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‘Keep the change,’ he said, not even looking at me before storming out into the rain.
Chapter Four (#u02a9d526-0e2a-56d7-ae01-0b360232efdc)
‘See you’re all sunshine and light this mornin’,’ Mona had the audacity to say as she tied her apron strings. I glowered, dolloping vanilla ice cream into the blender to make some kid a milkshake. All night, I’d replayed my clash with Jack, resulting in little shuteye.
‘Well,’ I said, sticking my chin out, ‘I had a certain unwanted customer last night.’
‘Who?’ Mona knew who.
‘Patrick Swayze.’
Mona shrugged as though she still had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Jack. Jack Faber,’ I said, louder than I meant to. A woman in the corner wearing a red, hooded sweater looked over. Even from a distance, her green eyes pierced through me.
Mental note, Esther: lower your voice when ranting about budding actors who won’t take no for an answer.
‘So?’
‘So why’d you tell him I was working the late shift?’
‘All I said is that you was on later. He was a customer and he asked me a question. What you makin’ a big deal outta this for?’ Mona, put a hand on her hip.
‘A big deal? I –’
‘And I didn’t tell him anything,’ Walt piped up out of nowhere.
Turning, I scowled at the old man. ‘Walt? What did you say about me?’ I said, wishing I had something sharper than an ice cream scoop to shake at him.
‘Nothin’…’ He continued to cut his omelette into small pieces, looking at me over the top of his glasses.
I pressed my lips together and switched on the blender. The blades clattered and churned. Once pulverised, I delivered the milkshake to a sulky kid who didn’t even have the manners to say ‘thank you’.
‘Might’ve told him you like books but he could have guessed that for himself,’ Walt admitted once I was back behind the counter.
‘Look, I don’t interfere in your personal lives so I’d appreciate you paying me the same courtesy.’ I glanced between him and Mona.
‘Well, excuse us.’ Mona put her hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake from side to side. ‘We were just concerned that if we didn’t interfere you might never have a personal life.’
I looked at her, fighting a smile. ‘The wall-punching egotist with no understanding of personal space, that’s your idea of boyfriend material?’
‘What makes you think he’s an egotist?’ said Mona.
‘All actors are egotists.’ Our resident lady in red glanced over again from her corner. She had the hood pulled up on her sweater but I could still see her face was drawn, like she’d been fretting over something for a long, long time. As soon as she realised I’d noticed her, she again lowered those deep, green eyes and stared into her coffee. She wasn’t a regular. Knowing my luck she was also an actress and I’d just lost my tip.
‘Really? You’re protestin’ an awful lot,’ said Mona, drawing my attention away from the stranger.
‘Mona, come on… I’m serious.’
‘Hey Esther. Here’s one for you.’ Walt scanned along the crossword clues with the nib of his pen. The tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he did so.
‘You think after you gave sensitive information to the enemy I’m going to give you crossword answers?’ Quite a cruel thing to say to a Vietnam veteran, I admit, but a point had to be made. Hard as it was being alone, my life was complicated enough without these two stirring things up. ‘He didn’t even torture it out of you,’ I added.
Walt’s face contorted. ‘No. He gave me twenty bucks,’ he admitted.
‘What?’
‘He gave me twenty bucks to tell him what I knew about you. And I don’t know that much so, if you think about it, I played your enemy for a fool.’
He tried to snigger but I wasn’t amused. What kind of person paid an old man to get information about somebody they’d just met? Nice try, Faber. The drawbridge was up so you went in search of a rope to throw over the wall. Of course, I was already hiding behind the parapet, poised to cut you down with my sharp tongue. ‘Alright,’ I said, as Walt was starting to pout. ‘What’s the clue?’
‘Novel. 1938. First line: Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ The conspiratorial smile returned to the old man’s face.
‘Oh, come on, Walt. You must know that one,’ I said. ‘Haven’t you watched any Hitchcock films in your time?’
‘Too busy watching baseball. You know it, don’t ya?’ He pointed his pen at me.
‘Rebecca.’ Walt checked the spacing in his puzzle and nodded.
‘What’s your story, kid? One day you gotta tell me.’
‘Once upon a time I lived in England.’ I replenished the napkin holders along the counter as I spoke. ‘Then I got a job cooking omelettes in an all-you-can-eat-buffet in Atlantic City. Then I became a waitress in New York. The end.’
‘Gotta be more to it than that.’ He squinted, taking a sip of his coffee.
‘Well, knowing how cheap it is to buy information off you it’s best I keep the rest to myself.’
Walt grunted and returned to his crossword.
‘What’s with you?’ said Mona. ‘Why you so cagey ’bout everything? Particularly round fellas. You haven’t had one date since you moved here.’
‘I’ve got my reasons.’
‘Yeah, I’m listening.’ Mona stared at me hard. Waiting.
