The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(40)
At five thirty the next morning, when I pulled into the parking lot of the Pantry, I found the cook already waiting for me, smoking a cigarette by the dumpsters. My husband had warned him not to do that, because Mr. Baker, the owner of the bowling alley next door, often complained about the risk of fire, so I told José to put the cigarette out, and he stubbed it under his shoe and followed me inside, not speaking to me until after the first customers came in. An old man took a seat at the counter, reading his Bible as he waited for coffee; a family of four settled into one of the booths by the window, their children arguing over packs of crayons; and a couple in matching Kings caps huddled in the corner, staring at their phones, but then I looked at the table in the back of the diner, and instead of Driss doing his crosswords or reading the newspaper, there was only an empty chair.
“Coffee, Mrs. Guerraoui?” Marty asked me. Despite what people think, my name isn’t Maryam Guerraoui, it’s Maryam Bouziane, but so many women in this country take on their husbands’ names that I had long ago given up explaining that we were different. Marty was the first employee my husband had hired at the donut shop, a young man barely out of high school back then, and now he had bifocals dangling from a retainer around his neck, yet even he didn’t know, or perhaps didn’t remember, my true name.
“Thank you,” I said, and took the cup of coffee from him. After he walked away, I remained at the counter for a while, trying to will my body to carry out the duties that lay ahead. I had to clear the box of old lightbulbs Driss had left in the hallway, order napkins and toilet paper, decide whether we were going to put up Memorial Day decorations this year, and then try to find them. But in the end, I couldn’t face any of this, and I carried my coffee to the cash register and slumped in the chair behind it. I could do this much at least, I could make change for customers, hand out mints, or give packs of crayons to the children.
Outside, a young couple in hiking jackets and boots got out of a dusty car and stood in the parking lot, checking their tires as if for a leak, then came into the diner, barely glancing at me as they walked past, and found a table for themselves. In a few weeks, the spring season would be over, the tourists would be gone, and the town would return to its empty self. Perhaps then I wouldn’t be needed at the diner.
But had I ever been truly needed? My husband had bought this restaurant in spite of my objections and, perhaps because of our arguments about it, he rarely called on me to help. I came here only if he was short-staffed, when one of the workers was sick, or if it was a busy weekend. Maybe if I had been more involved, I might have been with him the night of the accident, I might have seen the car, or heard it coming, and maybe even warned him to get out of the way.
Footsteps made me look up. It was a young man in blue hospital scrubs, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair pulled into a ponytail, he was probably from the medical office two blocks from the restaurant. “I saw the notice in the newspaper,” he said as he handed me the bill and his money. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I said. My voice sounded like a stranger’s. I couldn’t bring myself to say more, talk to this man the way my husband would have, ask him how everything tasted, or how work was these days, or was he enjoying the nice weather. From the framed article on the wall, Driss looked on with a smile, a stack of blueberry pancakes and a cup of coffee before him on the counter. DINING IN THE DESERT, the headline said. My husband was proud of that article; it helped ease some of his frustrations, the humiliations he had to suffer through sometimes, working in a restaurant and waiting on people.
“Did they catch the guy who did it?” the customer asked me.
“No,” I said as I handed him his change.
“Well, I hope they do. People drive way too fast on the highway, it’s really dangerous. We need some kind of light or a signal at that intersection. Maybe you could raise this at the next city council meeting?”
He waited for me to say something more, turn my husband’s death into a public cause, rally others around it, but pain is a private business, it would be too difficult for me to talk about it in front of others, let alone strangers at the city council meeting. I had noticed this before about Americans—they always want to take action, they have a hard time staying still, or allowing themselves to feel uncomfortable emotions—so when I shook my head no, the man seemed disappointed in me, and after a moment he left, the door jingling as it closed behind him.
Jeremy
Fierro was waiting for me outside his apartment building, in jeans and a T-shirt, his USMC baseball cap pulled so low I couldn’t see his eyes. In the car, he turned up the volume on the radio when Metallica came on, but I didn’t complain, even though all that crying and hollering about being a rebel gave me a headache, and later when he went on a rant about the Dodgers’ losing streak, I just nodded along. Whatever it took to get the guy the support he needed. I’d sent an email to Hec, an old buddy of ours from Charlie company, because I’d remembered he was in a group like this, up in Oregon, and he’d said it had helped him some. I was hoping it would help Fierro, too.
A folding sign outside the community center told us that the anger-management support group met inside the gym. Flyers advertising summer swim classes for kids, ballroom dancing for seniors, and a family-movie night hung on the wall next to the double doors. Most of the chairs were already taken by the time Fierro and I walked in and joined the circle around the facilitator. His name was Rossi. He wore a bright yellow shirt that stretched tightly over his pectorals, and he spoke with a thunderous voice that I had not expected from a member of the therapeutic professions. “Who would like to share tonight?” he asked.