Hope Was Here Page 4

  A man shouts from across the room. “G.T., how are you going to handle the stress of campaigning and being mayor if you’re fighting for your life?”

  G.T. leans against the dessert case across from the register. “Because I’m more interested in living than in dying. And I want to bring as much healthy change into this town as I can before I go. I’m a short-order cook, Morgan. I always do more than one thing at a time.”

  Everyone starts laughing.

  I’m pouring coffee. The secret when you’re in the weeds is to keep the coffee coming.

  Flo is racing from the kitchen with her arm full of burger specials and not dropping one french fry. I’m taking orders, getting food, squeezing past people, experiencing the fierceness of food service. I look out the window. The line to get in the diner is curling around the block.

  Yuri rolls his eyes. “Lines like Russia.” He rushes to a booth with water and setups.

  “Take booth eight,” Lou Ellen snaps at me like I was born knowing where it is. She points to the six-top by the register. A six-top is a table that seats six people.

  I’m there. Mercifully, they order fast.

  I pour more coffee for the people in the corner booth in Lou Ellen’s station. She stalks me into the kitchen.

  “That’s my table.”

  “I was trying to help.”

  “I take care of my tables.”

  Then why were they out of coffee?

  A woman perched at the counter wearing a straw hat and a big flowered dress shouts, “Aren’t there laws in this country that say people running for elected office have to be healthy?”

  G.T. smiles. “Cecelia, our town charter says anyone can run for mayor who’s a resident, thirty years of age and up, and a U.S. citizen.”

  She writes that down on her notepad and nods at me. “Cecelia Culpepper. Editor of the Mulhoney Messenger.”

  “Hope Yancey.”

  “Nice name, kid.”

  I’m running everywhere juggling thirty-five things in my head, fully focused, heart pounding. I wish I knew the menu better, but you’ve got to start somewhere and it might as well be hard and fast.

  A kid throws his spoon at his baby sister. I’m there to catch it before disaster. I hand it to his mother, who looks at me gratefully.

  Full-service waitressing. We feed, protect, and defend.

  Flo rushes past me, laughing. “You’re getting into it.”

  I grin. “Oh yeah.”

  Braverman shouts, “Burger specials on four up and ready.” That’s me. I rush to the galley window, layer the plates on my left arm. A woman says, “G.T., you have no political experience. Why should we vote for you?”

  G.T. says he’d been on the school board, he helped get the emergency health center built. He’s lived in this town for twenty-five years.

  “How long have you known about the dairy’s unpaid taxes?” a man shouts.

  “Just before Christmas last year,” G.T. explains. “I tried to see Eli about it three times, but he wouldn’t meet with me. I decided the only thing left to do was make a public statement. But leukemia hit. It was all I could focus on for a time. I apologize to all of you for being selfish.”

  Everyone starts talking at once.

  A hand on my shoulder. It’s Flo. She’s introducing me to her friend Brenda Babcock, sheriff’s deputy. Deputy Babcock is close to the most beautiful African-American woman I’ve ever seen—her cheekbones were to die for.

  “Brenda just got transferred here last month from Minneapolis. She’s the toughest law enforcement officer on God’s earth.”

  “I crush bad guys under my heel.” Brenda Babcock grins and shakes my hand. “Seems we’ve come to town at an interesting time, Hope.”

  I smile back at her. “I guess so.”

  I look at the line outside waiting to get into the diner. Sheriff L. Greebs is glaring at people like a prison guard.

  “G.T.,” an old woman shouts. “How sick are you?”

  “I’ve had one round of chemotherapy, Emma. I’m hoping it will put me into remission.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” someone yells.

  “Then I’ll do it again.”

  Man.

  I push my bangs back. Face the counter. A big guy with a long face slides onto a stool—doesn’t look left or right—grabs the menu. He’s there to eat and get out. I go up to him, smile glowing.

  “How are things with you, sir?”

