An Order of Coffee and Tears (2 page)

Before I could stop it, before I could control it, before I even really knew it had started, I was crying. And I was mad. Mad at Ms. Potts for driving me to cry in front of her. Mad at her for digging again. Mad that she was looking for something that I’d buried. I had buried my past a long time ago. I’d buried my memories, and the people in them, too. And what people choose to bury should always stay buried.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I just want to know what happened, is all,” she said, reaching across the table to hold my hands. I didn’t pull my hands back. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had held my hands, or even touched me. Had it been ten years? Surely it couldn’t have been. It was this last thought that got me crying again. I just shook my head no, no, no, and fixed my eyes on Ms. Potts, pleading for her to not dig anymore. Not now. Not yet.

“Okay, baby. I understand. Gabby, I ain’t never had no one to call one of my own, but I come to think of you as close as I’ll get. I love you, girl – just want what is best for you,” she finished, and rubbed my hands in hers. I pushed a breath out and felt a shudder from a tear as it went cold on my cheek.

When I was ready, I asked, “Why? Why do you need to know?” Ms. Potts stopped rubbing my hands. Her mothering eyes changed. She turned in Clark’s direction, and then back to me, her expression now stale and flat.

“Because, Gabby, I know how your past can drive you. Drive it every damn day God wills you a breath to live. I know it,” she said, and squeezed my hand.

It was my turn to look to Clark, but he was still in the back, watching his little TV. Ms. Potts pulled on my hands. She took my chin in her fingers so that my eyes met hers.

“Listen to me, girl, you gotta face your secrets. Secrets ain’t free – you gotta face 'em, or else you gonna be running from them the rest of your life,” she cautioned. And that is when I knew, I knew in my heart that my new home, my new family – they had secrets, too.

2

“Order of coffee and tears!” I called out when a familiar sight caught my eyes. I’d first met Suzette Wilkerson about a year ago. It was an early winter day much like today; with short afternoons and cold evenings, putting frost on everything as a reminder of what was to come. I remember that first day, not just because Suzette held her arm to protect two broken ribs, but because she was beautiful – in a delicate way. A waterfall of red hair played a perfect complement to her porcelain skin. Not quite reaching her mid-twenties, she held a striking pose that was tall and willowy. I recall yelling out for an order of coffee and tears, just as I had moments ago. And like before, Suzette looked out of sorts. No, she looked hurt.

My heart sank. All I could think was,
not again
. Her eyes were red and heavy with the same glassy tears this afternoon that had been there that first day. But today, she wasn’t holding her arm to protect broken ribs. Today, I could see errant locks of hair stuck to the side of Suzette’s face and her left cheek rising to a shine, a blackish-purple lump. The kind you get from the back of a hand. A man’s hand.

Suzette paused before stepping up onto the side-walk. She found me through the large glass window. Past the pock-mark remains of raindrops and the lettering of the diner’s name, I watched as she tried to clear her eyes and push her lips into a smile. She struggled to fix her coat, which appeared to have been put on in a rush. Not just a rush, but a run from her home. She tried to hold her smile another moment, and even attempted a wave of her hand. But, when she began to tear up again, she let her coat fall open as she lowered her head and cried, defeated.

“Girl b-been hit again,” I heard from behind me. “You can see it p-plain as plain from here,” Clark went on to say, as he worked the diner’s grill.

“Mmm-hmm. She needs to get away from that man,” Ms. Potts followed. Pouring a cup of coffee, she continued, “How much the girl gonna take? It only get worse… never better.” Without looking up, Ms. Potts finished pouring, and turned to me with hard eyes, “It ain’t never gonna get better,” she concluded in a stern voice.

“I know,” I nodded and waved for Suzette to come in before she completely broke down. Suzette pulled the front of her coat closed and hurried to the door. The bell above the diner’s entrance rang once as the smell of damp December air followed her inside.

“Hi, Gabby,” Suzette struggled to get out.

“Not a word, hunny – just sit a spell,” I offered. But I could see she needed to talk. She needed to spill the bad that had happened to her so that the good left behind would make her feel better. I did the only thing I knew to do for her: I fixed her a cup of coffee. By now, I knew just how she took it.

