Hope Was Here Page 11

  Gee, thanks.

  This reporter saunters up and asks me how I, an average all-American teenager, feel about the campaign. I try to look distinctive, tell him how G.T. wants to bring the town together by telling the truth and not playing favorites.

  “G.T. isn’t fake like so many politicians, he really wants to help people, he’s not in it for the power or the glory.”

  “Where is he now?” the reporter demands.

  I know he’s upstairs taking a nap because he’s not feeling too well, but I don’t think that’s the right thing to say. Then I think that G.T. would probably want me to tell the truth, so I do.

  “And how,” the reporter asks, smirking, “do you expect a man who isn’t feeling too well to run this town, or any town?”

  My mind closes up.

  The reporter asks me if I understand the question. I pour coffee into a man’s cup instead of answering.

  “Why would a teenager want to spend so much time on this campaign?”

  I feel the heat on my face.

  Point my number-two pencil at him.

  “Because I never thought about what it means to be a citizen before working on this campaign. I just took it for granted. Now for the first time I see how I need to take a part in the process, I need to think about my place in society, I need to say no to corruption even though there’s so much of it around. When you listen to G. T. Stoop, you understand the importance of being a honorable person, you get charged to fight for the truth, you get angry that so many politicians are playing games with people’s trust.”

  “Are you old enough to vote?” he asks.

  “No. None of us kids are.”

  Braverman’s loud ahem from the kitchen.

  “Except him.”

  I focus in on my order book like I’m figuring a check. I don’t like this man. Don’t trust him.

  “What if he dies?” the reporter asks like he couldn’t care less.

  I don’t want to think about that.

  The reporter stands there waiting. He isn’t going away.

  I hold my order book tight. “Then everyone here, everyone who’s known him, will have seen that there are people who aren’t trying to sell us down the river, aren’t being dishonest behind closed doors. I don’t know where you come from, mister. I don’t know what kinds of people have let you down. But for me, an average American teenager, knowing there are real people in the public eye or anywhere who are trustworthy and kind makes the whole thing worth it.”

  The reporter writes down what I said.

  “I hope you get it right,” I tell him.

  He smiles—not a mean one. Surprise.

  “He’s lucky to have you fighting for him. Can I use your name in the article?”

  I tell him my name.

  “Hope,” he says, writing it down. “There seems to be a lot of that around here.”

  From the kitchen I hear the sound of clanging pots. “You’ve got that right!” Braverman shouts.

  * * *

  I was closing up the Welcome Stairways with Braverman, cleaning the ketchup and mustard bottles, filling the sugar bowls. Braverman put on his Brewers cap and asked if I was okay.

  “My mother is coming to visit me.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Bad … some of each, maybe. I don’t know.”

  Braverman sat at the counter, folded his big hands in front of him. His bandage was off his forehead. The long scar would take time to heal. “I’ve got a father like that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I handle it. What else can you do?” He squeezed his hands when he said it.

  “I guess I handle my mother, too. She’s got some good qualities.”

  “I saw my dad just before you and Addie moved up here. He came into the diner, and I made him a pork-chop sandwich. He loved it; asked how it was made. We sat in a booth eating and talking about all kinds of things. I think meeting him here where I’ve really succeeded made a difference.”

  “I don’t know where I’m going to see my mom.”

  “You should see her right here, Hope. Let her see you doing your job. You’re the best waitress under thirty I’ve ever seen.”

  “Braverman, thank you.”

  I had to tell him. “She named me Tulip.”

  Braverman cocked his head. That didn’t register.

  “Tulip. Like the flower. It was my name for twelve years. I hated it. She’ll probably call me that when she gets here.”

  Braverman looked like he was going to start laughing.

  “I can’t laugh about it yet, Braverman.”

  “Is it all right if I do?”

  He didn’t wait for permission. He lost it right there.

  “That’s the worst name I ever heard in my life! Tell her, Hope,” he said between guffaws, “to never call you that again.”

  I looked down. He didn’t know my mother, Deena the Mouth.

  “Tulip!” he gasped. “What was she thinking?”

  I started laughing now, too. I’d never laughed about the absurdity of it.

  “I used to get nauseous in the spring when the tulips came up. There I was, walking through beautiful gardens, wanting to puke. Easter was torture.”

  Braverman was holding his side, laughing. He pulled himself together finally. “But you’re over it.”

  I looked at him.

  “You’re not Tulip anymore, no matter what she says.”

  He was right.

  He took off his cap and bowed. “I think Hope is the perfect name for you.”

  And with that he walked out the door.

  My heart flipped at that one.

  15

  I saw my mother before she saw me.

  Saw her walking up the welcome stairways, tossing her long, straight hair that was black like india ink. She was wearing tight jeans, heels, a beaded T-shirt, and sunglasses. She had a big canvas bag that read MIAMI MADNESS. Between her too-big earrings and the collection of bracelets on her left arm, she made quite a racket, which caused most people in the place to look at her as she made her way to the counter. She plopped on a counter stool, took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were heavily made up with the kind of mascara that “extends and magnifies.” I stood off by the coffee urn feeling a primal pull to the woman who gave me life and no connection to her whatsoever.

