The Quaker Café (2 page)

The Judge
had become as much a part of the fixtures as the string of Christmas lights that decorated the front year round. The lights stayed plugged in from November through January, and around then the windowsills got dusted. White sheers stretched across the large storefront window and hid what accumulated between seasons.

Reproductions of historical buildings in the community hung in frames Frank h
ad ordered from his pharmacy catalog. Numerous colorful hand paintings by grandchildren were taped on the wall behind the register up front. A scratched oak sideboard set against one wall, and a matching china cabinet with similar nicks sat on the other. Miss Ellie had bought the two pieces together at an estate auction.

Eight square oak tables were scattered throughout the remainder of the room, each
surrounded by four captain’s chairs. After Walter had died ten years earlier, Miss Ellie installed white and pastel blue checkered linoleum on the floor, which brightened the room considerably, although ten years of scuff marks had taken a toll.

After Maggie
had settled her father into his chair, she joined her two best friends, Liz and Billie McFarland, at an adjacent table. Liz was not nearly so beautiful as Maggie, nor as diminutive and colorful as Billie, but she had her own set of credentials.

She’d be the one with a
great
personality
on a blind date. Cute by most standards in younger days, she now approached her fiftieth birthday and could still brag about her own natural hair color. Honey curls dominated her looks and complimented her frenzied life. Ringlets cascaded to her shoulder, each with a mind of its own. When she was younger and had more time to spend on hair, she attempted to straighten those unruly twists, but inevitably nature took its course. Forever fighting extra pounds, she envied both Maggie and Billie’s ability to eat French fries and desserts without suffering the consequences.

Chase
sat by her side, as he did every Thursday evening. A man more prone to let Liz chatter away than speak himself, he remained a silent observer. Billie’s husband, Gill, hadn’t joined them. A retired psychiatrist, he spent his days painting in an upstairs studio of their home. He accompanied Billie only when moved by hunger he could not satisfy with her gourmet leftovers. These two couples, in addition to Maggie and her father, were the only diehard liberals in town, the fact that cemented their relationship and brought them together each Thursday evening to share a meal.

Frank reached over and turned up the volume on a sm
all TV that sat on a side table. The television had been added in the mid-1980s when UNC played in almost every final ACC basketball tournament. In small towns like Cedar Branch that sat like scattered prairie dog hills between I-95 and the Outer Banks, sports were the primary entertainment. Following the basketball season the set remained silent except for weather alerts or breaking news.

             
Now there was some.

“Oh
, boy, listen to this! This is gonna do him in for sure,” Frank said loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the room as onscreen Gennifer Flowers walked through a throng of reporters accompanied by her lawyer. A sex scandal appeared to threaten the candidacy of a young political newcomer.

             
The door to The Quaker Café swung open. Sheriff Howard removed his hat as he walked in. Although he looked like a stereotypical Southern lawman, the Sheriff was known throughout the county as much for his gentle disposition and fairness as for his law enforcement.

             
“Sheriff,” Henry waved him over to the table. “Come over here and watch this.”

             
Broad shouldered and burly, gun holstered to his hip, the Sheriff nodded his way across the room.

             
“Whoa,” Frank let out a laugh. “Twelve years?  I wouldn’t want to be in that man’s shoes when he goes home to Hillary tonight.”

             
“He’ll deny it. You know he’ll deny it,” Henry chimed in immediately before the young candidate came to the microphone.

             
“I categorically deny the statements made by this young woman,” Bill Clinton said. “I did not have an affair with her.”

             
The VIP table burst into boisterous guffaws. Timmy Bates joined in, not sure what it all meant, but wanting to be a part of the party.

             
Maggie followed the hoop-de-do with some annoyance. Elbows on the table, she pulled her long black hair behind her ears with both hands. A shock of gray ran down the left side, a genetic snafu like her one brown and one blue eye. She inhaled. She and her father had supported the young governor from Arkansas as an early favorite. She could hear the taunts before they even started. “Men…” she muttered shaking her head. “Please Lord, help me survive this election.”

             
“What do you think, Judge?”  Frank said.

             
“How much more time would you give him?” Henry asked.

             
“Maybe a face-lift will do the Democrats good; something different from Carter, hey?” Frank egged him on. “Can’t accuse him of lusting only in his heart.”

             
Sheriff Howard pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table as all heads turned to look at the Judge. “Think he’s still your first choice, Judge?”

             
Maggie shot a glance at her father, and waited for a retort that didn’t come. He hadn’t taken the bait. This was unlike him; even when tired, the Judge would always rally to defend Democrats, and rarely missed the chance to insert a sexual pun when the opportunity arose. He excelled at verbal banter and innuendos.

             
Maggie turned to look over her shoulder. She sat close enough to reach out and touch him. “Daddy, say something.”  What she meant was
say something witty. Knock them out of their seats with one of your fast comebacks.
She paused…stared back at him and held her breath. Still nothing. Maggie rose from the table and turned cautiously to her father’s chair, leaning in towards him. “Daddy,” she said, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Daddy, are you okay?”

Frank reached over and turned off the TV
.

“Daddy, do you want to go back home to Cottonwoods?”  Maggie’s hand slipped
from her father’s shoulder to his wrist. “He’s cold,” she whispered.

             
A murmur rippled through the room. “Oh my God!” someone said.

             
Liz was on her feet immediately. “Get him on the floor.”  She didn’t hesitate now as her nursing background kicked into action.

             
Miss Ellie appeared within seconds. She looked around frantically, “Someone get Doc Withers.” So many other nights Doc was there. Why not tonight, too?