  “Fine.” He says it flat. “Coffee black. BLT.”

  Now my heart tells me this guy needs more in life, so I take a shot. “You ever had a cheddar burger with grilled onions and mushrooms on pumpernickel, sir?”

  That takes a minute to sink in.

  Then he slaps the counter, grinning. “Bring it on.”

  I sense he needs more.

  “You want a malt with that, by any chance?”

  He did, of course. “Chocolate,” he says, beaming like a kid.

  Now he’s loosening up.

  It’s a privilege to touch humanity in such a fashion.

  I race to the kitchen window, call the order in.

  G.T. is holding up a wad of paper. “My petition’s right here if anyone wants to sign it. The Election Board says I need two hundred registered voters to get on the ballot officially.”

  Not many people come forward.

  An old man with a wrinkled face scans the petition. “I don’t know, G.T. I get a lot of business at my store from the dairy. I think signing this might hurt me.”

  “It might at that,” G.T. acknowledges.

  “I’ve got to think about it, too,” says a woman. “My husband and son work at the dairy …”

  Sheriff Greebs is in the doorway.

  The woman sees him. “And they love their jobs,” she says nervously. “They really do!”

  “I’ll sign that thing.” The black man I’d seen driving the church van when we first came into town strides forward, bringing bolts of energy with him. He has a fat mustache peppered with gray.

  Flo is standing behind me. “That’s Pastor Al B. Hall of my church. They’re real good friends.”

  “I sure appreciate it, Al,” G.T. says.

  Pastor Hall takes the petition. He pushes back his hat and looks at G.T. “You got any more surprises for today?”

  “Maybe.” G.T. grins.

  Pastor Hall signs the petition, slaps it in G.T.’s hands, takes him by the elbow, and yanks him toward the counter where I’m pouring coffee.

  “You could have mentioned this to me,” Pastor Hall whispers. “Good Lord, man.”

  “I figured you’d try to talk me out of it.”

  “You’ve got that right. You’re always going off like a fool, not telling people what you’re doing!”

  “You going to vote for me, Al?”

  “I’m going to pray for you.”

  “Afternoon, Pastor,” says Flo sweetly, indicating with her eyes that the whole diner is trying to listen in.

  The two men face the crowd, thump each other on the back, and smile.

  And now several people with GOG T-shirts come up to sign; that brings a few more people. Flo stands in line.

  I wish I was old enough to sign that petition. When you can carry five full dinner platters on your left arm, you should be able to vote, even if you’re not eighteen.

  * * *

  It had been an exhausting Memorial Day. I’d gone through two order books and gotten all the food hot to the customers, except for the broiled chicken breast Mexicana that I had to send back to Braverman because he’d put cheddar cheese on the top even though I said hold the cheese. Being a grill man, he wasn’t about to admit he was wrong. You can’t argue in these instances—it wastes time. Speed and delivery are what makes a good waitress, and you learn to compromise along the way to get that food delivered and your customers taken care of. When I apologized to Braverman for the mistake, he nearly fell over. My mother taught me to do that on my thirteenth birthday—the last time I saw her. She s
aid there are three hard and fast rules that every professional waitress has to follow:

  (1) The customer is always right.

  (2) The cook is always right.

  (3) If the customer and the cook disagree, and you can’t settle it, your tip is history.

  I have those rules in my Best of Mom book that Addie made me keep from the time I was little. Addie said even though my mother hardly came around, she was still an important part of my life, and it was up to me to save and remember the things she passed on.

  On cheap tippers: “Don’t take it personally; they were deprived somehow as children.”

  On low-fat entrees: “They sell well enough, but nobody’s too happy after the meal.”

  On regular customers: “Talk to them, remember what they say, and ask them about it tomorrow.”

  On men: “They tip better when they’re not with their girlfriends.”

  On children in restaurants: “Play up to them. Their parents love it.”