  From the kitchen, Addie raised a spatula—the cook’s hello.

  My mother waved excitedly.

  My turn.

  Remember, I told myself. The well is dry.

  I grabbed a coffeepot so I’d have something to hold on to, walked to the counter, and wasn’t sure how to get her attention because she was reading the menu like some people read a good mystery novel. So what do you do when your own mother who you haven’t seen for three and a half years is sitting there at your counter not even looking for you?

  She’d come for lunch, I guess, not me.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Her head cocked at the unfamiliar word—Mom, not hi—her eyes got big and excited, she grabbed my hand with her too-long ruby nails. “Now don’t tell me this is really you!”

  Deena Does Motherhood.

  “It’s really me,” I said, smiling weakly.

  “Tulip, I can’t tell you—”

  I put my hand over hers. “My name is Hope now, Mom.”

  “Oh well, I know, but I’ll just never get used to—”

  “I need you to get used to it.”

  Deena didn’t like that.

  Her light-blue eyes lost their sparkle.

  She took her hand away.

  She smiled fake. “I’ll try.”

  You do that.

  I’d read a book about anger once and how people can have it but deny they do, so it comes out in other ways. Passive-aggressive behavior, the book called it.

  Now Deena was back to reading the menu like I wasn’t there. I wanted to start screaming, Why did you bother coming back? Why don’t you just go for good?

  She ordere
d a grilled-chicken sandwich (semolina roll, avocado, mango mayonnaise) with sweet potato chips and iced tea. She ordered it like I wasn’t her daughter.

  I walked to the galley, fighting tears. I had to pull myself together.

  There’s no crying allowed at lunchtime rush.

  I called in her order to Braverman and Addie. As I said, “Mango mayo on the side,” I almost keeled over in grief.

  Addie leaned forward. “You want to take a break?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to be alone.

  I just stood there holding on to a big refill jar of sweet pickle relish. Every time my mother moved, I could hear her clatter.

  Braverman said, “You want to be a clown?”

  “What?”

  He took out a red sponge clown nose, put it over his nose, and raised one eyebrow.

  He looked completely absurd.

  I started giggling.

  He took it off, handed it to me. “Wear it for a while.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  I held the red clown nose; stood there for the longest time with the flurry of lunchtime pounding all around me.

  I put the nose over my nose and stared at Braverman, who started laughing.

  Addie cracked up, too.

  I turned around as Flo was coming round the corner. She stopped dead in her tracks, stared, and grinned.

  My heart was breaking, but this nose had power.

  I hit the counter, nose and all. And you should have seen those people’s faces, including my mother’s. Everyone was laughing and pointing and my mother started chuckling. I did a little twirl getting someone ice water—you can do things like that in a red clown nose.

  I felt my gestures getting broader and kids were pointing and laughing and all of a sudden I heard the two dings from the galley—my signal. I went to pick up my mother’s order with the mango mayo on the side. I stood in front of her, first flicking off the counter before her with a towel, like she was really important. I placed the dish dramatically in front of her and bowed.

  “That’s my daughter,” she said to the man next to her. “Her name is …” She caught herself. “Hope.”

  “Good name,” the man said.

  Well, that got me flying.

  I topped off coffee for the people at the counter, suggested dessert to a couple in the corner booth, blasted through some takeout orders, gave a teething baby an ice cube to suck on, which shut it right up. Mom was watching me and I was glad because I didn’t drop anything, didn’t spill, didn’t get upset when Yuri cleared away plates before the people at table six had finished their lunch. And when I grabbed my heart and leaned into their booth begging for another chance, I’d bring them more food, they laughed and said sure, they weren’t in a hurry.

  Everyone was watching me and leaving big tips. A little boy said, “I didn’t know there were girl clowns.”

  Stick around, kid, you might learn something.

  I did a funny walk to the ice cream serving area, lifted a maraschino cherry from a dish, waddled back to his table, and plopped the cherry on his nose.

  Little kids were coming up to touch the nose and I gave every one of them cherries. They were all walking around trying to hold the cherries on their noses. Sucking in the glory of being a clown.

  That’s when G.T. walked into the diner looking tired as anything, but he took one look at me and started laughing, too.

  I bowed low to the crowd, who applauded. Then I took the nose off and gave it back to Braverman.

  “You keep it,” he said.

  I stood there feeling the spongy red ball that had turned discouragement into hope.

  * * *

  I was sitting with my mother in the corner booth. Addie had sat with us for a while, but she had entrees to get ready for dinner. They sure had a funny relationship. I could tell Deena looked up to Addie—she was always searching Addie’s face for a response to whatever she said. I could also tell that Addie would never, ever believe that.

  It was almost time for Mom to leave. She had to drive back down to St. Louis to meet her new boyfriend, Eduardo. Mom liked men who had names ending in vowels.

  “What happened to Dino?” I asked. He was the last one she had mentioned.