‘I’ve seen what men can do. That’s all.’ Mona raised an eyebrow, and my shoulders tensed. I knew that look. That eyebrow wouldn’t budge till I spoke again. ‘I knew someone, alright? Back in England. A woman. And her husband hurt her, really bad.’
‘Gawd, what he do to her?’ said Mona.
‘She died because of him.’ I folded my arms. Something about that last sentence wasn’t quite right. Wasn’t true. But it felt it. Deep down.
‘That’s awful.’ Mona shook her head. The lie scuttled down the back of my neck, making the hairs stand on end.
‘Yeah. She should’ve got out. I mean, she tried but she should’ve tried harder. Sooner.’ In fairness to Mrs Delaney, she did struggle the first time. But never again. Never again until the day she died.
‘That’s real sad, it is,’ said Mona, ‘but honey, not all men are like that, y’know?’
‘Why risk it?’ I said, catching sight of Walt’s paper. The city murder rate hit its peak that year and the headlines grieved the dead in black, dismal ink. Most of us had learnt to numb out the latest atrocity but that day’s story wasn’t the kind you just shrug off. Printed on the front page of The Times was a picture of a little girl. Back then we knew her only as Baby Hope. The image was a reconstruction of what experts thought she looked like. No one could tell from the corpse alone. It’d been a month since the police found her body decomposing in a cooler. They still hadn’t identified her. I read her story. Each word, a punch in the gut. Before her murder, the four year-old had been tortured, and raped.
I scrunched my eyes shut and leant on the counter. Blistering tears burned behind my eye sockets, and for a moment the world seemed darker and far away.
‘Er, Esther? You alright?’ I heard Mona say. I nodded. The bell above the doorway chimed. Only then did I risk opening my eyes, swivelling to see who it was. My shoulders relaxed when I realised it was just Julie-Ann, a wannabe writer in her forties who, thanks to three separate alimony pots, was a self-made lady of leisure. She came to the diner a few times a week to gossip and to work on her novel. In my limited experience gossip always took precedence. According to Mona, she’d been working on her book for over six years. The consensus was she’d never finish it.
‘Hi Julie-Ann,’ I called over trying to blot out what I’d just read, and felt. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
‘Oh, yes please. Definitely need a caffeine hit this morning. Had a late night – if you know what I mean.’ She took a seat and toyed with the ends of her hair which was permed into corkscrew tendrils and dyed with a colour she called ‘Deadly Nightshade’. To me, it just looked black. She was somewhat dishevelled which was unusual for her. The silk of her purple jumpsuit was creased. Her thick eyeliner blurred at the edges.
‘Was last night the night?’ Mona butted in. She was always first in line for customer tittle-tattle. ‘You even been home?’
‘I needed a coffee first.’ Julie-Ann gave in to an impish grin. She’d known she could cause a stir if she added the diner to her ‘walk of shame’ route map. ‘Last night he took me out to Staten Island for Mexican food, then we sat out looking over the water beneath the stars.’ Julie-Ann beamed. ‘I tell you, this is love. I feel like Barbra Streisand, you know, and Robert Redford in that movie.’
‘Oh, er.’ Mona clicked her fingers.
‘The Way We Were?’ I said.
‘Yeah!’ said Julie-Ann. ‘Oh, I love that movie.’ I resisted the almost crippling urge to remind Julie-Ann that Babs and her on-screen beau weren’t exactly booking a mini-break to Paris when the credits rolled at the end of that film.
The doorbell chimed and for a second time my eyes darted to the doorway but this time it was just Bernie, our boss. He waddled in and perched at the end of the counter. Bernie’s precise age was a mystery to me. He wasn’t greying but he’d lost a lot of his hair, which was brown and matted and concentrated on the sides of his head. His substantial tummy meant he had to sit some distance away from the counter surface. Even the effort of hoisting himself up onto his stool left him out of breath.
‘Morning, ladies. I see you’re hard at work as always.’ Poor Bernie spent much of his time trying to mask his contempt for women. His wife left him some years ago – a topic that was understood to be off limits amongst the diner staff. He’d never got over it, and now and then that old bitterness oozed out.
‘Everyone’s got their coffee, Bernie, don’t sweat it. You want some breakfast?’ asked Mona.
‘Yeah, ask Lucia to grill me some bacon, fresh,’ said Bernie.
‘You got it,’ Mona replied and we both disappeared into the kitchen. It was best to keep out of Bernie’s way until he’d had something to eat.
‘You gonna jump every time that doorbell goes today?’ asked Mona.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I mean, you’re looking at that door every two minutes. You’re gonna give yourself a neck injury at this rate. If I wasn’t so busy mindin’ my own business I’d say it was almost like you’re looking for someone particular.’ Mona crossed her arms. Slouched to one side.
‘She exchanged a stern word or two with Mr Faber last night,’ Lucia piped up, ‘maybe she’s lookin’ to make amends.’