  I’ve kept all the Christmas letters she sends, too. I guess I appreciate the contact, but it’s weird having a pen parent. I didn’t get the Christmas letter once and got worried. It came on Groundhog Day. Mom had met the man of her dreams in Las Vegas, a blackjack dealer named Roberto. She was in such bliss she got nothing done until she realized what a slimeball he was and told him to take a hike. She wrote “Fa la la la la la la la la” at the bottom, which is how Mom sees a lot of life.

  The last time I saw her she looked so uncomfortable I thought she was going to jump out the window.

  She told me I looked good, but didn’t make eye contact.

  She told me it’s okay I changed my name and kept calling me Tulip.

  She told me she loved me and never came back.

  Staring down hard truth takes guts. Once Addie told me that unless a genuine miracle happened, it was a safe bet that Mom wasn’t going to change.

  “I know it’s hard to handle,” Addie started, “but if I lie to you now it’s only going to make things worse later on. It doesn’t mean Deena doesn’t love you. It means she doesn’t have the tools she needs to be the kind of mother you want her to be. She didn’t lose them somewhere along the way, honey. She never had them to begin with.”

  The well was dry—that’s what I concluded. I wrote a poem about it once—free verse—I can’t rhyme for anything.

  I had expected the well to be full for some reason.

  Not that it had ever been before.

  I kept looking for signs of water in the dark insides.

  I heard my bucket clank as it hit

  Against the walls that held nothing.

  I looked at the bucket that came up empty

  And made a decision that changed my life.

  I will keep my bucket and find another well.

  Harrison said I should submit it to the poetry journal at school, but I never did. He said I should give it to my English teacher for extra credit, but this wasn’t something I wanted published or graded. Harrison wrote a two-page poem about his deep feelings of loss when his dog Filbert died, and Mrs. Minerva, the creative writing teacher, gave it a B-minus. Do you know what that does to a person to get a B-minus in Grief?

  I was filling saltshakers and napkin holders, wondering if G. T. Stoop was going to kill himself with this campaign. Wondering if there were any interesting teenagers in such a dinky dairy town.

  Braverman walked out from the kitchen holding a stack of papers with lines on them. “We need to help G.T. get this petition signed. There’s a bunch of us going out tomorrow to start.”

  A creaking door of friendship was opening. I knew zip about politics, but admitting that would not have been shrewd. “I want to help. Is it okay I can’t vote yet?”

  He looked at me like cooks do when the server before them has done something stupid.

  I guess that meant it was okay.

  “What if someone asks me a question?”

  Braverman leaned against the counter. “Tell them G. T. Stoop has the courage to face anything in this world and come out ahead, and that’s what this town needs.”

  I could tell by his face that he meant what he said. “I guess you know him pretty well.”

  “When my mom was out of work, G.T. gave me a job waiting tables, then he taught me to cook.”

  “Wow.”

  Braverman was zeroing in on a ketchup bottle.

  A long, weird silence.

  “So, Braverman. Do you … ah … go to the high school?”

  “I graduated last year.”

  “You go to college around here?”

  “I can’t go to college right now.”

  Dumb, Hope.

  He shuffled the petitions. “You know how to lock up?”

  “I’ve got the key. Flo showed me.”

  “The back door sticks.”

  “Okay.”

  He walked out the door before I could apologize.

  My life, so far, in Wisconsin:

  Worked all day.

  Irritated the cook.

  “Good night, Braverman,” I said to the closed front door.

  I walked in the back to lock up, put the key in the lock, jiggled it like Flo showed me. Jiggled it again. Again.

  It wouldn’t lock.

  I tried for ten minutes every which way.

  I felt like I used to when I was little and we’d just moved. I’d be standing in some new hall holding my new apartment key and not be able to open my new front door.

  “Come on!” I jiggled the stupid thing.

  I hit the door hard like I used to, felt the sting in my hand.

  I felt like crying. I didn’t want to be here.

  A light went on behind me.

  I stiffened.

