The Quaker Café (4 page)

             
“Do you think I look like her?”  Maggie asked.

             
Liz looked across at the portrait in the dim light. “The eyes are a dead give-away. You can’t deny the eyes.”

             
“They are, aren’t they?”

             
“But you’re your father in and out—your personality, your gorgeous black hair. You’re tall like your daddy. Your mom wasn’t all that tall, was she?”

             
“They tell me only about five foot two. Like Billie, I guess, shorter than you.”

             
“You have your mama’s straight, narrow nose,” Liz said.

             
“Daddy had a narrow nose, too, before he got kicked by that horse. Look at the picture of him downstairs on his desk, when he was about eighteen.” 

They sat together, staring at the portrait, waiting for Sarah’s voice to break the years of silence and answer the many questions that surrounded her past
.

“Well,” Maggie said as she stood up suddenly, “I might as well decide where they’re going to dig the grave
. Let’s get it over with.”

             
A dull headache hovered at the base of Liz’s neck. She had hoped to get some sleep before taking on what the new day would bring. “What time is it?” she asked.

             
“Almost 6:00. The sun’s starting to come up. I need your advice.”

             
When Maggie headed down the stairs, Liz followed. Once on the ground floor Maggie detoured into the kitchen and banged around, pulling out filters for coffee.

             
“I need to call Chase,” Liz said across the room. When he picked up the phone instantly, Liz could hear Nicholas and Evan in the background, and an occasional bark from their two collies, Jasper and Lady. Evan was undoubtedly teasing them with dog bones in his partial efforts to teach them to sit. Actually, they sat pretty well. They were old dogs, not inclined to learn tricks or, for that matter, to perform any of the old ones. Generally they could be found lying on one of the two dog carpets in the family room or in the sunny part of the front yard.

             
“How’s Maggie?  Chase asked.

             
“Okay, I guess.”

             
“And you?”

             
“Exhausted. We’re headed out to the cemetery to decide where to dig.”

             
“You going into work today?”

             
“I have to, at least for a few hours. Billie promised to be here by 7:00.”

             
“I’ll get the boys to school.”

             
“Chase, do you think you need to call your folks?  I thought about them last night.”

             
“I know,” he said. “I’ll try to catch Dad at the café before he goes in, so I’m with him when he gets the news.”

             
“That would be good.”

             
Since Liz and Chase had moved into their own home, Chase’s dad joined him every morning with coffee in hand. At first Euphrasia had made the coffee for Grandpa to take with him, but in more recent years, Grandpa let Grandma sleep in. He stopped at The Quaker Café, picked up two cups to go, and two ham biscuits, and carried them across the street to the pharmacy. This bonding time between father and son had become somewhat of a ritual, and if Grandpa didn’t show up, Liz or Chase would always call to check.

             
“Good luck with the grave thing,” Chase said.

             
As it had turned out, she needed more than luck. Maggie got more distraught by the minute.

Chapter Three

In a Southern town, where good manners take precedence above honesty, Maggie was one of few who would give it to you straight. Her father’s prominence made it possible; but there were times that her blunt remarks made even the Judge shake his head and lower his eyes in a quiet gesture of disapproval.

   She was her daddy’s darling
, but some things were not said in public. In Cedar Branch you never knew if unintentional remarks might reawaken racial tensions that hovered beneath the surface like thousands of fire ants.

Over the years Liz had figured out that the town had wounds that had never been healed. She imagined that some were related directly to the
Kendalls, given their position in local society; but she never could find out exactly why. Specifics were distasteful. When she hinted for more information, mouths snapped shut and eyes twitched. The past was better left buried beneath the layers of civility and politeness. It kept neighbors from having to build too many fences, or worse yet, buy more guns.  

In contrast, the Quakers chose to remain silent unless
clearness led them to be a witness to their faith. They had witnessed against slavery. They had witnessed against segregation. Their witnessing now focused on education, prison reform, and adequate housing for the poor. Their social interactions were much like their meetings for worship; full of quiet waiting and gentle, but persistent nudging.

              At Cottonwoods, Billie arrived on time as promised and climbed down from
Tank-Tank,
her burgundy Land Rover, as Maggie marched into the house. Billie lifted her black Scottie, Webster, out of the seat. This morning Webster was adorned with a lavender rose collar that matched Billie’s blouse. Billie had a large silk flower pinned to her bodice and a loose fitting magenta skirt. A thimble of a woman to go with a thimble of a man, Billie dressed in an array of pink outfits she’d brought with her when she moved ten years earlier from New York City with her husband.

No one in town wore something like this for anything other than a party, much less on a Friday morning
. Billie wore such outfits every day of the week and set the standard for fashion in this small corner of the state. But first impressions could be deceiving. She was a hard hitter. She had survived New York City, and could damn well make it in Cedar Branch, too.

Some thought her most impressive accomplishment was surviving Gill
. Gill was a moody man, not prone to a lot of social interaction, possibly because his career in psychiatry had taught him that when you knew too much about people, you didn’t usually like them all that well. He had thought that if he and Billie retired to a small rural town as complete strangers, he’d be left to pursue his painting uninterrupted by the constant demands of the city. Quite the opposite, small towns make individuals even more conspicuous, and those who are the most secretive attract the most attention. In contrast, as evidenced by her dress, Billie loved attention, and for the most part provided enough gossip to alleviate Gill from having to furnish any more. A stranger to no one, she quickly ingratiated herself with everyone in town and loved the way she could stand in a grocery line and gab her way into anyone’s life. She asked questions. People answered. When she’d hired a black maid and invited her to sit with her on the side porch every day for lunch, Maggie and Liz fell in love with her. Her naiveté about Southern norms was irresistible.

