IMOGENE
DAILY SPECIAL
Ham and Swiss on Rye, Sweet Potato Salad and Greens .75¢
WITH TULA MAY sleeping in Christina’s bed across the hall from me, I’d tossed and turned all night. By dawn there were five cigarette butts in the ashtray on the patio. I had to face the day ahead just like any other day. But it wasn’t like any other day. There was an intruder.
Pearl arrived by six so we’d have two hours to get our work done before opening.
“Here, hon, cut up these eggs, would ya,” I said handing over the boiled eggs. As my sign sputtered on, I wrote the specials on the chalkboard, then hung it over the window by the new Rit Dye case. Theo’s car backed out of his driveway, top down. He waved and headed toward Highway 101, summoned to Portland. It was no surprise the bishop beckoned him to Saint Patrick’s for events—the wealthy women of the church opened their tight pocketbooks when handsome Father Riley was around.
Pearl stood at the butcher’s block with three finely chopped piles: celery, eggs, and onion. She was careful not to allow them to touch; never mind that in sixty seconds she’d be tossing them in a bowl and mixing them all together.
I counted the register money and watched Pearl slowly lift one food pile at a time with her cupped hands, then gently nestle them into the mixing bowl. She crowned the pile with the onions as I put a new roll of register tape inside the till and closed it.
Pearl grabbed a wooden spoon and mashed her masterpiece of finely diced morsels with a fierce beating. Faster and faster, knocking the life out of whatever she imagined lived in it. And Pearl imagined some kind of ghost or another lived in everything. Then she stopped her frenzied beating, set down the smoking spoon, and stood back. A smile came over her round face. She pushed her wayward strands of hair behind her ears, looked up, and said, “Okay, it done.”
“Okay . . . egg salad it is,” I said.
Tula May appeared at the foot of the stairs, fully dressed in her beige pants, white blouse, and suede pouch. Her hair was a rat’s nest and her freckled face had crease marks from the pillow.
“Tula May!” I said. “Good morning.”
When I passed Christina’s room she had been snoring. I didn’t have the heart to wake her, or the courage to step into Christina’s room and wake another child sleeping in her bed.
“Did you sleep well, honey?” I asked.
She stood there with her hand on the door frame like a reluctant cat near a cold bath. Her brow creased. She studied Pearl and asked, “What’s she doin’?”
“She’s making food for customers.” I motioned for her to sit at the table where I’d put out a bowl, Frosted Flakes, milk, and bacon. “I didn’t know what you liked for breakfast so I—”
“This is for me?” Her eyes popped. She sat on the bench and gawked at breakfast, then ran her fingers along the checkered tablecloth, lightly touched the petals of the sunflower in the mason jar, then warily stroked its soft fuzzy center.
I sat down next to her. She scooted a foot away, still a skittish bath-fearing cat. “Okay,” I said and poured cereal into her bowl. “Let’s start with this.”
She snatched two pieces of bacon and shoved them into her mouth like a hungry thief, her cheeks bulging. She gulped the milk, staring at me as if I’d reach out and slap the glass from her hand. I knew she’d been eating nothing but fish for breakfast with Solomon, and who knows what else—if anything—before he found her, so this kind of food was probably all a shock.
“Don’t eat so fast honey,” I said. “There’s plenty where that came from.”
She whipped her head around and looked at Pearl. Pearl nodded yes. Tula May returned her gaze to me, then to the cereal box with the big orange tiger on the front. I poured milk over her flakes. A warm rush of blood pulsed through me. I felt suddenly dizzy, so I stood up and walked to the window, lit the candles on the shelf in front of my photos, and watched her eat from that safe distance instead, as if she were one of Pearl’s ghosts. That familiar feeling overwhelmed my body: muddy stones bubbled and crumbled beneath my feet—sinking, falling, drowning. That thorny crab inside me pinched a little. I hunched slightly, then stood back up, lit a cigarette, and gazed helplessly outside. She’d only be here a few days, maybe weeks, I told myself. I can do this.
Outside, trees were bare. The heavy rains knocked to the ground what few leaves had clung to Theo’s oak tree. The skies brightened almost unnaturally as a rainbow arched high against the sky.
Tula May didn’t look up from the cereal box, which she now gripped in both hands studying the smiling Tony the Tiger like she’d never seen such a thing.
Pearl was deep-frying donuts. Always indifferent to fashion, she wore plaid pants, a paisley shirt, and a black-and-white polka dot apron all splattered with batter. We both looked at Tula May, so small, so innocent. I glanced back out the window where the light was now a soft blush of pink against the cottages along Laneda Avenue.