  “I have trouble with that back door, too.” It was G.T. He walked right up to me, took the key. “I am one sorry mess with keys. On my wedding day I locked my keys in my truck along with my rented tuxedo. Had to kick in the window of that pickup just to get married.” He hit the door, jiggled the key a few times. Finally the lock clicked shut. He looked at me, smiling. “Best not mention that on the campaign trail. Cancer and key dysfunction might be more than the voters can handle.”

  I laughed.

  “Go on upstairs and get some sleep now.”

  “Thanks.” I headed for the door.

  “You’re a fine waitress, Hope. You know how to connect with the people.”

  I looked back at him, grinning.

  There wasn’t a better thing that a boss could have said.

  6

  Grimes Square, o-eight-hundred.

  I was with a group consisting of Braverman and four teenagers from Mulhoney High, members of the Students for Political Freedom Coalition. Adam Pulver, pug-faced president of the club, shook my hand like he was running for Congress—a force.

  Adam handed out clipboards with petitions and pens and made sure everyone knew the rules.

  Only registered voters from town can sign.

  Only legible signatures are accepted.

  Always thank people for their time whether they’ve signed or not, even if they are jerks and morons.

  Braverman tossed a peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth.

  Adam raised his mechanical pencil. “If any information is wrong on these petitions, if a person signs who thinks he’s registered and isn’t, if an address is wrong, whatever, the signature doesn’t count. Too many of those and we could get kicked off the ballot. I’ve seen it happen again and again.”

  Again and again was doubtful since Adam was, maybe, seventeen.

  More teenagers were showing up to get petitions. It didn’t take long to find out why.

  Leon: “G.T. gave me a job busing tables when my dad had an accident and couldn’t work.”

  Jillian: “G.T. let my cousins live in his extra apartment when they couldn’t pay the rent on their house.”

  Brice: “G.T. sent food every week to my family when my mom was in the hospital.”

  Adam Pu
lver faced the group. “It’s not going to be easy out there today. But remember, our cause is just.” He squinted into the sun like a hard-bitten campaign pro and said with a slight crack in his voice, “Now let’s get out there and do something for America.”

  “He always says that,” Jillian whispered to me.

  * * *

  Doing something for America is trickier than it sounds.

  “You tell me what this world’s coming to,” a plump woman with a plump child said to me, “when the voters’ choice for mayor is between a dying man and a crook.”

  “Well …” I began.

  “I’ve known G.T. for twenty-five years,” the plump woman continued, “and there’s no denying he’s a fine man, but that doesn’t qualify him to be running for mayor with no experience and leukemia to boot.”

  She had a point there.

  I looked desperately around. Braverman was behind me listening in.

  Help, I mouthed.

  “G.T.’s been on the school board,” Braverman countered. “He helped us get those dangerous steps repaired at the high school. He brings food to people when they’re having financial trouble.”

  “That’s true.”

  “He worked hard to get that emergency medical center in town so people don’t have to drive twenty-five miles to the nearest hospital.”

  Braverman held out the petition, said her signature just allowed G.T. to be on the ballot officially.

  The woman’s child drooled on the petition. She signed.

  “Thank you!” Braverman wiped the paper on his leg. “You won’t be sorry.”

  “I’m sorry every day of my life, young man.” She plodded off.

  Encouraged by Braverman’s victory, I approached a man walking toward me. He was holding the hand of a little boy who looked just like him.

  I flashed my toothpaste-ad smile. “Excuse me, sir, but we’re out collecting signatures from registered voters to get G. T. Stoop on the ballot for mayor and I was wondering if you—”

  The man kept walking.

  “—might want to sign this so that G.T. can—”

  The man walked faster; the boy was running to keep up. “You want me to vote for some guy who flips burgers on a grill and who’s half dead with leukemia? You want to sell me some desert real estate in the rain forest while you’re at it?”

  Excuse me for breathing, but I don’t think a father should be acting like that in front of his son!