Bobby's Diner (13 page)

***

He walked in to the kitchen and
broke into her fantasy. “I don’t understand you sometimes, Helen. You seem to
be regressing rather than maturing. Have you been to the doctor lately? Maybe
you should consider seeing someone, someone
 
in
 
Phoenix or Las Vegas. Have you
thought of that? Maybe you need therapy or something. You’ve been off and I
won’t stand another bout of Helen’s needing this and Helen’s needing that. I
thought we fixed that years ago. When I get back from Phoenix you’d better have
some answers about your behavior and what
 
steps you’re going to take in the realm of self-improvement. I’ll stop
at Border’s while I’m there and pick up some self-help books too.

“Well, dear. I have to head out.
My appointment is just after lunch and I’m cutting it close as it is. You’ll look
into some doctors won’t you Helen? Call someone today and make an appointment,
but again make sure he’s in Phoenix or Vegas. We mustn’t have a scandal dear.
Please try to think less of yourself, you’re so selfish anymore. Must go.
Good-bye, honey. Kiss, kiss.”

He smooched at her. An annoying
little habit he had picked up during campaigning so that he didn’t really have
to kiss babies, just the palm of his hand if his lips had to touch anything at
all. He did the Nixon wave after
 
kissing
to crowds with his hand that almost Hitleresque salute with a little twirl at
the end.

Helen looked away when he closed
the doors past the yard, the neighbors, the trees again. She wrote in her
journal again with the next line.

Away,
away, away.

CHAPTER 21

Gangster was sitting in front of
the television set again watching for screen birds or screen mice or whatever
he watched the television screen for. The kitchen was a mess from
 
another day racing from one place to the
other; if not the diner, to the grocery store, or the post office for
stamps—one of those days when you seemed to be behind your ass instead of
in
 
front it. After cleaning, I decided
to relax for a second. A steaming white teacup filled the air with a sweet
vanilla scent and waited for me on the cocktail table next to Gangster.

After wiping down the counter and
putting away afew previously used items—a butter knife, a bag of bread, a
 
jar of peanut butter, a plate and a used
napkin—I went to the sofa and patted the couch for the cat to join me.

“Gangster, come here, pal. Sit
next to me.” He simply ignored me the way cats will.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty.” His tail
flicked with annoyance and his ears turned back. He refused to be disturbed
from his television show.

“Gangster, come on, kitty, come
here.” I was begging now. He turned slowly and rubbed against the leg of the
table and slowly around it to the sofa by me. I leaned to scratch his head all
the way down to the tip of his tail and he circled toward me to repeat the
consideration. I did.

The TV was rambling away when the
doorbell rang. Just before getting up to answer it, a commercial about Phoenix
local news came on previewing a spotlight on juvenile crime and who’s face was
there on the screen but our own mayor, Harold Pyle. The thought of Pyle being
on TV made me giggle as I
 
went to the
door. Looking through the peep hole I could see
 
the frail figure of Helen outside.

“Helen? Hi. You won’t believe
it…” With the door open I motioned her to join me inside. “What?”

“I just saw your husband on TV.”
Helen looked honestly surprised. “You did? When?”

“Just now. It was a commercial
for the news coming up. Why don’t you stay and we can watch together.” “Well, I
don’t want to impose, Georgette.” Gangster welcomed Helen by pushing against
her legs once, then twice. “Hi, kitty.”

“That’s Gangster, he’s the welcoming
committee.”

“Hello, Gangster.” She bent down
and caressed his long hair and he made this breathy cat sound that had a
distinct word wrapped in it, like “wow.” She smiled at me when he did.

“I know Gangster was really
hoping to watch me sit and read tonight but I guess we can put up with the
imposition! Of course, you’re not imposing! I’m happy you popped by. Come in.
Would you like to share a pot of tea with me?”

