Chapter 7: At Miz Gryder's

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.