathed in deeply. “Can I get you anything?”

“Actually, I was wondering if it was too late to order lunch.”

“Of course not.” I looked at my wristwatch. “We’re open for another hour or so.”

“Great. Should I just find a seat?”

“Right. Yes. You can sit wherever you like.”

“Thanks.” He took the table closest to the coffeemaker and unrolled his silverware. “So, what’s good here?”

“Everything,” I said, stepping out from behind the counter and to the end of his table. “The special is an open-faced roast beef sandwich with either french fries or mashed potatoes.”

“That sounds good.” He looked around at the empty tables. “Is it always this quiet?”

“Only at two o’clock in the afternoon,” I said. “Fries?”

“Sure,” he answered.

I scribbled his order on my pad of paper. “Are you just in town for the day?”

“Well, it looks like I might be moving here,” he answered. “I just took a job with the parks department.”

“Congratulations, then,” I said. I put out my hand. “I’m Annie.”

“Hi there,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m David Ward.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“I’ll have him get this started for you.” I went behind the counter and called through the window to let Bernie know we had an order.

While I waited, I hummed along again with the radio. Just not loudly enough for anybody to hear me.

David paid for his lunch, standing at the register waiting to hand me his money. It took a little persuading for the cash drawer to come out. My persuasion came in the form of shoving it with the meat of my hand more than a few times before it shot out, the coins jangling violently in the slots.

“I think this thing was made at the turn of the century,” I said, trying to distract from my embarrassment.

“Maybe it’s time for a new one,” David said, waiting for me to make change.

“Oh, the boss will keep this one as long as he can still order parts for it,” I said, dropping three quarters and a penny into his outstretched palm. “Dutch thrift.”

“Dutch what?”

“You haven’t been around many Dutch people, have you?”

“Not that I know of.” He leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Well, you’ll have to get used to us if you’re moving into this town. Most of us are at least a little Dutch.” I slammed the drawer shut again. “Dutch people are frugal.”

“You mean cheap?”

“Don’t let anybody hear you say that,” I warned, half-smiling. “They just don’t like spending money if they can help it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I think that makes a lot of sense.”

“I suppose so.” I grabbed a round, white mint from the little dish Bernie kept by the cash register and popped it into my mouth. “So, where are you from?”

“Lansing,” he answered. “Have you ever been there?”

“Yes. Just once or twice.”

“Let me guess, you went to see the Capitol?” He pushed up his glasses. They were black framed like the ones Buddy Holly had always worn.

“We went to the zoo too.”

“Well, I grew up down the road from that zoo.” He wrinkled the space between his eyebrows and shook his head. “I’ll tell you, it’s strange to wake up in the middle of the night to the roar of lions.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“All my life,” I answered.

“This might seem like a funny question, but are there any other black people around?”

“Um, maybe a few,” I said, thinking. “Not very many, though.”

“That’s what I thought.” He tossed the change up and down in the palm of his hand. “It’s a whole different world from Lansing.”

“Hopefully you’ll like it here.”

“I do so far.” He handed me two of the quarters. “Nice to meet you, Annie. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I’m here every day but Sunday.” I held up the coins. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I watched him walk out the door, hoping he might turn and look at me. When he did, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Did you know that they hired someone new at the parks department?” I asked through my window. “He had lunch at the diner.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jocelyn answered from her side of our screens. “What’s he like?”

I leaned my chin on my hand. “Nice.”

“Annie Jacobson!”

“What?”

“I know that face.”

“So?” I narrowed my eyes at her but couldn’t help but smile. “He’s nice.”

“Uh-huh. You already said that.” She shook her head. “What does he look like?”

“Well, he wears glasses and has a friendly smile and kind eyes.” I sighed. Then I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And he’s black.”

“He’s what?” she asked.

“He’s black.” I shrugged.

“What would your mother think, though?”

“She doesn’t have to think anything. I’m sure he didn’t even notice me.” I tilted my head. “I’m not getting my hopes up.”

“Hope can be pretty nice sometimes, though.”

“Maybe.” I sat up straighter. “Anyway, I sent Walt a letter.”

“Really?” she asked. “What did you say?”

“Nothing much. Just that I’m praying for him.”

“Well, I think it’s nice of you.” She nodded. “Did you tell your mother about it?”

I shook my head. “And I’m not going to.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

Of all the things that Mom had to worry about, I didn’t want to be one of them. More because I didn’t want her fussing over me and insisting on one of her sit-down talks. She’d see the letter as the cry of a lonely, lovesick girl in need of attention, even though nothing could have been further from the truth.

No matter how I protested, Mom would find a way to fret over me writing a handful of sentences to a boy eight thousand miles away.

I hoped she wouldn’t hear about it.

For at least the tenth time that day I regretted dropping the letter in the mailbox.

Dear Mike,

Happy Birthday! I highly doubt that anyone sang to you or let you blow out candles. Bummer. But we’re thinking of you here at home, wishing we could feed you more cake even if it’s one Mom made (ha ha).

Mom said the reason we haven’t heard from you was because you needed to focus on your training. I understand. But Joel’s antsy to get a note. I guess he had a bad dream the other night. Something to do with you, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else. He made me promise not to say anything to Mom about it.

If you have even a minute, could you please write him so he knows you’re okay? I half wonder if he thinks you’re already fighting the communists. Poor kiddo.

Take care of yourself, all right? And don’t forget to write to Joel.

Love,
Annie

PS: Oma wants to know when she can send you cookies.