Mary
Parker was tired, but she didn't let it show on her face. She kept
smiling that bright, sunny smile at her customers, while her feet ached
clear up to her waist. When she leaned over to clean the thirtieth table
of the day, her stiff back complained vigorously.
It was rush hour at Hungry Jim's Cafe.
She
hadn't finished cleaning the table, before Gertrude, the sharp-nosed,
hair-netted woman at the cash register, called her name and jerked her
head vigorously toward a table where four famished customers waited
impatiently. Mary took one more half-hearted swipe at the vast desert of
salt left by her last customers (do they have food fights with the
stuff?). Then she straightened herself as much as she could, tucked away
a stray tuft of greasy brown hair, picked up her note pad and went over
to take the orders.
The
man on the left had a pot belly, was balding and dressed like a shop
owner. To his left, nearest the window, was an even bigger man with a
ruddy complexion, in overalls and long-sleeved cotton shirt. He wore his
red neck proudly, like a red badge of courage. He had earned it through
a lifetime of bending and
picking and working the soil. A young man in a t-shirt and yellow
baseball cap sat on the right side. On his face was plastered the smug
expression of a smart-aleck. When he saw the girl approaching, his
expression changed to something else.
She ignored his lascivious stare.
“May I take your order please?” Mary asked.
“Kin I have ENNYthing I want?,” the youth asked.
Mary
was plain. Her black eyes were two black holes without sparkle. If the
eyes are the window of the soul, there was nobody home at Mary's place.
Her nose was placed too low, almost touching her lip. Her fingers were
short and straight, and so was she. Her facial features were rough-cut,
like a preliminary sketch, not the finished drawing. There was some work
that still needed to be done on her.
Mary
said nothing, but turned to look at the man with his back to the
window. “And what will you have?” she asked. The rebuffed smart-aleck
lowered his voice a little, but not enough.
“Who would want to do her, anyway?” he said, elbowing his neighbor in the ribs.
Mary's
customer answered, “I'd like a hamburger steak, miss -- lots of gravy,
and bring a bottle of ketchup, yeah, and a cup'a kahfee.”
The farmer looked at her for a moment, then said, “You're new here, aintcha? I ain't seed you around here afore.”
Mary stopped. “Yes.”
Then
she turned and saw the young man whose back had been toward her. He
turned his face toward her, and looked into her eyes. He had an open,
honest face, with penetrating, intelligent black eyes, dark hair, clear,
smooth white skin, straight nose and mouth. In the slave South, he
might have been an aristocrat's son. He seemed out of place in this
company. Mary felt slightly embarrassed.
She took his order, and her fingers wrote down what he was saying. She looked into his face.
Mary
brought her order back into the kitchen, where Hungry Jim was sweating,
fussing and cursing over a hot stove. He looked at her peevishly.
“Don't
lose your tickets,” he snapped. “And don't forget to fill the sugar
bowls.” Jim had to get up at 3 a.m. each and every day of the blessed
year, excepting only Sundays, Christmas and New Year's. While the
farmers were still counting dream sheep, Jim was unpacking boxes of
bacon and starting the coffee for the breakfast crowd.
And
they would come. The thundering, ravenous horde, shouting and clamoring
for food. All mouth, like a nest full of hungry hatchlings. Hungry Jim
knew how a mother robin felt, trying to gather up enough worms to feed
her brood.
The
ballplayers were the worst. They would come each Friday night during
the season, after the game. They all wanted steaks, all cooked different
ways, and they all wanted them five minutes ago. They kept Jim running
ragged all night long. “More ketchup!” “Hey, about some more coffee over here?”
Each
night the kitchen had to be cleaned, and everything laid out for
breakfast the next morning. Sometimes, he didn't get to bed until after
ten. Then it was up at three again the next morning. Hungry Jim stayed
in a bad mood.
Mary served the food. She felt the eyes of the black-haired youth. Once, before she left the table, she returned his stare.
When the four of them got up to leave, he looked back at her once more over his shoulder.
The
rest of the day went by quickly. Mary softly whistled as she cleaned
the tables and filled the sugar bowls. She didn't mind when Jim barked
at her, “Be sure to be on time tomorrow.”
She hung up her apron and stepped outside, alone.
The
autumn sun was just going down behind Smith's Hardware. The street was
empty. Mary turned right and walked past the large plate glass windows
of Hungry Jim's Cafe, past the dark red brick store fronts, on down the
hill to the railroad cut, where the tracks sliced through a steep red
embankment. There wasn't a soul in sight.
Three
Notch Street ran all the way through the town. The name came from Andy
Jackson's campaign against the Indians. When Jackson's scouts came
through, they left three notches on the trees, for the army to follow.
On
the other side of the tracks, the road curved and climbed again. On the
left was the Piggly Wiggly; on the right Barnes & Glover Friendly
Funeral Home, followed by VFW Post #466. The business district quickly
gave way to residential. Trees, mostly oak and pecan, became more
numerous. The white pine houses started on the other side of Dunson
Street, which went past the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.
Mary
walked on down two more blocks, past the B & B store on the corner.
