The Atheist's Daughter (3 page)

“It’s miles from here.”

“I could use the exercise.” She started across the parking lot. Taking measured steps, she fought the urge to run.

Please, please, please, Mister Piotrowski
.
Prove miracles can happen. Open your restaurant again.

Help me escape from Winterhaven.

Chapter Five

Piotrowski’s Café remained exactly as she remembered it. Two stories tall, its gingerbread trim and arch-top windows were meant to suggest a whimsical European eatery. While stylish touches decorated the lower level, the second story’s charm was diminished by patches of cracked trim and a strip of gray stucco.

Although she didn’t remember any of its customers complaining about the café’s appearance, Kristin felt the building’s need for repair detracted from its appeal. When she shared her thoughts with Martin Piotrowski, he offered his own opinion.

“Customers come here for the am-bi-ance,” he said, breaking the word into three pieces, “they’re in the wrong city. They want mood-lighting, they can go to Ashfork or Lincoln City. In Lincoln City, all of the swanky places used mood-lighting. People get hungry there, they pay fifty dollars plus tip at some fancy lunch place. The food won’t be very good but they’ll get a candle on their table.”

Martin believed in what he was saying. Opening his business, he sincerely thought good food, good service, and fair prices were all any restaurant needed.

“That and an ad in the Pennysaver,” he told her.

Poor deluded Mr. Piotrowski.

He was in front of her now, his thin frame visible through the building’s open door. He swept the floor, the broom’s bristles pushing at the dirt in short, steady strokes. Climbing onto the front porch, she ran a hand through her hair. She tugged at the bottom of her blouse, smoothing its wrinkles.

Shoulders back, she entered the building. “Mr. Piotrowski?”

His pale blue eyes glided over her before returning to the floor.

“Is there – ” Kristin paused, trying to find the right words. “I mean, are you opening your restaurant again?”

The broom stopped moving. Holding its shaft in his large-knuckled hands, he gave her his full attention. “You of all people. You should know.”

“Pardon?”

“This isn’t a restaurant. It’s a café.”

“I’m sorry. I mean – I
do
know that.”

“Restaurants are for loud and noisy people who don’t care what’s on their plate. Give them something frozen, stick it in a microwave, they don’t even notice. What do they know about quality? They eat biscuits and gravy. They eat those Sloppy Joes.”

“Yes.” With this single word, she tried to imply that eating Sloppy Joes was the equivalent of shoving your face into a pig trough.

“A café is discrete. A café is for the discerning few. When you worked here, we never had more than eight customers at a time. Did we?”

She shook her head.

“That’s why I went out of business!” He laughed. “Eight customers, what was I thinking? I should have served the biscuits and gravy.”

Leaning his broom against the wall, he opened his arms. Kristin stepped inside them, giving him a hug.

She realized with surprise that she was now taller than the old man. In the months since she’d last seen him, he seemed to have shrunk. She could feel his ribs press against her from beneath his white cotton shirt.

She squeezed her arms around him, her gaze resting on his balding head and its thin wreath of black hair. “I missed you.”

He stepped back. “It’s been too long.”

“I called.”

“Message machines, I hate them. Put your finger on the wrong button, you erase everything. Everything!”

“I sent you a card on your birthday.”

“A lovely card. It’s on the mantel, next to my ceramic pig.” Kristin remembered giving him the tiny pink pig when the café opened for business. “You need a job?”

“Me and everybody else. Nobody’s hiring.”

“Our poor, dried-up little town. In the end, only you and I will still be here. Kristin and Piotrowski’s Café. Sloppy Joes, our specialty.”

“You might want to ask Mrs. Piotrowski if she approves.”

“The missus?” Martin’s smile faltered. “She won’t care. But…I’ll ask her.”

Schhhct!
  His face shifted, blurring as a layer of age-blemished skin melted over his mouth.

Beneath the layer of flesh, his jaw continued to work. “Might be a while, though.” His words came to her as if they’d been spoken through linen. “She’s in Florida with her sister. All orange groves and sandy beaches.”

Kristin furrowed her brow in concern. “Where is she, really?”

He regarded her solemnly. Using his shirt sleeve, he dabbed at his eyes. “You always know. Always. How?” His thin chest rose beneath the cotton shirt. “It has nothing to do with her sister. Nothing to do with Florida. She’s gone, that’s all.” His voice broke on the last word.

Schhhct!
As if it had never vanished, his mouth was back.

“I don’t know where she is,” he said. “No phone number, no forwarding address. She doesn’t write. She hasn’t called. She just left.”

“Why?”

“Too many worries,” he said. “Things were bad when the café closed. Money problems, sure. Small battles, every day. Never a big fight, never anything important. I’d have done something if it had been important. All of sudden, she wants to leave.
Has
to leave.”

Sniffing, he wiped his eyes. “I never could lie to you, could I?”

Kristin remembered short, plump Chandra Piotrowski, her hair as full and white as her husband’s fringe was thin and black. Her happy, round face was slow to anger. In memory, at least, she adored her husband.

Kristin could hardly believe she’d left him.

“Nothing to be done about it, I guess.” Martin reached for the broom. “Things will work out. Everything always works out.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Kristin bobbed her head slightly. She swiveled on her heel, ready to leave.

“The job you wanted?”

She hesitated.

Martin twisted the broom handle between his fingers. “If I had one, I’d give it to you. This economy, it’s hard on everyone. I just don’t have any more money to lose.”

“So you’re putting the building up for sale?”