  She flicked her fingernails on the table. “Old news.”

  Twice I’d felt like putting the clown nose on again.

  The first was during the boxing exchange.

  MOM: “Are you still boxing?”

  ME: “I gave that up a long time ago.”

  MOM: “Thank God, I was so concerned that you were doing that, I can’t tell you. You were such an angry child.”

  She always brought things back to the past. “I worked it through, Mom.”

  The second was during her fond farewell when she kept telling me how she hated having to go, it was wonderful to see me, and we’d have to do this again real soon.

  The best part was when she gave me waitressing tips. I wrote them down on the back of my order book. I’d write them in the Best of Mom book later.

  Keep cut lemon wedges under the counter so you don’t have to go to the kitchen for them—saves time.

  Keep a bottle of Tylenol in your pocket in case a customer has a headache. You get rid of that headache for them, you’ll see it in your tip.

  Don’t just ask people what kind of dressing they want. Tell them what you’ve got—they might try something new and be grateful.

  She gave me a quick, flimsy hug that people give when they’re not sure about themselves or you. She hugged Addie the same way.

  Then she said to me, “You’re quite a waitress now.” And she left in a cloud of too much perfume.

  I wish like anything my mom would treat me as well as she treats her customers.

  Ask me what I need.

  Take the time to see how I’m really doing.

  See that I’m hungry to know my real parents.

  But that word real—it makes it seem like Addie hasn’t done much, and that’s a lie. She’s done everything. I need to say my biological parents. But when you’re in food service, you understand that sometimes you’re making up for people in your customers’ lives who haven’t been too nice. A lonely old woman at the counter just lights up when I smile at her; a tired mother with a screaming baby squeezes my hand when I clean up the mess her other child spilled.

  You know what I like most about waitressing? When I’m doing it, I’m not thinking that much about myself. I’m thinking about other people. I’m learning again and again what it takes to make a difference in people’s lives.

  I watched Deena sashay down the welcome stairways; I felt sad and free at the same time.

  Welcome, friend, from whichever way you’ve come. May God richly bless your journey.

  I pulled the clown nose from my pocket, stuck it on my face, and headed up the back stairs to the apartment.

  16

  August was upon us. Hot, sticky, just like New York.

  I was in the kitchen, about to go on my break. Braverman was working the grill.

  Addie and G.T. were there, too. They were getting along a whole lot better now that G.T. had stopped interfering in the kitchen. G.T. was eating a hunk of her meatloaf and a piece of her prize apple pie, which looked like excellent break food to me. I sliced some of each as he said, “Addie, this is the finest meatloaf in America.”

  Addie waited for the next part because people were always saying something even greater about her apple pie.

  “This is my favorite thing of yours,” he said, cutting another slice of meatloaf.

  If this were a cartoon, steam would have come from Addie’s ears.

  “What about the pie?” she asked loudly.

  “Oh, it’s fine pie. I like your pie. But, Lord in heaven, woman, I love your meatloaf.”

  I was trying to gesture to G.T. to say something better about the pie.

  “Most people feel the pie is the standout dish in my repertoire,” she snarled.

 
“They haven’t had the meatloaf.”

  Addie said, trust her, they’d had the meatloaf.

  G.T. laughed. “Oh, there’s plenty of apple pies in this old—” and thankfully he realized the error of his ways. “But your apple pie is the finest of them all.”

  Addie said it was nice of him to say so, but it wasn’t either.

  “Oh yes,” G.T. declared. “It is the best.”

  Addie said, well, she appreciated the compliment, she’d had her share of apple pie compliments, certainly, but it wasn’t anything special.

  And that was when G.T. said kind of quiet, “Addie, I don’t mean to put you on the spot, and you can say no if you want to, but would you like to have dinner with me?”

  Braverman froze.

  Flo stopped making coffee.

  Addie looked right at him and said they had dinner just about every nigh.

  “I mean,” G.T. said, laughing, “in another restaurant.”

  Addie asked what was wrong with her cooking.

  It had been a while since she’d been asked out. Longer than me even.

  G.T. said there was a place in Redding a half-hour away that had terrific lamb shanks—not as good as hers, of course, but what about it?

  “I’ve got three pies and hash browns that aren’t done yet and two roast chickens with wild-rice stuffing that still need heavy butter basting.”

  “After that, then.”

  Addie said all right. She’d meet him at eight o’clock in the parking lot and he said he’d be happy to come to her door—it was only across the hall.

  “The parking lot or nothing,” said Addie.

  G.T. nodded and headed out the back door.

  Addie walked into the walk-in cooler and shut the door.

  I stood there not moving.

  “It’s about time,” said Flo from the galley window. “Those two are made for each other.”

  I’d never once thought of that.

  I caught up with Flo at the counter. “How are they made for each other?”

  She laughed. “They love food. All they do is work. They both have strong personalities and they’ve learned how to enjoy each other’s ways. Where have you been?”

  “Took him long enough,” Lou Ellen chimed in.

  Not that anyone asked me, but I wasn’t sure if this was a very good idea.