“Sure, sounds nice. I brought
this too.” She reached into that big bag of hers and pulled out a frosty bottle
of white wine. “I didn’t want to bust in on you empty- handed. I think you like
chardonnay, right?”

“That’s Vanessa’s favorite, but I
like it too. Oh, fun! How thoughtful. Let’s have that! Would you like a glass
of wine?” I headed back into the kitchen to get a couple of glasses.

“Sure.” Then, she transitioned
abruptly into a previous topic. “What station?”

“Hmm?”

“What station did you see Harold
on?”

“Oh! Sorry, um, five, I think,
Channel five. Sit down, they may show it again. I’ll be there in a sec.” It had
been so long since someone had just dropped in on me and I wanted it to at
least appear like I knew how to entertain. The deep primary colors of the
chanticleer hand tray were set off against the thick light wood of the
cocktail
 
table. French-styled napkins
and crystal stemmed golden wine glasses added an elegant touch to my
southwestern environment. Helen smiled when I presented the wine bucket filled
with ice and the bottle of wine set inside it and wrapped in a bright yellow
tea-towel. Returning from my second trip to the kitchen I brought back a
triangle of triple cream cheese, some gourmet crackers and a bowl of grapes.

“There. Have you seen him?”

“Not yet. They’ll probably repeat
the promo again in a while. Oh, cheers! Thanks, Georgette, this looks lovely.”

“Cheers.”

Gangster begged between us and I
poked at the creamy cheese and let him lick it off my finger.

“He’s beautiful.”

“He’s very spoiled. He can do
whatever he pleases around here, that’s for sure.”

“Isn’t that why we have pets—to
have their constant and unconditional love and to spoil them for it?”

“I suppose so. Oh! There he is,
see?” I pointed my attention to the television set.

“Harold.” She said it quietly
like he’d committed an venial sin.

We watched and waited for the
reporter to do her lead-in:

“More and more youths are
committing heinous crimes. Normally, we tend to think of this is as an urban
problem but urban sprawl is not only a geographical condition, it’s a social
condition, as well. Mayor Pyle how do you feel about this issue?

“Well, Linda, our town of
Sunnydale may not be big but we’ve seen big city issues

seeping into the skin our little
community. Sad, really. We’ve recently been the victim of a series of juvenile
offenses. After a string of crime we’ve collected plenty of evidence that tells
us we need proactive measures to curb the problem. I’m here today, in Phoenix,
to discuss these matters with a few of the good people here. Maybe if we put
our heads together, we can come up with a viable solution to this sad
situation.”

“Thank you, Mayor Pyle.” She
turned back to the camera. “Harold Pyle is the mayor of Sunnydale, Arizona
located about 65 miles north of Phoenix. Richard, back to you.”

“I thought they’d ruled out the
kids. Huh.” Helen’s chin lifted as if offering judgment on his comment. “He
never mentioned anything about a TV interview. That man never ceases to amaze
me.” She said it almost as if she’d forgotten I was in the room, or that she
was in my house. Then, she snapped out of it and looked down to gather her
thoughts. “Well,” she said as she grabbed her glass and turned my way, “here’s
to
 
Harold, politician
 
extraordinaire.”
 
Her
 
face
 
showed
 
no emotion—years of practicing in front of
the mirror, maybe. Or, could it have been she was sad? There was no reading
her.

“We really never know anyone, do
we Helen?” “Boy, that’s a fact.”

“You know, although Bobby and I
were close, there were times he’d seem to vanish from sight, poof! Gone,
like
 
that.”
 
Snapping my fingers I continued. “And, toward
the end, I didn’t even know he was sick. He never mentioned any problems with
his heart. He kept it from me—a secret.”