Pushing my hand across the counter, I offered Suzette a napkin. When she looked up at me, I motioned a circle around my mouth. A small thread of blood crept from the corner of her lips and was threatening to travel toward her chin. Suzette was hurting. Probably more on the inside than the black and purple bruising showed on the outside. When I saw confusion and uncertainty in her eyes, I motioned with my hand again. A few of the diner’s patrons were stretching their necks – their eyes strained and reaching to see what was going on with the woman who’d cried a flurry of words before heavy sobs settled in. I didn’t want to pull any more attention in our direction.

Suzette nodded and fixed me a look full of humiliation. With her eyes watering, she ran the white linen over her trembling lip. She cleaned her mouth of the blood, which revealed a split in her lower lip. It was beginning to swell. Ms. Potts pulled another napkin and filled it with ice. The chunky sound of ice cubes thumped the counter as she placed it in front of Suzette.

“Need to get some ice on that lip – cool the heat that’s pushing the blood to swell. Cold will help keep it from bruising you,” Ms. Potts offered. Lifting the large frame of her eye-glasses, she glimpsed the purple and red skin rising around Suzette’s eye, and continued, “Can’t help much with the shine on your eye, though, but may bring down some of that bump.”

Wiping more blood onto the napkin, Suzette cringed and said, “I’ll never get used to the taste of blood.” When she reached to pick up the ice-pack, Ms. Potts took Suzette’s hand in hers and held it there. Suzette lifted her chin.

“Hunny – you shouldn’t have to. Nobody should,” Ms. Potts answered in a soft tone, and placed the ice-pack fully in Suzette’s open hand. Suzette looked as though she’d start crying again, but then she caught one of the sobs and choked it away before lifting the ice to cradle her chin.

“I know…” Suzette started, and then stopped to settle the shudder in her voice. “He’s not a bad man. Really, he’s not. I can’t even remember the last time…” she continued, but her voice faded and her stare dropped to the coffee in front of her. Ms. Potts raised her brow and shook her head. We’d heard the same before. Many times. At least a dozen times, in fact, during my last year of working at Angela’s. I wondered just how many times Ms. Potts and Clark heard the same before I joined them.

There was always a pattern, and I knew what was next. Suzette was going to defend her husband, James Wilkerson. She’d tell us how it was her fault, or how his bad day was allowance enough to beat on her. She was going to try and explain it away. Just explain it away with words she assumed were acceptable. No more questions. No concern. But we couldn’t do that. We never could. We’d listen and console, and, time and time again, we’d give her the phone numbers of folks who could step in and help.

“How long?” I questioned. My voice pulled her eyes up from her coffee.

“What?” she asked. “How long for what?”

“How long since the last time he hurt you?” I repeated. Suzette shook her head, surprised by the question.

“A month, or more? Maybe?”

It was my turn to take Suzette’s hand in mine. Her skin was cold, and her fingers were thinner than they should have been. I realized what I’d missed when she first came in, but now I could see it. She’d lost weight. Her skin was pale, her face tight against her cheeks. As anyone would do, my immediate thoughts were of sickness. A bug, or flu, or God forbid something worse. But then I considered how she lived day to day, every day. The anxiety that she carried inside her was like a hot stone that burned with the rise and fall of her husband’s hand. Just the thought of how she felt inside when hearing the front door open made something stir inside me. It felt like fear, and an odd pressure turned my legs jiggly.
Anxiety is eating her up. How can she live like that?
I struggled to understand it, but couldn’t.

Four marks, in the shape of flower petals, dressed Suzette’s arm. They were the colors of autumn brown with threads of summer green. Only, the marks weren’t the petals of spring flowers, they were the bruised places where her husband’s fingers had gripped her. They were no more than a week old.

“And these?” I motioned, and then continued, “How does your shoulder feel? If I turn your hand over, will I find one more?” Suzette put on a frown and darted shame-filled eyes to Ms. Potts, then back to me. For a second, I was tempted to turn her hand in mine and reveal the larger thumb-print bruise, leaving nothing to question. Suzette pulled her hand back and tucked it away under the counter.
Please
, she asked with her eyes. Ms. Potts brought over more coffee and refreshed Suzette’s cup.

