Feast for Thieves (10 page)

An extra helping? She hadn’t fed me anything yet, but my quizzical stare was short-lived. They were odd ducks, those Waymans, but any woman offering me food would get no argument my direction. I nodded.

She smiled, all teeth. “Now then, here’s what I propose. We have a lunch and dinner menu here, but a young man who’s a reverend is family to us at the Pine Oak Café. If it’s all the same with you, then don’t give a passing thought to the menu. Let me cook special for you each meal—it’ll be something different each day, and you won’t be disappointed. I had plenty of brothers growing up, and me and Cisco have a boy of our own. He’s about your age. Same build, same shock of unruly hair.” She reached over and tousled the top of my head.

I smiled quickly to show my concurrence. I reckoned once Augusta Wayman got a plan in mind, she wasn’t easily dissuaded. Besides, based on the quality of the peach shortcake I’d eaten the day before, I was sure whatever grub was coming my direction would be just fine.

“Oh-h-h-h good,” she said. “I’ll be right back. How hungry are you, anyway?”

It was a question without the requirement of an answer. Augusta was already gone before the question was fully out of her mouth. She hightailed into the kitchen, and I heard knives clattering and pots clanging, doors opening and banging shut. The lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet, and I was the only eater in the joint.

First to come my way was a big glass of milk. Seemed like something a mother would bring her twelve-year-old son, but
I wasn’t complaining. Next, Augusta returned with more manly fare. On the first platter sat two large pulled pork sandwiches with a heap of golden-fried potatoes on the side. The buns looked fresh baked, the barbecue sauce from the pork oozed out the sides, and the good smell wafting off the plate beckoned to me with more pull than a pretty woman’s perfume. Augusta garnished the meat itself with coleslaw. The creamy slaw sat right in the sandwich, between the meat and the bun, which I’d never seen before, but one bite in and I was a believer. My eyes rolled in delight, and Augusta let out a tiny squeal. The woman kept her eyes glued to me as I polished off the first sandwich—it didn’t take more than a moment before I dived into the second.

“The special ingredient you’re tasting is root beer,” she whispered under her gaze. “Back when I was pregnant, I’d eat those sandwiches every night, right up until the day I gave birth.”

She scampered back to the kitchen while I polished off the fried potatoes, then she emerged with another platter, this one laden with deep-fried hardboiled eggs. Those eggs were rolled in bread crumbs, and each tasted delectably crunchy. I cleaned the plate. Again she watched me closely, then left and returned again with a dish of meat rollups.
Braciole
—she called them, though I’d never heard the word before. I bit deeply into the first and sighed.

“You like?” Augusta asked. “I take boneless pork cutlets, beef cutlets, thinly sliced Genoa salami, garlic, flat-leaf parsley, and Romano cheese—roll them all up together in a flour tortilla, and there you have it.”

In no time flat I had eaten six. There were four more on the plate and I showed no sign of slowing down. She brought me another glass of milk and poured me a cup of coffee to further wash it down.

“Feel like some dessert?” she asked.

I sighed, fondly remembering the day before.

She whisked behind the counter, pulled out a plate of lemon
round cake, and cut me off a quarter section.

“There’s lemon pudding inside,” she whispered. “You like lemon pudding? Makes it go down smoo-oo-ooth.”

I grinned pure bliss and swallowed the quarter cake.

She returned in a jiffy with half an apple pie. I ate it in a wink.

Three freshly baked chocolate donuts followed. They jumped into my mouth and were gone with a lick.

“Lunch rush will be here shortly,” Augusta said wistfully. “I need to jig. Can I get you anything else?”

I was beginning to feel full, but I didn’t want to press my luck—neither with her generosity nor with my stomach, which was unaccustomed to feeling anything but empty. I politely assured her of my satisfaction.

“We’ll see you at dinner then. Oh—” She turned toward the kitchen, stopped, and reached into her pocket for a scrap of paper. “I nearly forgot to give you a message. Sal said the sheriff called over to the mercantile and set up a line of credit for you there. Figured you might be needing a few personal things until your belongings arrived. After that, you’re supposed to go see Gummer at the filling station. He’s working on getting a vehicle running for you.”

