The Patron Saint of Butterflies(66)

“Excuse me!” I lean out the side window. The women are wearing white sneakers and shiny sweat suits that rustle when they walk. The slighter of the two has a pink foam curler in the middle of her forehead. “Have you ever heard of a place called King’s?”

The women exchange a glance and then shrug. “No,” the shorter one says. “Sorry.”

“You’re pretty small to be driving a great big car like that, aren’t you?” the bigger one asks. I sit back down in the seat.

“It’s my grandma’s,” I say, stepping on the gas and waving out the window. “She said I could drive it.” I ease through three more streets, rolling the word over and over again along my tongue. “Grandma.” It tastes good in my mouth, a new sweetness filling a bitter, empty space. Just as I am about to cross over West Charlton Street, I notice an elderly man putting a letter into a mailbox on the corner. I roll down the window again.

“Excuse me, sir? Have you ever heard of a place around here called King’s?”

The old man’s face, as worn and as wrinkled as a baseball glove, widens into a grin. “Eat breakfast there every mornin’.”

“Breakfast?” I repeat. “You mean it’s a restaurant?”

He leans against a brown cane and chuckles. “Yep. All-night diner. Good, too. Serves everything from eggs and bacon t’ hominy and grits.”

I sit back slowly. So she’s a waitress. Why am I disappointed? I lean forward again. “Can you tell me how to get there?”

The man lifts his cane and points down the street. “It’s right on the river. Get yourself down on Martin Luther King Boulevard and drive for a while, till you get to Broad. Then make a right. King’s is right at the end.”

I thank the elderly man and step on the gas.

I sit outside King’s for a good ten minutes, trying to work up the nerve to go in. If I weren’t sitting here staring right at it, I wouldn’t believe you could make a restaurant out of a couple of old train cars. But King’s is, in fact, three renovated train cars, each one shinier than the next, all hooked together on a neat, rectangular patch of green grass. A set of steps, flanked with two geranium-filled planters, leads up to the front door. Over the door, in curly, neon-pink letters is the word KING’S. I stare at the green-and-white checked curtains in each of the train windows. One frames a man spooning the inside of a soft-boiled egg into his mouth and gazing out at the river, which slopes quietly around the bend. Why am I hesitating? Nana Pete has just died! Agnes has just called her father, who is coming down as we speak to take her back to Mount Blessing!

Six faces at the front counter turn as I push open the front door. A little bell hanging from the top of it makes a tinkling sound. I shrink back, frightened by the stares. A woman in a pink shirt is behind the counter, rubbing it with a towel. She flicks her eyes at me and keeps rubbing. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and her arms are as big as ham hocks. Despite the ceiling fans, the heat inside is overwhelming and the salty smell of bacon frying fills my nostrils. I take a few tentative steps forward. My sneakers make a peeling sound across the black-and-white floor.

“Hey, hon,” the big-armed woman says. I jump a little at the sound of her voice. It’s deep and oily. “You here for Lillian?”

I look at her curiously. She has a faint mustache over her top lip and her forehead is shiny with perspiration. “How’d you know?” I ask.

“Look just like her,” she says. “You a niece or something?”

My heart does a somersault. The men at the counter turn around again to look at me. I drop my eyes and step on the rubber toe of my sneakers. “Um … uh… well, do you know if she’s here?”

“Of course she’s here,” the woman says, rubbing the counter again. “She’s always here. She owns the place.”

I swallow hard, trying not to let my amazement show. “Yeah, I know. I just—”

Just then Lillian charges out of a back room, her eyes riveted on a small black calculator in her right hand.

“Hey, Lil,” one of the men says as she rushes past him. “Someone here to see you.”

“He’ll have to wait,” Lillian says, not taking her eyes off the calculator. She is punching one of the buttons furiously and her mouth is drawn into a tight scowl. I take a step backward.

“Willa!” Lillian says, beckoning to the heavyset lady with the rag. “Come here and do these numbers for me, will you? I can’t get these two columns to match for the life of me, and I’m about ready to hit something.”

Willa ambles over in Lillian’s direction and then says something in her ear. Lillian’s head snaps up. Our eyes meet and lock over the small room. Her lips part in a little O and her forehead crinkles.

“Honey?” she asks. “How did you get here?”

“You have to come home,” I say. “Right now.”

Lillian looks at a Coca-Cola clock on the wall above the counter. “I still have four more—”

“Nana Pete is dead,” I blurt out.

Lillian’s face contorts, as if I have just reached out and smacked her. “What?”

I take a step closer, suddenly aware of the hush that has descended over the room. I can feel two men’s eyes on me as I move closer to Lillian and for some reason it feels as though I have to get through them to reach her. “Nana Pete,” I say hoarsely. “She … died.”