“For lease, maybe,” he said. “A few days ago, I get a phone call from California. Out of nowhere, this lady, this Mrs. Norton, she calls me. She wants to know, would I be interested in renting the building?”

“Are you?”

“Why not? It brings me nothing now.”

“How did she hear about the café?”

“I asked her the very thing. A nice voice, Mrs. Norton, pleasant. She said she’s visited the Haven a few times and always liked it. Came for the big Pumpkin Festival a couple of years ago and stopped here for a nibble.”

“That was just before you hired me.”

“So the service may have suffered but the food was still good. She liked it, anyway. Our place, it always served good food. Our eight customers, they loved us.”

“Yes, they did.”

“She’s talking about a four year contract, the first year paid in advance. If we agree to terms, she still wants to call it ‘Piotrowski’s’. Because of the reputation.” He practically glowed with pride. “She’ll run things with her family. They’ll work downstairs, live upstairs. I’ve told her, anybody decides to use the deep fryer, they’re going to smell the grease all night long.”

“Think she’ll need any help?”

“Depends on how big her family is, I suppose.”

“Does she seem nice? The lady from California?”

“Nice enough, I guess.” His face softened. “Paying a year in advance, it shows she’s serious. I wouldn’t talk to her if I didn’t think she was serious.”

Kristin reached out, taking his spotted, dry hand into her own. “Is this okay? Is this what you want?”

“Of course.”
Schhhct!
His lips dissolved into one another. “You think I want to open this place again? All the paperwork, the late hours, who needs it? Mrs. Norton can have the café forever as far as I’m concerned.”

Chapter Six

Summer

Twisting the doorknob, Kristin entered the house. Following the sound of soft music, she went past the tiled entry and into the living room.

Standing on a plastic drop cloth, Becky wore a paint-streaked purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the two top buttons missing. Her blue dungarees were streaked with color at the waistband and showed wear at both knees.

It was her mother’s work outfit; her uniform, practically.

So, Mom, what are you going to do when the time comes to replace those clothes?
Kristin wondered.
The jeans are interchangeable but the shirt is a one-of-a-kind crime against the fashion world.
I know it was Dad’s but it’s purple and hideous.

Once it’s gone, what will you do for a substitute? Wander from store to store, seeking some outlet barn with a huge inventory of 20
th
century fashion mistakes – or will you be forced to give up painting altogether?

For now, her mother stood in front of the wooden easel, contentedly working on the canvas in front of her. Passing through the room, Kristin couldn’t quite see what she was painting.

Abandoned farm silo, maybe? Weathered windmill?
She knew it was something along those lines, anyway. “Famished.”

“Fridge,” Becky replied.

Kristin padded out of the room, pleased. Too often, her mother got involved in a painting and forgot about food altogether. This time, supper was ready.

Ignoring the dirty pan in the sink, she pulled open the refrigerator door and leaned inside.

“Oh, no.”

A big blue bowl sat on the refrigerator’s lowest shelf. Dappled beads of water hung from its plastic barrier but didn’t obscure the contents inside.

Not mac and cheese. Not again.

This wasn’t anything like real macaroni-and-cheese, prepared with actual aged and seasoned dairy goodness. The gummy slop in front of her was colored instead by some powdered plaster-like stuff from a little tear-away envelope. Put the powder into water, stir it around, and drop the mess into a saucepan. When the contents turned an unhealthy day-glo orange, it was time to eat.

Cradling the bowl in one arm, she returned to the living room. “Care to explain yourself?”

“Hmmm?”

“Psuedo-food?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not every meal has to come from a box. Sometimes – this is gonna sound wild, I know, but trust me, I saw it in a documentary once – sometimes, people actually prepare fresh food.”

“My turn, my choice.” Becky brought the tip of her brush to the palette in her hand, its bristles moving from one pool of paint to another. Pushing the pigments together, mixing them into their own shade of pink, she brought the brush up. “Any luck with the job hunt?”

“A promise for an interview. In a month, if business improves.”

“That’s something.”

“It’s a kiss-off. I smiled prettily and left the application, anyway.” Kristin followed the path of the painter’s brush. “You’re not working on canvas.”

“I wanted to try hardboard this time.”

“It’s all curves and circles,” Kristin said. “That’s an awful lot of pink.”

“No pink at all, darling. There’s cadmium scarlet, yellow ochre, a little lead white. I’m trying for a dusky peach tone.” She examined the brush in her fingers. “This beauty is a new hog bristle brush, a Berkeley Number Seven. Special order and not exactly cheap. “

A needle of panic stabbed at Kristin. “How much?”

Becky wrinkled her nose, as if price didn’t matter.

“What are you painting, anyway?”

“Something a little bit different. More impressionist than realistic.”

“Your rep said everyone loves your landscapes. Your last show completely sold out.”

Sixteen paintings
,
each with a wonderful red dot in its lower right corner
, she reflected.
Each dot representing cash in the pocket and another bill paid on time. But Mom knows that.

You
do
know that, don’t you?

“Got a little tired of painting rustic weathered barns. Got a lot tired of painting tranquil country landscapes,” Becky said. “Aren’t you going to say hello to Susannah?”

Stretched across their worn flower-print sofa, the plump and nearly-naked Susannah Guitierrez wiggled her fingers in a greeting. Wearing only cotton panties, she posed atop a lavender bed sheet. She appeared remarkably comfortable with the rolls of flesh on her sixty-something year old body.

“Hi, sweetness,” she said merrily.