At Last

Aside from a group of teenagers gossiping and giggling in a corner booth, and the septuagenarian reading a well-worn book a few stools away, it was just she and I. It’d been about a month since I started coming a few days a week, always during the lunch rush. I’d stand outside and watch through the dusty window to see what section she was in that day, then I’d go in and request an out-the-way table in a different section. The thought of speaking to her caused my chest to tighten and my armpits to sweat, but I’d watch. I’d order a club sandwich or steak and eggs, or whatever, and I’d watch her.

She’d pat regular customers on the back, smile pleasantly at first-timers, refill coffee cups and laugh with the other servers. Once, as she hurried past balancing no less than seven plates, she caught the corner of a highchair and everything went crashing to the floor. She yelled an expletive, stood with her hands on her hips and her brown hair falling messily for a few beats before kneeling to start gathering the mess. “Sorry folks,” she said. I bent to grab a fork that had tumbled underneath my chair. I handed it to her without saying a word, she took it with a frustrated smile and a “thanks hun.”

That was the extent of our interaction, but still, more days than otherwise, she was the first person I thought of when my eyes popped open in the morning and the one who inevitably invaded that fuzzy space between consciousness and sleep. On this day, I’d skipped the lunchtime visit and showed up late. She usually worked the overnight shift on Wednesdays, and when I peered through the glass from outside, there she was, wiping down the counter. I walked in and instead of an obscure table near the restroom, I took the middle stool at the counter.

“Evening. I don’t usually see you ‘round this time,” she said as I sat.

I didn’t think she’d ever really noticed me. “Oh yeah. Well.”

She was silent for a few seconds, probably waiting for me to put a real sentence together. When I didn’t say more, she said, “Can I get you a menu? Water?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

She filled a glass with ice and water, and sat that in front of me along with the menu that, by now, I knew like I’d written it. Then she shuffled over to the man with the book. “How’s that tomato soup treating you, Charlie?”

“Same as always,” he said in a voice that rattled and almost roared.

“Is that good?” She asked.

“It is what it is,” he said as he kept his eyes on his book – The Devil in the White City, I could see – and absentmindedly stirred his soup.

She turned from him to the coffee pot, and on the way, caught my gaze and rolled her eyes and smiled, just barely. She pulled the steaming pot away from the machine, and headed over to the teenagers at the booth. She filled their cups and asked if she could get them anything else.

“No. We’re good,” one boy said.

As she walked away, one of them said something I couldn’t make out and they all erupted in laughter.

“Two hours in that booth and nothing but coffee and a plate of fries for the table,” she said to me once she was back behind the counter.

“Kids,” I said.

“Kids. Can I get you something, hun? And don’t say coffee,” she said with a laugh.

“No, too late for me. How about a Greek salad? And I’ll try that tomato soup.”

“You got it.”

I’d finished my salad and most of my soup, which was actually really good, when Devil in the White City got up to leave, slowly and with several groans and grunts. And the teenagers had quieted. I watched as she walked around filling the ketchup bottles and replenishing the sugar packets.

“You still working on that or can I get it out your way?” She asked me when she finished.

“Sure, thanks.”

She cleared my plate and bowl, and refilled my water glass. “You been coming in here a lot lately. You get a job ‘round here or something?” She’d been watching me too.

“No, I work downtown,” I said.

“That’s a trek. You can’t like our slop that much.” She was running a rag through her fingers, eyeing me with a tilted head.

“No. I mean it’s good. But, no, I don’t come for the food,” I said.

“OK. What then?”

“I come for you.”

“Ha! I’m flattered, sweetie. But you’re a little young for me.” She wrinkled her brow.

I shook my head. “I mean …” I unzipped the messenger bag that had been sitting on the stool next to me and pulled out a manila folder. I sat it on the countertop and pushed it toward her. “You’re Liz Jenkins, right?”

“Yeah.” She had her arms folded, her eyes pingponging between me and the folder.

“And you had a baby in 1989 that you gave up for adoption? I’m Jason Littlefield. You named me Gregory, though. You’re my mother. That’s my birth certificate – born January 22nd in Red Oak.”

By now, she’d uncrossed her arms and one of her hands was covering her mouth. She used the other to pull the folder closer. She picked it up, took the certificate out and let it fall to the floor. She stared at it, not moving. After what felt like a day and half, she opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get anything out, the table of teenagers called to her. She jumped at the break in silence.

“Can we get the check please?”

“Stay right there.” She smacked the birth certificate down on the counter and rushed over to the booth in a near run. About halfway, she must’ve realized how fast she was moving because she slowed herself down. A minute later she came back, cash in hand, and fooled with the register without looking at me. I watched the kids slide from the booth and file out of the diner, the bell on the door clanging. She’d seemed to have finished the transaction but she kept her back to me.

“I know this is a lot, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ambush you at work. It’s just … I wanted to meet you. Look …” I leaned forward so I could get to my wallet in my back pocket. “… I’ll give you my card and you can give me a call – If you want. We don’t have to talk now,” I said.

“No.” She turned around. “I wanna talk now.” She walked over to me. I could see then that she had tears streaming down her face. She placed a hand on my cheek. “You’re so handsome.”

I could feel myself welling up.

“You want a slice of chocolate cake? Best in the county.”

I laughed, happy that she’d broken the tension with talk of cake. “My favorite.”

“Mine too.”

I watched her cut a slice from the three-tiered behemoth sitting on a glass plate on the counter. She brought it over along with two forks.

She took the first bite. “So,” she said, “tell me about yourself. Did you turn out alright?”

I took a bite of the cake. “I think so.”