The Same Sky(5)

At nine, Benji and some of the other staff arrived to start slicing pickles and making coleslaw and potato salad. Before we opened, we made sure we had enough of all the sauces and that the bottles on the tables were topped off. We had a fridge full of pie delivered. (Bourbon banana pudding was the best, followed by Texas pecan.) Each table needed a roll of paper towels, crackers, and salt and pepper shakers.

Around ten-thirty I rolled in. I ate toast or yogurt at home; if I didn’t eat before we opened, I wouldn’t have a chance to take a bite until we closed. It was just nuts. I had a closetful of vintage dresses, and I usually wore one with a pair of boots. I put my black hair in a high ponytail, jamming a pencil in. On my fortieth birthday I’d gotten a makeover at Bobbi Brown, and though I had once worn nothing but Vaseline Intensive Care lotion and Chapstick, I now applied a light foundation, blush, crimson lipstick, and waterproof mascara. I shopped once or twice a month on South 1st, grabbing colorful old cowboy boots at Time & Again and dresses at Vintage Annie’s or the Goodwill. I kind of had a look going, and I felt good about it. Jake wouldn’t have noticed if I’d worn a sack.

The briskets, which cooked for eighteen hours at 250 degrees, came off around eleven, and Jake wrapped them in butcher paper and let them rest in the kitchen. I checked the tables and kitchen, then hung the “Come On In” sign at 11:30. Either Benji or I propped the door open, beckoned to the early birds, and began making our way along the line with a pad of paper to take note of what everyone wanted. I made sure people understood how long they were going to have to wait, or if we wouldn’t have any ribs or sausage by the time they hit the front counter. It had been Benji’s idea to sell beer and Big Red to the people in line; every day he filled a plastic tub with ice and drinks and walked along the side of the restaurant, way into the parking lot and beyond. Folks made it a party, and it was pretty wonderful. I was proud.

We’d come a long way since meeting in New York City, Jake and I. I was going through chemo and studying English lit at Columbia and Jake was selling homemade beef jerky out of the back of his truck, putting himself through business school at NYU. Falling in love had been the first miracle, then my remaining alive, then the Texas Monthly article. We had so much, I reminded myself. So, so much.


“That’s true,” said Principal Markson. “You do, of course you do, but still.” I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking audibly. Principal Markson had tears in her eyes. She had told me once that if she could make one of her teen mothers hand me her baby, she would.

But she couldn’t.

She seemed rooted to her spot at the register, though a long line snaked behind her. Some youngster in a very clean cowboy hat raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat. I ignored him. “How are things with you?” I asked.

“The usual,” said Principal Markson wearily. “By the way, could we reserve a table next Monday for the Teen Suicide Prevention Task Force meeting?”

“Monday? Sure,” I said, though we didn’t take reservations and she knew it.

“The Gang Prevention Task Force meeting is Wednesday,” said Principal Markson.

“Wednesday. You got it,” I said. These poor teachers needed all the breaks they could get.

“Markson, get a move on!” cried Officer Grupo, another regular. Principal Markson sighed, put her hand on mine, and squeezed. “Hang in there, sweetheart,” she said. I nodded. When she walked away, I rubbed my eyes with the sleeve of my dress. Then I smiled at the youngster and took his order.

When we had run out of meat, I flipped the sign to “Come Back Tomorrow!” and sat down heavily. I touched the tabletop, which was warm. The week we’d moved from our food trailer to the brick-and-mortar building, Jake’s father had arrived from Lockhart with gorgeous pine tables he’d constructed from boards he’d found in the basement of his own (famous) BBQ restaurant.

Jake had gone for a nap or a swim at Metz Park. The hoodlums cleared out during the day, and the public pool was filled with screaming children and bleary mothers. Jake liked to do a cannonball or two into the deep end after a long, smoky morning.

As the staff cleaned up, I went into the back, made myself an espresso, and opened up the New York Times. I read the “Dining and Wine” section and the book and movie reviews, then started trying to fill in the spaces Jake had left blank in the crossword. I checked my phone to find two messages from my father in Ouray, Colorado; one from my little sister, Jane, who lived with her husband and three kids in the house we’d grown up in; and one from Beau and Camilla inviting us to dinner. I sent Camilla a text, telling her we were busy, but didn’t call anyone back home.

I had escaped my tiny town in Colorado as soon as I graduated from Ouray High School. Class valedictorian (number one out of twelve seniors, thank you very much), I was offered a full scholarship to Columbia and stayed on for graduate work. But as I was finishing my master’s thesis, “Recognition of Despair in the Essays of David Foster Wallace,” I found a lump in my right breast. My mother had died of ovarian cancer when I was eight and I’m a person who takes charge, so when the lump was found to be cancerous and a full genetic workup showed I had a BRCA1 mutation, I chose to undergo chemo and have my breasts removed. (That was an aggressive course of action, and I had no regrets. My sister, Jane, wouldn’t even get the test that would show if she had the BRCA mutation that killed our mother. Instead, Jane married a man who would take over the family grocery store, bore three children, and lived in complete denial. She drove me insane.)