‘Good to know you caught the whole show, Lu.’ Lucia threw some bacon rashers on the griddle and giggled. ‘I’m not looking for anyone. I have to keep an eye on who comes in. It’s my job to serve them,’ I argued. ‘Speaking of which, do you know that hooded woman on table twelve?’ I said.
‘Nope,’ said Mona, applying a fresh layer of pink lip gloss and using the microwave door as a convenient mirror.
‘Weird that she wears her hood up inside.’
‘Probably hiding out from some boyfriend who won’t leave her alone.’ Mona shrugged. ‘I seen that a lot. Course, you wouldn’t know anything about that kinda thing. Boyfriends, I mean.’
I sighed and left to take Bernie some coffee.
Although I tried hard not to react every time the door opened – Mona was watching me, ready to pounce with a quip – I did spend most of the day hoping Jack would be our next customer. We had numerous other punters: a tourist family from Belgium who wanted to see if maple syrup was a viable breakfast food; a loved-up couple in their twenties grabbing a burger on their way to watch The Exorcist III at the movies and a haughty businessman who tutted every ten seconds whilst we made his coffee-to-go. But Faber never showed.
By the time my shift finished at four o’ clock I was repeating the same phrase over and over in my mind: it’s for the best, Esther. For the best. I tried to think about Mr Delaney. The stench of him, up close. The feral glint in his eyes as he held her down. The ceaseless rhythm of him. But I could only hold these thoughts for moments at a time before they faded. Before I remembered the warmth of Jack’s hand on mine…
‘Mona, do you think I’m icy?’ I asked, changing out of my heels and into my trainers. Rubbing my toes to relieve the sting of the eight-hour shift.
‘Icy?’ Mona laughed. ‘Now, where’d you get an idea like that?’
‘Come on, tell me.’
‘Well, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say icy. But you definitely have a frost to you.’
I looked at the ground and pouted my lips to one side.
‘Aw honey, don’t you worry about it. Most people’ll just put it down to you being British.’
‘Oh, thanks. You’re a great comfort.’ I laughed in spite of myself. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Though it was after four, the heat out on East Houston Street was insufferable for anyone used to the soggy Augusts of England. I straggled along towards Clinton Street trying not to think about it all: the temperature and my emotional yo-yoing. A fire engine blared past. Nobody else paid it any heed but to me its peal was banshee-like. The exhaust fumes from passing taxis and buses created a suffocating cloud of smog and the air smelt of roasting nuts some vendor was selling on the street corner. A scent that mingled with the sweat hanging in the air and this, combined with the weather, left me nauseated. I rooted through my satchel. Amongst the empty perfume samples and loose sticks of gum and pulled out a bottle of water.
A phone booth further down the street caught my eye and a thought came to me. It was a thought that’d been skulking at the back of my mind ever since my conversation with the man at Coney. I’d done all I could to ignore it but what if he was right? What if the most frightening thing in this world was being alone?
I walked over and emptied out a handful of small change on the stand beneath the receiver. Picking up the phone, I pushed in the coins and dialled the one number I knew by heart. A click sounded out and then came a drowsy version of her voice.
‘Hello?’
‘Mum? Mum, it’s Esther.’ The line crackled. ‘I’m…I’m sorry, to ring so late, I forgot about the time zones.’
‘Esther? Oh God, I’ve been so worried,’ said Mum.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to settle into New York, you know, after Atlantic City.’ I paused then, thinking about the false start to my new life in America. It’d been just over a year since I flew into JFK, shipping out to Atlantic City shortly after, where I hoped to lead a quiet life by the sea. I should’ve known the town that inspired the original Monopoly board would be a town driven by greed, brimming with liars and cheats. At least in New York, the muggers were upfront about it.
‘Esther?’
‘Sorry, Mum. How are you, you OK?’ I asked, keen to keep this phone call as much about her as possible. The last thing Mum needed was to hear me sobbing down the phone from 3000 miles away.
‘I’m getting along,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ That was blatant Old Person Code for ‘I’m still breathing but that’s about it’. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know you are, love. I know.’ Her voice sounded strained. I looked to the sky, hating myself.
‘Mum, look, I was wondering –’ I took a deep breath ‘– do you want to come to New York? For a visit.’
‘Oh! Well, I could do that. When were you thinking?’ she asked.
‘As soon as you like or can get a flight. This phone booth is gobbling up all my change. But I … I just wanted to call,’ I said.
‘Alright. Well, call again in a couple of days and I’ll tell you what flight I’ve booked. It’s so good to hear from you.’ The strain in her voice had become a tremble and I wondered if she was doing that thing women do so well of letting silent tears slip down their cheeks over the phone, offering little indication of their grief to the person at the other end.
‘It’s good to hear your voice, Mum.’
‘Yours too,’ she replied. ‘I love you.’