The B & B was a kind of forerunner for the neighborhood convenience
store. They pumped gas out front. Inside, a bewildering multitude of
odors greeted the customer's nose. The breath of new shoe leather and
licorce swirled together with herb tea, spices and fresh vegetables. The
B & B had everything from hardware to cold drinks.
To
get to Old Lady Gryder's house, take the second left, then the first
right. It's the fourth house on the left; the one with the water oak out
front and two pecan trees on the side. Out back is a huge old oak that
towers over the house. Its massive trunk is at least six feet in
diameter. Its limbs are as big as most trees. There are kingdoms in its
branches and leaves, where squirrels can skitter into the sky.
Concrete
steps, bordered on both sides by low, wide, stair-stepped brick
banisters lead up to the front porch, which extends all the way across
the front of the house.
The
house itself is made of heart pine, and there's not a nail in it. It's
raised three feet off the ground on brick columns, to keep the varmints
out. The wood floors pop and snap when you walk, but don't let that fool
you. The house is built solid. It sits on extra heavy beams, spaced
close together.
Everybody
knows Emmy Lou Gryder. And she knows everybody. Her late husband, old
Doc Gryder, delivered most of the people living in these parts.
Some
people might say Old Lady Gryder was nosy. She didn't look at it that
way. Her marriage to Doctor Gryder had not been blessed with children,
so she simply adopted the children he delivered, along with their entire
families. She knew the reason Mary Jo Cuthbert had to drop out of
school, and what Tommy Lee Jones was doing late at night when he was
supposed to be in bed. She wasn't poking her nose in other people's
business, she was just looking out for “her” family.
If
anybody got sick, Old Lady Gryder was right there with remedies and a
basket full of food. If there was a death, you could count on her to
bring fried chicken, cornbread, black eyed peas, squash, and banana
pudding. “The livin' still got to eat,” she always said.
Miz
Gryder was set in her ways. She had lived alone so long that she was
not accustomed to make allowances for other tastes, other modes of
behavior. She had no need of compromise. Until recently, that is.
Recently,
she took in a boarder; a young girl with a mysterious past. In
Centerville, every stranger had a mysterious past. If somebody's
great-grandparents had not been born in Centerville, their background as
questionable.
This
young girl was a complete stranger. She had suddenly appeared in town a
few weeks ago. Nobody knew where she came from, or anything about her.
She didn't have any family. She didn't have enough money to continue
staying at the hotel, so she looked for a room to rent. All the boarding
houses were full up, so Miz Gryder took her in. “At least, she doesn't
look like the kind of girl to be gittin' in trouble.” “I don't know. You
can't never tell. Sometimes, the homely ones will surprise you.”
When
Mary Parker came home, Miz Gryder was busy cooking. Her short, stout
frame slammed around the kitchen with authority. Pots and pans knew
their places. She whapped that biscuit dough and made it behave.
Everything she used often was placed lower than six-feet, four and a
half inches. That was as high as she could reach, on tippy toes.
“Hello,
Sug',” Miz Gryder called out when she heard Mary's footsteps creak on
the hardwood floor. “How did things go at the cafe?”
“Just
fine, Miz Gryder,” Mary called out from her room. She put down her
things and changed clothes, then joined Mrs. Gryder in the kitchen.
“Here
-- take these and set the table,” Mrs. Gryder ordered. Mary obeyed.
Mealtime at Miz Gryder's was a ritual. It was a solemn-happy occasion,
but very business-like. Everything had to be done in its proper order,
from setting the table to cleaning up. One did not start the butterbeans
before the biscuits were in the oven. One did not batter the chicken
before the cornbread was in the pan. And never, ever did one forget to
say grace.
Mrs.
Gryder bustled purposefully around the kitchen, rattling, clanging and
banging, while Mary backed into a corner and stood with her hands at her
sides, fidgeting. When they were seated at the table, after asking the
blessing, Mrs. Gryder looked straight at Mary with her hard, bright
blue-gray eyes. “So, hon, how's Jimmy doing?” (Miz Gryder had known
little Jimmy Mayfield, the present owner of Hungry Jim's Cafe, since the
rainy, stormy night he was born, actually in the wee hours of the
morning. It had been a hard labor for the poor girl, Jimmy's momma.
Henry hadn't gotten home until just afore sunup, wore to a frazzle.
Jimmy was a fat boy, and so natchly got picked on by the other kids.
Maybe that's why he turned out so ornery).
“Oh,
fine,” Mary answered. She found it hard to look into Miz Gryder's
intense, almost fierce eyes. The face was broad and rather square, with
heavy lines.
“I mean, how's the business going?” Miz Gryder snapped impatiently.
Mary looked up, washed down a mouthful of squash with iced tea, and said, “It was kind of slow.”
“That boy. He'll never amount to nothin.'“
They
finished their meal in silence. Then Mary helped Miz Gryder clear the
table and wash the dishes. After supper, Miz Gryder watched reruns of
her favorite TV western. Mary excused herself early and went to bed. It
had been a rough day.