“We have lots of secrets, some we
even try to keep from ourselves.” The way she said it made me feel like someone
had run me through with a hot poker. She took a slow sip of wine. After she
blotted her lips and dug into her tote to find a tube of Chapstick, she applied
it, then threw it back inside the bag, and placed that big purse down again by
the leg of the table. When she did it remained open like a gaping mouth. Inside
I saw a big round bottle of French perfume. There was a pair of soft brown
suede gloves and a
 
journal propped
against the side of her purse with a pen attached to its cover. An envelope was
slipped tightly under the pen. It had a name written on it. One I’d never heard
of mentioned before, Wellen, was written on the envelope in familiar
handwriting, but I couldn’t place whose. Right then she must have noticed me
staring into her bag because she pushed it closed with the side of her leg.

“I write daily.”

“God, Helen. I’m so sorry, I
shouldn’t have been

peering inside your purse.”

“No, it’s okay, really. Not too
many people know I write. I’ve only told one other person.”

“Fiction?” Feeling guilty about
what had just happened I jumped at her offer to change the subject, a secret
subject at that.

“Oh, no, nothing like that.
Fiction just seems too difficult,
 
too
creative. I don’t know—I write in my journal every day
 
and write a few essays when the mood hits
me.”

“Essays, about what?”

“Well, the last essay commented
on society’s view of

beauty. I call it “Hands of
Time.” It begins with a writer looking at her aging hands as she types.”

“I’d love to read it someday.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I’m an avid reader.
Bobby and I used to read to each other. It was very romantic I thought.”

“Very intimate. Yes, that sounds
lovely.” “May I?”

“What?”

“Read your essay one day.”

“Oh, it’s very personal. I’m not
very good at all it’s just a hobby I have.”

“I bet you’re very good. What
does Harold think of it?”

“Harold! He’s never read anything
of mine. He’d call me foolish and I just don’t think I could ever let him see
anything I’ve written.”

“Helen. I’m sure he’d love your
work.”

“You don’t know Harold.”

“Please. He’s your husband. He
loves you. He’d love whatever you did.”

“That’s a sweet thought, however
I’m afraid we’re not like
 
that. Most
everything we do centers around Harold’s career.
 
Politics. We eat, breath, and sleep politics.”

“Well, when you talk about your
day, don’t you tell him what you’ve written?”

“Ha ha. No. No, I don’t.” She
took another slow drink. I could see how very forlorn she was. “Georgette,
you’re a very kind woman. I do enjoy your company.”

“Yeah, I think we get along just
fine, Helen. Here’s to new friends, eh?” We clinked our glasses together and
sipped to our toast.

“I know now why Bob was so
entranced by you. You’re
 
quite beautiful
and you’re so very kind. You have a good
 
heart,
 
Georgette. He used to talk
about you all the time.”

“Bobby did? You knew him.” I felt
like the earth shifted.

She blushed. “Well, yes, he’d
been in town forever! I knew him well, I guess. Actually, I feel like Bob was
my only true
 
friend. I knew Vanessa too.
But, Bob would sit with me after the restaurant closed and we’d talk. He was a
good man. And kind, like you.”

Helen was revealing a past I
couldn’t quite piece the puzzle to. I felt off-balance. Like the ground was
crumbling beneath my feet.

“Why, he never mentioned he knew
you. I don’t know if it might have ever come up, but, you’d think…”

“He mentioned you! Lots. I’m here
to tell you, Georgie, after Vanessa, you were all there was for him, ever.” Her
speech was loosening up and I realized the wine was hitting her.

“So, what did he say about me?”

“Everything! Christ, it was like
that was all that was on his mind. Georgie, this. And, Georgie, that. Hmm…” a
little more wine and down to the bottom of her glass.

“Here, have some more.” I picked
up the bottle by the towel like a sommelier in a restaurant and poured. “See!
That’s what I mean. He’d mention stuff like that. He’d say, ‘She has the cutest
little twang in her voice but it’s like she’s been all over the world!’ And,
he’d smile and stop talking. It made me crazy. You know, jealous almost. Not
because I wanted Bob or anything, but because I wanted that kind of love. You
know?”