I nodded again. “Much obliged, ma’am. Thank you.”

“Go directly across the street for the mercantile, Reverend Slater. See you in a few hours.”

“Please, ma’am, just call me Rowdy.”

“Rowdy,” she said. “Reverend Rowdy.” Her eyes moistened.

I started to say something, but she was away in a flash. The whole interaction with her perplexed me a mite, as much as her feeding me so delighted my innards. It was noon and folks were pouring through the door now, bustling in, calling out orders. I decided to check out the mercantile. I needed to begin work on a sermon if I was to have anything at all to say on Sunday, but that could wait for a spell. My belly was much too full for my mind to
work properly, and I needed to walk carefully to balance all that food and not let it spill over into queasiness.

The mercantile looked like any old basic building in Cut Eye. The outside walls were unpainted red brick, and a lone lamppost sat outside. There was no awning nor window decoration, and the store looked altogether unimaginative. The sign overtop read simply, “Texas Goods,” and the bell jingled when I walked inside. Behind the counter, the owner looked withered and frail. He mumbled a fast hello, but I could hardly hear him, his voice was so quiet and quick. I walked to the counter and shook his hand when he outstretched it.

“Name’s Rowdy Slater,” I said. “You got a line of credit established for me.”

“I know who you are,” the man whispered with a flicker. “Name’s Woburn Jones. I’m one of the deacons at the church. Twenty dollar limit.”

Twenty dollars, I thought, well that was two months’ salary as a preacher, but at least that would buy me a suit, shirt, tie, and pair of shoes. I nodded and looked around the store. A half gallon of bleach cost 21 cents. Two boxes of cornflakes were 35 cents. Three cans of tomato soup cost a quarter.

“Where’s your suits, Mr. Jones?” I called out.

“Ain’t mmmph shonnn.” The shopkeeper mumbled the last two words.

“What’d you say, friend?” I walked back to the counter. “Sounded like you ain’t got none.”

“Correct. No men’s clothes, no. No clothes at all. We got socks and T-shirts and underwear but that’s it. That’s it completely.” He was still mumbling his words in a fast string.

“How come?”

“All the men returning from the war, that’s how come. Throughout the nation, all men’s clothing is on back order now. Same with cars. Same with houses. Too many men want the same
thing all at the same time. I’m sorry I can’t help you. Really am. I’ll put you on the waiting list.”

I stepped back and stared at him, not knowing how to proceed, then pointed to what I was wearing—my army jacket with the patches removed, a dirty V-neck T-shirt, dungarees, and boots. “But this is all I got.”

He picked up a pencil and nibbled it nervously. “Try Augusta Wayman at the café. She might have something that fits you.” He looked away. For a moment I thought I saw his eyes grow soggy, then he cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Really I am.”

I exhaled, wandered back to the aisles, picked out a pair of boxer shorts, a T-shirt, a pair of socks, a razor and shaving soap, a toothbrush and box of toothpaste, and some Arrid Underarm Cream Deodorant, and came back to the counter. I noticed by a sign overhead that the mercantile also offered cremation services.
Every detail is taken care of according to the most scientific principles that comfort and reassure
, it read. I filed that in mind. Mr. Jones added up my purchases, put them in a brown paper sack, assured me they were on my tab, and wished me good day. I ambled outside.

Well now, what was I going to do with this predicament?

Gummer would be at lunch. Augusta would be busy for an hour. I sat and waited, found a patch of grass and did a few sets of pushups, then waited some more. When the hour was over I decided to try Augusta first and walked back to the café. The lunch crowd was dwindling. I saw she had some waitressing help and another cook in back. It wasn’t Cisco, which I was fine with. Augusta greeted me with a warm embrace.

“Back so soon?” she asked. “Another cup of coffee maybe?”