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath and dousing my cigarette, “let’s get to work.” To lighten things up a bit I turned on a station that played Buddy Holly and Elvis. Pearl dusted and restocked the three rows of wooden shelves: C&H sugar, Ivory soap, Hills Brothers Coffee, and woolen blankets. Except for the lanterns, pickaxes, and maps of Neahkahnie, there was nothing fancy, only the bare essentials needed at the coast.
Pearl aligned the coffee cans with strict precision: all cans to the edge of the shelf and all letters facing front, like little red soldiers. Since James had died last year she’d developed interesting habits, like beating the food into submission, gardening at dawn, and always needing two cups for tea as if he’d stroll up behind her and want some.
Solomon cracked the screen door open and said, “Salmon today.”
“Great,” I said, handing him a cup of coffee. “I’ll clear off that freezer shelf.”
He smiled but never came inside in the mornings, preferring his feet not to hit hard floors before noon, instead favoring the soft ground God intended. The look on his face startled me; he looked tired, suddenly older. I shook it off. Hell, he’ll outlive us all.
Tula May jumped up from the table, grabbed her sweater, and quietly ran outside.
He walked her to Mrs. B’s like he used to walk me to the school bus stop, wearing his red shirt and blue jeans, barefoot, cup of coffee in his hands.
Mamaí once explained that it took him many years to appreciate the texture of the white man’s world. Born in the 1860s, he grew up wearing elk hide, riding horses, and hunting when and wherever he wanted. He hated white man’s clothing until Ruby gave him a red flannel shirt like the timbermen wore. To this day, it’s the only kind he will wear. I supposed the fact that Ruby liked it made it tolerable to him, soothing against his skin.
“Need peaches!” Pearl shouted from behind the back shelves.
“Got it.” I took the supply list from my pocket and wrote, “Solomon’s shirt and blankets, peaches, corn flakes, shortening, flour.” Already worn out from no sleep, I plopped down on the stool behind the counter. Solomon left Mrs. B’s and headed through Theo’s yard toward his hut. The morning sun quickly faded. Sunglow clouds rolled in.
Sitting there, I realized that since Solomon had gone into Christina’s room with me, I hadn’t felt my heart plummet when I passed her door. I looked in there twice just yesterday and didn’t get woozy or cry. I hadn’t had the crushing sense of loss that had plagued me, or felt that thousand-pound rock that had weighed on my heart for so long. Maybe Solomon was right: Now at peace about her death, I could have a spiritual union with her for the rest of my life. I liked that idea of a quiet time all our own. Maybe I could let go of that heaviness.
My clock chimed nine. Thomas hadn’t called in eight days. Oh well, like Theo says, tragedy either bonds people or becomes an abyss too deep to traverse.
The phone rang and nearly startled me off my stool. “Imogene’s,” I said.
“Hey there, Imogene girl!”
It was our local dairy farmer whose wife never let him spend more than seventy-five cents a day on frivolities like food and who still had a tinge of Norwegian accent, though he’d been in America for over fifty years. “Mornin’ to ya, Mr. Gandel,” I said.
“What’s fer lunch today?”
“Anything you like, but the special’s ham and swiss and Mrs. B’s pickle jam.”
“Alrighty then.” He hung up. Worried he’d miss the special and have to pay twenty-five cents more for a regular menu item, his lanky, six-foot-five body would hustle through the door at eleven sharp—with his tractor left running out front. I liked the old guy. After all, when I was in school, he always bought chocolate-mint Girl Scout cookies from me. But other than that, he and his wife were the spend-thriftiest people in town.
Thomas was also thrifty. I looked at our wedding photo. I loved him then. But soon Christina came. She’d had his big brown eyes, and when she suckled my breast, I gazed into them, feeling certain she was God’s calling card as He knocked on the closed door to my heart. I let Him in again, certain He’d blessed me like no other. I had a loving husband, an adorable baby, and the life I’d always dreamed of. Did I blame Thomas for her death, as he said? Maybe.
“Imogene!” Pearl’s voice pierced my thoughts. “Telephone!” She pointed to the phone.
I doused my cigarette and grabbed the receiver. “Manzanita Market.”
There was no answer. “Hello?” I said. No answer. “Hellooo?”
“There was a man,” Lucy chimed in. “He asked for you by name.”
“Was it—”
“No,” she said, “not Thomas. Sorry Imogene. I didn’t recognize the voice.”
“Thanks, Lucy.” I hung up.
Pearl stood across the room, broom in hand, staring at me. “Thomas?”
“Let’s just get our work done,” I said. I went to the back kitchen to stir the soups and check on the corn bread. Honestly, I had a little cry over the chowder. A bit more salt wouldn’t be noticed. I covered the soups, wiped my tears, and returned to the front of the store.
Pearl stood behind the register, wide-eyed and frozen. On the other side, motionless and staring at her, was Toreck Sealy.