              Billie joined Liz at the back door of Cottonwoods and listened to Maggie banging around in the kitchen. “How are things going?” she asked.

“Not too smoothly.” 

They entered together and cast their eyes across the room as Maggie slammed a cupboard door.

“She’s badmouthing Quakers and swearing at the burial options,” Liz said.

“There are options?”

“She can’t figure out whether she wants to be cremated or not.”

“Whether
she
wants to be cremated?”  Billie’s eyes opened wide, “I thought she needed to bury her father.”

“Well, it’s evidently a package deal.”

“Can either of you fix this?” Maggie shouted into the den. “This damn coffee pot isn’t working.”

“I’ll get it, Maggie,” Billie said and moved towards the kitchen
. “Go sit down.” 

                In that way Billie began to do what she did best—manage. Just as she managed her home, the finances, and Gill’s eccentric lifestyle, she was competent in any social setting. The Judge was well known throughout the state. There would be dozens of inquiries from people who would expect to be recognized and treated with some deference. Billie would acknowledge them with courtesy and respect. Maggie was apt to ignore everyone and head off in God-knows-what direction. Billie could provide balance.

“What would you like for breakfast?”  Billie asked.

“Just coffee, lots and lots of it,” Maggie said.

Liz walked over to Maggie, who had started pacing again
. “I need to get home and change and then head into the office for the morning.” 

Liz had a thirty-five minute commute to her
job in Westtown. “Billie will be here to help with the calls.”

“Oh,” Maggie said. She seemed surprised.

“Just for a few hours, hon. I have to clear a couple things off my desk and make sure someone else handles them. I’ll be back by lunch time, promise.”

“I understand,” Maggie said
. “Hey, listen.” Her voice softened and she walked over and put her arms around Liz. “I appreciate what you tried to do for my dad at the café last night.”

 
              Liz felt her throat tighten: this was Maggie, fussing at you one minute, and hugging you the next. “I’ll be back soon, promise.”

“After lunch would be good,” Maggie said.

The French doors opened and in walked LuAnne Perry, surprising Liz and Billie.   LuAnne had been coming in at 7:30 each morning to help the Judge with whatever he needed before he went to the café for breakfast. In recent months, as the Judge’s needs had become more demanding, Maggie had talked about finding extra help. LuAnne was getting older. She’d often be sitting on the couch reading scripture to the Judge as they waited together for Maggie to come down. Maggie would joke that the Judge was bathed, shaved and saved before she was even out of bed.

 
LuAnne had fed Maggie breakfast and gotten her off to school when she was a child. LuAnne had been there for Maggie when she got home. She was as much a fixture at Cottonwoods as the Judge and Maggie. But now almost seventy, she only did light cleaning: straightened up the rooms and washed the few cups and saucers in the sink. Once a week she changed the sheets. Most of the clothes went to the cleaners. Given that the Judge and Maggie ate all their meals at The Quaker Café, LuAnne never cooked.

Silence enveloped the room
. Maggie immediately crossed the distance between herself and LuAnne. Now Maggie must provide comfort.

“It was so peaceful,”
she reassured LuAnne as they folded into each other’s arms. “He had friends around him. He just slipped away, almost as if he’d stepped out of the room for a minute.” Tears brimmed in both their eyes. “I kept thinking he’d come back to us…open his eyes and sit up and start talking again, but he didn’t.”

Then
LuAnne was once again the caretaker. “Oh my baby, my poor little baby.” She reached up and took Maggie’s face in her hands and brushed back Maggie’s hair. “What’s my baby going to do without her daddy?”

Chapter Four

Liz drove back
to the home she and Chase had built and did her Houdini shower and change. Their house was a mere half mile away from Cottonwoods, but sat on the edge of the Potecasi Swamp outside of town. In some ways Liz found this appropriate, since even after twenty-five years she was still considered an outsider.

The size of their house was deceptive
. At first glance it appeared to be a one floor ranch with a wrap-around porch, two bedrooms and two baths, and a large family room and open kitchen. When Chase and she had it built, they insisted on large windows to incorporate the hardwood growth and the vines and plants of the wetlands. In contrast to the dark, sluggish feel that most people associate with swamps, she found them mystical and calming.

T
hey had picked this particular location because the land dropped dramatically behind them as it plunged into the soggy black waterway. This allowed for no flooding, to date anyway, and a half basement that couldn’t be seen from the front of the house, plus an additional view of the swamp from the lower level. The extra eight hundred square feet of space downstairs allowed for two more bedrooms, a bath and a play room large enough for a ping pong table. When their two oldest boys, Nat and Adam were in high school, the basement had become the
man cave
which they kept as dirty or neat as they pleased. Since it was out of sight, Liz never fussed and rarely went down. For the time being, Nicholas and Evan were sharing the second bedroom on the main floor, but Liz knew a time would come when they’d move downstairs, too.

  Liz pulled up to the curb in front of
The Quaker Café and ran in for an order to go. The family’s pharmacy sat directly across the street, with the hardware store, the bank and the Judge’s law office on the same side. The Post Office, a small grocery, a barber shop and a gas station shared the side with the café. All the buildings dated back to late 1800’s, when a fire had swept through the one block of business and devastated all the wood structures. From that point on North Carolina red brick was the only thing anyone used to build.