Sisters in the Wind(4)
I’m not thinking about my work anniversary or the diner, but the last birthday cake anyone made for me.
Miss Lonnie surprised me with a fluffy white cake with pink royal icing made from maraschino cherry syrup. She’d decorated the cake with fifteen maraschino cherries and fifteen colorful candles. I hadn’t expected her to know it was my birthday. Or to know my favorite cake.
“I pay attention to the little things,” Miss Lonnie said. “You don’t talk much, but your big brown eyes say what you like and don’t like.”
Nancy interrupts the memory.
“Let’s have a bite now and save the rest for when we clock out.”
Wiping tears away, I nod.
Nancy’s calloused hands grab two forks. We dive into the teacup-sized celebration cake. The treat is free to customers if they mention a birthday, anniversary, or random accomplishment. You need to listen, though, because not everyone makes an announcement. It’s about paying attention to the little things.
I don’t taste the barely thawed cake. My memory conjures vanilla, cherries, a hint of almond, and a texture that melts in my mouth like cotton candy.
“You sure do remind me of someone, Lucy.”
If I had a dollar for each time Nancy mentioned my resemblance to someone she can’t quite place, I’d be able to afford a brand-new winter coat.
Nancy reminds me of someone, but there’s no mystery about who it is. She and Miss Lonnie are both older white women; each has a former-hippie vibe. Nancy has mentioned a church mission to Haiti. Miss Lonnie was in the Peace Corps in Costa Rica. Both believe in an honest day’s work and have the weathered hands to prove it.
Miss Lonnie had me wash dishes every evening while she scrubbed her gas stovetop and the aged white Frigidaire appliances until everything looked brand-new. After the dishes were put away, Miss Lonnie had me do the final step—wiping down the avocado-green Formica countertops—before turning out the kitchen lights.
“Doesn’t that feel good,” she’d say in the faintest Southern drawl each evening with her hand on the light switch. “A clean kitchen. Everything in order and ready for tomorrow. Makes your dreams restful, I swear.”
Miss Lonnie was right. At least for a little while.
* * *
It’s an ordinary Friday at the Pleasant Diner located in Mount Pleasant, which is also home to Central Michigan University and a Chippewa tribe casino. We open at six a.m. and close at two p.m., five days a week. Closed on weekends. Nancy and Tara arrive early to prep; they both leave as soon as we close. I stagger my arrival by an hour and stay later to wipe down all the tables and mop the floor. Nancy and I handle the breakfast and lunch crowd at the booths and tables, while Tara works the counter that runs the length of the diner. Tim is here all the time, from open to close.
First up, the silver-hairs who come for coffee and a slice of Tim’s homemade prune coffee cake. Their coffee must be hot, just this side of scorching. And you’d better never let the cup be less than half full. They don’t tip well, but they’re consistent. It adds up.
“Got a grandson who’d be the nicest boyfriend for you,” a customer says.
Last week, an old-timer mentioned a granddaughter. “Hey, I don’t judge,” he added with a chuckle while raising his hands in mock surrender.
I always give a polite smile and a nod before moving on to the next customer.
Silver-hairs want everyone paired up like Noah’s Ark. All they know is I’m a hard-working young woman with spiky black hair, wide-set brown eyes, tall and sturdy, with a large chest. Perhaps a bit heavy-handed with the black eyeliner. A few too many piercings and tattoos. But someone who keeps her cool even when one of them gets ornery.
If they knew everything I’ve done, they’d hide their grandchildren.
“Hey, turn that frown upside down,” Nancy says, gently nudging me. “We’ve got the rest of that cake waiting for us.”
Fridays always whiz by. Everyone is eager for the weekend. They even eat faster than on Mondays or Tuesdays, I notice.
Nancy was right about my having regular customers. A group of college students drop by. This crew of CMU students is theater majors, always talking about that semester’s production. Drama in the fall. Musical in the spring. Vocal, dance, and theory all in between. One guy has the latest gossip from every Broadway show, even though we’re a million miles away from New York City. He’s the same guy who says I look like a suntanned, Goth Audrey Hepburn, so I knew he wasn’t hitting on me after he called me “gorgeous” the first time they sat in my section.
Three high school kids show up even though it’s during school hours. They periodically skip classes only to spend the time complaining about the place. I’m tempted to mention they could get a GED and bypass the horrid school, but most people live for the complaint and not a solution. They go on and on. One girl takes issue with the entire concept of high school.
“It’s just a social experiment containing hormonal teens in a building with underpaid chaperones.”
“Try living in a group home,” I mumble while collecting their half-empty plates. “Lord of the Flies, but with less tenderness.” I get a laugh from the table, and an extra three dollars—one from each—in my pocket.
My favorite regulars are a young couple who are saving for the down payment on a house with a yard. Harley and Max tip what they can—a decent amount coinciding with payday every other week and a bit less on the off weeks. They work at the Indian casino, where employees get free meals. On their day off, they sit in my section and share a bowl of soup.