“Afternoon, ma’am,” I said, and motioned down the street with a tilt of my head. “Woburn Jones at the mercantile said you might know another place in town I can find some men’s clothes. He’s plumb out.”

The woman twitched at the question. Not unkindly, only like she didn’t see the question coming. She twisted her mouth into a thinking pose and stood quiet for a moment. “You need them today?”

“Right away, ma’am, if you can.”

She blinked a few times, looked at the floor, then glanced at me, but it was an offset glance, like something powerful churned within her. “Cisco likes to sleep after his morning rush is over. He gets up so early, you know, and never sleeps well at night. But if you’d come upstairs with me, I’m sure we’ll find you something that fits.”

I broke into a grin. “Well that would solve a heap of my problems, ma’am. Thank you.”

She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Come along. Just please be quiet once we’re up in the apartment. I truly don’t want to wake Cisco. He’s so tired.”

I nodded. She led the way through the back of the kitchen and up a flight of stairs up to their living quarters. A door to the left was shut. I guessed that was their bedroom by the blare of snores coming from its direction. There was a kitchenette, a living area, a bathroom, and another closed door off to the right.

“Wait here,” Augusta said, and went into the other closed door.

She was gone a full twenty minutes. Maybe more like twenty-five. I began to think she’d forgotten about me or maybe fallen asleep herself, but finally she returned carrying a man’s black suit, a white collared shirt, a gray tie, and a pair of black leather shoes.

“Your feet about size 9?” she asked.

“Same as everybody.”

She sniffed and pointed to the bathroom. “Change in there. See if it all fits. If they don’t, I’m handy with needle and thread. Go on, now.” The floorboards creaked where she stood.

I went into the bathroom, shucked off my dirty clothes, and
changed into my new, fine apparel. It had been years since I’d worn fancy duds. In school it was all bibbed overalls and flannel shirts. In the Conservation Corps it was standard issue clothing. When we were garrisoned during the service, I hated to change into my dress uniform. Then, in prison, well, no man thinks of wearing nice clothes then. A mirror stood over the sink and I looked myself up and down. The shirt and jacket fit well in the shoulders. The shoes were snug but hardly used—they’d break in soon. The pants were a little short in the leg, but they’d be an easy fix. The floorboards squeaked again. Then, outside the door, it sounded quiet. Too quiet. I opened the bathroom door, still dressed in my new suit and shoes. Without looking up first, I said, “What do you think?”

Cisco Wayman stood directly before me. He was dressed in his bathrobe, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and appeared in that halfway state between dreaming and wakefulness. His mouth dropped open when he glimpsed me, and a smile crept up on the edges of his mouth.

“Danny,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”

TEN

I
was a deer in his headlights, and the hurtful knowledge of what I’d done rushed at me like it was perched on the front of a speeding semitruck.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wayman,” I whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. If I’d known, I never would have asked.”

His smile faded, and tears filled his eyes. His wife was crying too—standing three steps away from him.

“The boy needed some clothes to do his job,” Augusta said to her husband. “He was a perfect fit.”

In another flash Cisco’s eyes narrowed. He pointed at the door and yelled, “Get out of my house! You come into my restaurant without a job, and you come into my home and try on my boy’s clothes. You’re nothing but a drifter. I want you out this minute!”

“The boy didn’t know, Cisco. Be merciful on him. He just didn’t know.” Augusta was pleading now, hanging on the end of his arm. He brushed her aside, grabbed me by the front of the suit’s lapels, stood to his full height, and yanked me within an inch of my face. The blood rushed into his eyes and a vein throbbed deep in his forehead. I didn’t want to defend myself against a man who was grieving so hard, but I clenched my fists just in case he decided to whale on his wife instead of me. He held those lapels in his hands. His fingers twitched, at first involuntarily, it looked. But then I knew he was fingering the cloth on purpose, running his thumbs over the familiar texture. The anger fled from his face
and he began to sob. To my complete surprise, he buried his head on my shoulder and hugged me tight with both arms. “Ah Danny,” he cried. “My Danny … my Danny … my Danny.”