“It’s okay, hunny. It’s okay. Just sit a while longer,” she offered. And before I could say a word more, I saw, from the corner of my eye, a coffee mug hanging high above a booth. With fingers looped on the cup’s handle, an older gentleman wearing a grime-stained
Keep on Truckin´
baseball cap motioned for some fresh coffee.

“Better tend to your table,” Ms. Potts said, handing me the coffee. I turned back to Suzette and stopped. In that moment, a pang of guilt bit me as I considered how I must have made her feel. I didn’t mean to make her feel worse. I just wanted her to see the truth.

“I’m sorry, Suzy – stay a while?” I pleaded. She nodded and pushed a smile, but then quickly reclaimed it as the swollen cut in her lip caused her to frown. When I reached
Keep on Truckin´,
he pitched his hat and lowered his cup.

“Ma’am,” he said, and gave an appreciative look as I poured the coffee. He was a regular, and still called me “ma’am.” A dozen times I’d told him he could call me Gabby, but he never changed his ways. I thought that was sweet.

“My apologies, and thank you for being patient,” I said, and gave him one of my better
waitressy
smiles.

“No problem. I didn’t want to call out, given the circumstances,” he started, and brought the cup up to his lips. “Fresh smell of coffee got the best of me, though. Always will,” he chortled, and sucked in the steam dancing just above his cup. Another sip, and he rested his cup back in front of him.

“Your friend gonna be okay?” he asked, his smile fading to concern.

“If we can get her to stay a while, then I think she’ll be fine, and –” I never finished what I wanted to say. The bell over the door interrupted, sounding twice as the door opened, and then closed. Suzette didn’t wait. She didn’t stay. Another pang of guilt bit me, regret beginning to join it. I should have let the petal-shaped bruises go. I didn’t need to prove a point.

When I looked over to Ms. Potts, she only offered a shrug of her shoulders. I’d hoped this time that maybe Suzette would have stayed. I’d hoped this time that she’d let us make some phone calls for her. I’d hoped – we’d
all
hoped – she wouldn’t leave again, only to come back broken and sad, or possibly not come back at all.

Turning back to
Keep on Truckin´,
I finished, “I suppose we won’t know, now.”

“Shame, such a pretty girl, too,” he started, and then picked up his coffee and continued, “I’ll pray for her. We can do that much, can’t we?” he said with a shallow smile. I returned a polite enough smile, but didn’t want to. The regret was replaced by frustration, which was an all too familiar feeling. Walking back to Ms. Potts, I considered the past year. We’d see Suzette from time to time. Some visits came with smiles and talk of going back to school and moving on. Other visits were like today, where the bruises cried for her. How many times had Suzette sat on the same stool, bleeding? How many times?
I’ll pray for her. We can do that much, can’t we?
I heard in my head.

3

“An order of coffee and tears!” Ms. Potts sang out, as the bell above the door rang, and echoed over our heads. A few girls – maybe thirteen or fourteen years old – pushed in through the door, and stood at the center of the diner. Shaking off the cold and wet snow, they clutched their arms in a hug to try and warm themselves.

We don’t always call out “Coffee and Tears.” I’d come to learn that we save that call for special occasions. Working at the diner from the late afternoon through the early hours of the next day, you see a lot of things. Some of them are funny, some sad. But most of all, you see those who, by chance, or by luck, find themselves at Angela’s Diner, ordering coffee, and, soon after, crying. Might be a bad breakup, or a lost job, or even the death of a parent or child; we’ve seen and shared a lot of stories. I’d like to think of ourselves as the diner restaurant equivalent of a five-cent therapy. We’ll give you the coffee, you supply the tears, and, in return, you’ll get an ear that will listen.

I recognized the uniform the girls wore – dark maroon skirts that came all the way up and over white blouses with blue jackets dressed around their shoulders. The girls were from the all-girls school a block or so away. And, just a few blocks in the opposite direction was their partner school, the all-boys preparatory school. The two schools collaborated a few times a year to hold dances. As the only diner within a few blocks, we had the privilege of getting the school rush after the dances. On those nights, we’d need twenty hands to help us with the wall-to-wall teenagers swamping the diner. I’m not sure what the occupancy limit is for our little place, but we never counted. It was always work, but I enjoyed the kids. And I always felt a little sad when the night ended, as though I were trying to reclaim a little of something I missed.