IMOGENE
DAILY SPECIAL
Fresh Corn and Red Pepper Chowder and Crab Cakes .75¢
THE SUN CAME OUT of hiding. Rays of gold illuminated the red Folgers cans along aisle two, then danced off the glass freezer doors in the back of the store, reminding me I needed to restock Olympia beer and mudworms. I wrote .20¢ on the cardboard sign in front of the cigarette rack. I swear, when smokes get to thirty cents I will quit for sure! But for now, I needed one.
I tucked a pack of Salems in my pocket and stepped out back to sit at my patio table. Birds flocked and chirped at the feeder, sun poured through the lattice, sparkled along the English ivy, then settled softly on Christina’s soil. The smell of dirt from my flowerless garden caused a tremble. I was suddenly cold. She would have been three years old today.
In the middle of that soil a tiny twig with a green bud, not an inch tall, had burst through the dirt. I didn’t have the energy to yank it out. “What do you want, little twig?”
Then Mrs. B’s shutters banged open; wood against wood echoed through the sleepy streets, pulling me back. Soon she’d pass by waving like a silent town crier doing her duty, announcing the day had begun. I gazed at the soil one last time and said, “It’s just a day like any other day.” Doused my cigarette and went back inside.
The Coca-Cola clock on the wall chimed seven times. Amber flecks of sun struggled through the windows. Theo crossed the street, returning from his walk, half-limping. His beach walking was as obsessive as when Andréa left to spend time with her grandma in Paris. Whatever draws him to beach walk these days didn’t matter—I was just glad he was home.
Bud’s mushroom-brown patrol car—still boasting two bullet holes in the side door over the insignia TILLAMOOK COUNTY SHERIFF—bolted to a stop at Theo’s curb. He got out, slammed the door, leapt the stairs, then disappeared inside. What were they up to?
Frank Sinatra played on the radio. I dusted, shook out the checkered curtains on my two front windows, and lit my memory candles. Usually my mornings were spent cleaning the store and prepping food in the deli before lunch rush, but since Pearl was working with me, there was little to do. It was also nice not to have Thomas watching my every move, saying “You okay?” Real nice. Especially today. I glanced at our lackluster wedding photograph on the corkboard next to the counter. Imogene and Thomas 1949. After all we’d been through, now he was like a stranger.
It was tea party day for Mrs. Scovelli and her granddaughters. I set up for them—placed mason jars of daises on the two tableclothed picnic tables, one small jar on the children’s table by the back door. Then I opened the bag of party supplies: a new coloring book, some paper dolls, and a box of crayons. I held the crayons close to my face taking in the waxy smell, then set the box down and stared at the small table and four white chairs. My girl would have spent a lot of time coloring and playing at that table. The pink-frosted cake I made last night was in the center of the table next to the dozen pink cupcakes I decorated. I lit one candle in the heart of the cake, stood back, stared at it, and said, “Happy birthday, darling.” Then blew it out, no wish—licked the sweet frosting off that candle’s end and smoothed the rippled topping with my fingertip so the cake looked untouched. I moved it to the other picnic table for later and set out pink plates for the girls. Two separate events, so closely linked . . . one table set for death, the other for life.
I took a long drag off a cigarette but the sugary taste lingered.
Across the street Bud and Theo strolled down Theo’s steps. Even with his limp Theo moved with the natural, laid-back manner of a trained athlete whose eye was always on some unseen nemesis; Bud in his sheriff’s uniform and hat, sunglasses, and cowboy boots was still a confident Marine. Amazing how two different wars on two different continents had shaped the two men I’d known all my life into two men I now wondered if I knew at all.
The rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the store. I quickly straightened my apron, cinched my hair back, switched the OPEN sign on, and dropped two sugar cubes in Bud’s mug just as the screen door squeaked open. “Mornin’,” he said.
“Mornin’ guys,” I said opening the register drawer. The “no sale” sign sprang up. I checked the money and pointed to the coffee pot. The light was green, their cups ready.
“Mornin’, sis,” Theo said setting down a jar of picked daisies—weeds Mamaí tried so hard to kill every year that now grew like wildflowers in the backyard. Then he glanced at the lit candles and photos on the wall shelf, took off his fedora, ran his fingers through his hair, and nodded to our dearly departed.
“I’m fine, guys,” I said, because they both stood staring at me. “Just fine.”
“Good,” Bud said taking off his wire-rimmed sunglasses. In those glasses he looked like a hardened police officer, even to me. But once he took them off, those steely eyes turned to soft cornflower blue, and his tan, skinned face crinkled slightly when he smiled. I nodded toward his and Theo’s cups. Bud grabbed his, tucked his glasses into the shirt pocket beneath his badge, and beelined for the coffee pot. Theo followed.
Bud’s sandy hair had been newly cropped so close to his skull that his square jaw and wide forehead were even more prominent than usual. “Fresh cut?” I asked.
“Yep,” he responded, returning to where I stood counting pennies. “Ole Frank over in Nehalem’s chargin’ forty cents for haircuts now; that’s too rich for my blood.” He leaned on the counter, his face not ten inches from my hands, watching as though studying my skin.
I felt his eyes on me and smelled his zesty aftershave. His rough, square hands, nearly the size of a shovel, cupped his steaming coffee mug.
“You look good.” He smiled. “Hair’s gettin’ long, like when you were in high school.”
“Thanks . . . Thomas doesn’t like it long, though.”
“Right,” he said, then stood up straight, clearing his throat. “How is the old guy?”
“Who knows. He used to call in the mornings.”
“He’ll call today, kid,” he said. “Sellin’ timber’s hard work. All that travel.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “But these days he’s just gone, then he returns—no pomp, no circumstance, no nothing.”
“Right,” Bud said. Just then Solomon’s bench banged against the wall as he plunked down on it. Bud poured a cup of coffee and took it out to him.
Theo stood by the window, reading the newspaper. Pearl rushed through the door with her arms wrapped around a bouquet of gladiolas the width of her entire upper body. “Mornin’ Teo,” she said as she raced behind the counter to give me a long, one-armed hug. She smelled of spices and wore her favorite polka dot shirt with her same old plaid pants.
Mrs. B came through the door wearing her best cheongsam, the green one, with her ivory combs in her hair and several rings on her fingers. Bud and Solomon followed her inside. They all gathered near the other picnic table. Pearl put the flowers in a large vase and joined them with her two cups of tea. The clock chimed nine times. They all sat silently on the benches.
“It’s a beautiful cake,” Mrs. B said.
Everyone nodded. Pearl quietly set out plates and forks and handed me the knife. I cut into the cake, one piece at a time, and laid each piece on a plate. Theo passed the plates down to the others while Mrs. B, whose hooch cane had been hollowed out during prohibition, and was now a constant companion from what she called the “dark years” dispensed brandy into everyone’s coffee. Then I put the knife down, sat on the bench next to Theo, and stared at my piece of crumbling pink cake.
Bud cleared his throat and said, “It’s delicious. Cherry?”
My eyes burned. “Yeah,” I said. “Cherry. But this is the last birthday cake. I’ll set up a candle and be done with it.”
Theo put his arm around me, kissed my head, and whispered, “It’s a beautiful cake, love. And grief . . . it takes however long it takes. You be done when you’re done.”
“Well,” I said. “It took three years. I’ll light that candle today. Set her, us, free.”
Everyone held their glasses up and said, “To Christina.”