             
Chase and Sheriff Howard moved to either side of the Judge to lift him while a jumble of hands and arms struggled with his legs. Well over two hundred pounds his body hit the floor with a thud, but he was feeling no pain.

             
“Judge,” Liz said loudly, and shook a shoulder as she’d been trained. She hadn’t practiced nursing for years. She spent her days organizing and operating blood drives throughout the eastern region of the state, but still completed CPR training every year.

Feeling no pulse, she tilted the Judge’s head back, grateful that his eyes were closed
. His lips, tinged blue, were cold and pasty. When she pressed her mouth over his, it felt like kissing a cold piece of ham, not at all like Annie, the manikin she had practiced with. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew the odds.              

“His chest moved,” Maggie gasped
. “He’s still alive. Where’s Doc?”

             
“He’s on his way,” someone in the room reassured her.

             
Liz knew that what Maggie had seen was merely her air filling his lungs, but she didn’t stop to speak. Thirty times; pump, pump, pump; pinch the nose. Cover the mouth. Blow twice. Again and again and again.
Where was Doc?
She prayed he was sober and picking up the phone.

             
“Oh, thank God,” Maggie murmured in relief as Doc Withers burst through the door still in a rumpled coat and crooked tie, probably directly from a long day in his office. These two men had been friends since Doc set up his shingle in town forty years ago. Together Doc and the Judge had enormous influence within the community. Ten years younger, Doc was a heavy smoker and sundown drinker, but his willingness to show up anywhere, anytime, outweighed his personal frailties.

             
“Everyone get out of the way, and let Doc through,” Billie ordered as she pushed people aside. The third musketeer in Maggie and Liz’s trio of friends, Billie could be surprisingly forceful for someone so petite.

Chase moved next to Doc and steadied him
on one side as he braced himself with a chair on the other and sank to his knees with visible effort.

“It’s okay, Liz,”
Doc told her. “You can stop.” A stethoscope in hand, he listened for a heartbeat, and felt for a pulse. He checked a second time. With unexpected immediacy he clasped his two hands in a fist over his head and struck the Judge on the left side of his chest with all the force he could muster. Several people winced. Again he checked with his stethoscope. A second time his fists came down hard on his friend’s lifeless body. For one last time he moved his stethoscope over his heart and searched.

Doc’s shoulde
rs sagged. He bowed his head and wiped his nose with a sleeve. “Maggie,” he said, “I’m sorry…”

             
No one moved.

             
Maggie appeared confused. “Daddy,” she whispered, and leaned down closer to his ear. “Doc?”  She looked at him and her eyes pleaded. Doc shook his head.

She leaned back towards her father
. “Daddy, can you hear me?  I know you can hear me. Open your eyes…please.”

Doc
put his arm around her. “He’s gone, Maggie Darling. He’s gone.”

Maggie didn’t seem to hear
. “Daddy,” she said. “This is no joke. Please.” Her voice trailed off.

             
Miss Ellie stepped up and rested her hands on Maggie’s shoulders. If she could have been on the floor next to Maggie she would have, but her knees wouldn’t bend down as easily as they used to. Someone moved a chair up behind her and she sat. “Could we give Maggie a little space, please, a little time to absorb what’s just happened?”  She added more softly, “Maggie and
me
.”

             
Heads nodded. People pulled napkins out of the dispensers to wipe their eyes. Billie immediately slipped back into the kitchen and started to clean-up. It wasn’t her kitchen, but the two women followed her lead. Billie McFarland, a known commodity in both the white and black communities, could organize anything at the drop of a hat, and proved so once again.

She returned to the dining room with Styrofoam containers. First in pairs and then in groups, people scraped their meals into the boxes and left money on the table. Chase and Billie removed the dishes. Maggie, Doc and Liz remained on the floor with the body, while Miss Ellie sat, her thick layers of make-up now streaked with tears.

“Shall I ca
ll the funeral home?” Doc asked so quietly that only Maggie, Liz, and Miss Ellie heard.

             
Maggie looked at him bewildered. “Not yet.” 

No one moved
.

“Could
you get him a blanket?” Maggie asked. “It’s cold here on the floor.”

             
Liz looked at Doc, and then up at Miss Ellie.

“Of course, dear,” Miss Ellie rose
. “I have a couple in the back.”  She returned with three blankets. Two she spread over the Judge and the third she draped over Maggie’s shoulders.

             
“Could I just have a few minutes alone with him?” Maggie asked.

             
“All the time you want, honey,” Doc said as he strained to pull himself up. “We’ll just go in the back room.”

             
Miss Ellie retreated to the kitchen to finish cleaning and usher the staff out the back door. Chase and Liz huddled for a moment and then Chase headed home to relieve the babysitter watching their two youngest of four. Their older boys were now young men living away from home, no longer available to babysit as they once did.

Doc, Billie and Liz retreated to the
meeting room off the dining area that provided a little privacy for groups of no more than fifteen. “We’ll stay with Maggie,” Liz insisted. “We’ll call when she’s ready.”

             
“Thanks,” Doc said. Suddenly he looked tired, and much older. Undoubtedly he needed a drink. “I’ll alert the funeral home to expect a call.”

Sitting
on the floor alone with the Judge, her legs curled beneath her, Maggie brushed back her father’s thick hair. She had reminded him to get a haircut, but he’d procrastinated. With long strands hanging across his forehead he looked oddly disheveled and stale, not at all like the Judge who had held court for over three decades, and demanded proper attire for anyone who entered.