“The cafeteria has adapted the menu for our visitors. It took a little bit for Stan and me to come around, but I’m starting to like Afghan dishes. And Naghma, our head chef, passed on a few recipes for us to make at home. Care to grab a bite? You won’t regret it.”
The cafeteria is bustling and filled with the rich, tantalizing aroma of spices of Central Asia. The scents of turmeric, coriander, and cumin fill the air, along with the melodic spikes and dips of conversation in their native languages. It sounds musical, and I wish I could understand their conversations.
Although I wasn’t intending to join Dottie and Stan for lunch in the cafeteria, the aromas are so tempting that I decide to sample a few items.
“I’d love to give it a try. Thank you,” I say, eager to participate in the hubbub.
Dottie waves to an elderly man who is sitting at one of the long cafeteria tables across the room. He is wearing a workman’s uniform and has a full head of white hair. He sees her and grins broadly in a way I can imagine on the face of a much younger man.
“I should warn you—he’s a sweetheart but half-deaf, so if I yell, it’s for his own good.”
I smile. My parents never stayed with someone long enough to whisper about their idiosyncrasies with strangers. I hope to reach that stage in my relationship one day.
“I won’t judge,” I promise as Stan makes his way to our spot in line. Two small kids in front of us keep looking back at me with curious, playful eyes. The third time I catch their interested glances, I give them a wave with the tips of my fingers. The girl smiles and hides behind her mother’s arm, but the boy giggles and boldly waves back.
“Well, hello, beautiful!” Stan says in full volume to his wife when he reaches us, kissing Dottie’s cheek and placing his hand on her waist.
“Hello, stranger.” She returns his playful cadence, though at a volume I would never have guessed could come from the tiny woman. She leans into his embrace.
“You brought a friend.” He gestures in my direction. My nerves flutter. I wait for Dottie to mention Vivian Snow or Gracelyn Branson, one of my brothers’ names, or even my father, Clark McFadden. Or, God forbid, Dean.
“Yes, this is Elise. She’s on a tour of the base today for a movie.”
“A movie? Are you a reporter or a movie star?” he asks with a wink that I can’t resist. I never knew my grandfather; he died before my mom was born, but I love to imagine he would’ve been like this charming octogenarian.
“Nope, nothing as interesting as that. But your wife is going to be famous in no time. She’s a natural in front of the camera,” I joke.
“Dottie—I thought you gave up your days as a pinup girl when we got married.” He looks at her with mock horror. She blushes so brightly that I wonder if there’s some truth to his jest.
“Stan.” She smacks his arm.
“Don’t get me wrong; you’re beautiful, but I wouldn’t want some handsome heartthrob to steal you away.”
“I’d be worried, too, if I were you,” I say, playing along with the bit.
We reach a stack of plates and silverware. I follow the kids’ lead on the protocol. The little girl goes slowly, like she knows she’s teaching me a new skill. The servers fill my tray with rice and sauces, and then I grab some naan and a lightly fried dessert of pastry dough at the end of the line.
The kids sit at one of the cafeteria tables, and I pass them wistfully as I follow Stan and Dottie to their seats. I’d love to talk to the kids and their mom. I’d love to hear what life was like for them before, during, and after their flight from their home. Then again, bringing up those painful memories to satisfy my own curiosity could be cruel.
“You’re brave,” Dottie says. She has a brown paper bag perched on the edge of her full tray with a small bottle of white milk. “I always take a cold lunch in case things don’t settle well.”
“This looks amazing.” I dig in hungrily. My mouth’s full as I watch all the tables populate with staff and refugee families. The seat next to me creaks as someone takes the empty space. I glance over my shoulder, flavors and heat exploding on my taste buds.
“Miss Branson.” Father Patrick greets me. He’s dressed in a casual-looking but still priestly uniform with dark slacks and a black blazer, holding a tray full of food very similar to mine.
“Whoa,” I blurt out through a full mouth of food and then swallow quickly. “What are you doing here?”
“Thanks for the warm welcome,” he says, laughing at my shock.
“Father—they have Gosh-e fil today. It looks delectable,” Dottie says.
“Which dish is that?” I ask, scanning the selection.
“These.” He points to the sugary fried dough on my tray.
Dottie speaks louder this time. “They taste like elephant ears from the fair from when I was a girl.”
“Careful, Dot. The kids are gonna think we ate actual elephants.” Stan winks, and I wonder if they could possibly adopt me.
“Does someone write your lines? Are you wearing earpieces linked to a comedian somewhere? You guys are too hilarious.”
“Hey, don’t encourage them,” Father Patrick interjects.
“I can’t help it. They’re too darn charming.”
“No argument here,” Stan says, his hands up, grains of rice hanging off the tines of his fork.
“And bonus—Dottie knows everything about the history of this place. Which I’m finding completely fascinating.” I take another bite as Dottie brushes off my compliment.
Father Patrick dusts the rice off the table into a napkin.
“Before Operation Allies Welcome, I knew there was a base here, and we celebrate a mass at the POW chapel every fall but nothing else.”
Dottie’s whole body bounces on the bench. “Yes, Father is a history buff. We’ve become good friends.”
She winks at the priest.
“You’re gonna make Stan jealous,” Father Patrick says in a very loud mock whisper.
“Too late,” Stan says with a grin, standing up slowly from his bench seat. “On that note, I need to steal this lady for a few minutes if you two don’t mind. Father, could you keep an eye on the young one till my wife gets back?”
“Of course,” Father Patrick agrees.
Dottie taps my arm to get my attention.
“If they call you back to the set, you can leave. I’ll have Stan drive me back in his cart.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, dear,” she says sweetly as though I’m one of her granddaughters. As they walk off together, Stan takes his wife’s tray, returns it, and then claims her hand for himself.
“Are they really like that?” I ask, enthralled.
“Like what?” Father Patrick asks, not as interested in their timeless love story as I am.
“In love. Are they really that in love?”
He shrugs, also watching them leave, and turns back to me. “I have no reason to doubt it. Do you?”
“Nah, not really. I just . . . I guess I haven’t seen any relationship close-up without noticing all the flaws.”
“Well, there are always going to be flaws. No marriage is perfect, just like no painting is without its brushstrokes if you get close enough.”