First Avenue (17 page)
Tomorrow she would decide what to do. She would call her father again. He wouldn’t be happy that she hadn’t called for several days, but he wouldn’t have been happy if she had called either.
Bill came up to her table. He had already taken his apron off. “Going out for a smoke,” he said. His voice was so flat that it didn’t sound human. He didn’t hesitate for her reply. Outside on the sidewalk, he stood at the corner a moment, then disappeared down the street. What kind of business was this? What would happen if she walked out the door, too?
When she saw the blue uniform in the west window, she rose to her feet and froze. The blue uniform went past the north window and arrived at the door. She recognized him the instant he stepped inside. She would have recognized him even if she had not looked at the picture a thousand times. With impossible difficulty she looked away from him, walked softly to the cash register, and waited.
He walked slowly toward her through the occupied tables, looked at each one of the nervous kids, and sat down at the counter. He stood his radio upright in front of him. She stood a little taller and smoothed the sleeve of her white blouse. Her mother had told her she could never go wrong with a clean white blouse. He looked into her eyes and smiled.
“I’ll have a cup of coffee.”
Pierre used plastic cups for coffee, and the used liners were thrown away. The cups weighed nothing, and she found it difficult to hold the cup in the air by its little plastic handle and set it down on the counter without spilling the coffee. She wished it were heavy like a real cup.
He turned sideways on the stool and looked at the kids without drinking any of the coffee. The few conversations that survived his entrance sputtered and stopped as voices from his radio filled the room. She stood where she had left the coffee cup and studied the outline of his face. She could not look away from him.
“You must be new,” he said when he turned toward her again.
She cleared her throat before speaking. “This is my first day.”
He looked into the kitchen and examined the recesses and corners of the back room. She was glad he did not scrutinize her that way.
“I don’t see
“He left.”
“And that other kid, Bill. Did he leave, too?”
“He said he was going out for a smoke.”
“Left you in charge then?”
“I guess so.”
“My name is
She hesitated a moment. His eyes, green like the seawater that came up the inlet toward
Anchorage
, opened wider and waited. He would think she was deciding whether to tell him her true name. That was not the reason for her delay.
“
“Glad to meet you,
Behind him the morning children left their seats and scattered into the street. They were difficult to ignore, but he ignored them. She had the feeling she was watching them for him because he was not watching.
“I don’t seem to be very good for business,” he said after the last of them had left. There was only one customer who remained.
“They didn’t buy anything. They just sat there.”
“
“Since yesterday when he hired me. I’m not like them, if that’s what you want to know.”
She hadn’t meant to speak that way. Her voice sounded harsh to her. She had not meant to be harsh.
“I didn’t think you were,” he said. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“
Anchorage
.”
“
Alaska
. You’re a long way from home. Your parents know where you are, I hope.”
“My father knows. I’m eighteen.”
“I see. I guess you can go where you want then, but this doesn’t happen to be the best place to work. Maybe you’ve noticed that already.”
“You work here,” she said.
He laughed then, just loud enough for her to hear. She was pleased she had made him laugh. She felt she could finally take a breath without shaking.
“Yes I do, and I come in here quite often. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“Why would it bother me?”
“I don’t know. It seems to bother everyone else. Whenever I ask one of these kids something, they can’t get away from me fast enough.”
“Maybe they’re afraid of you.”
“Maybe, or maybe they’re afraid of
“I don’t know.”
Just then a boy came into the Donut Shop as though he had heard the policeman talking about their fear and would prove him wrong. Heavy black sunglasses hid his eyes. He walked to the opposite end of the counter and stared menacingly toward the back of the shop where there was no one to menace. When she walked over to him, he abruptly ordered coffee to go. He didn’t look at her. She poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup. Her hands did not shake this time.
“That’s thirty-five cents,” she said.
“
“He didn’t tell me to give coffee away.”
“You drink it then. I don’t want it.”
Nevertheless he remained standing in the same place. What did he want? She knew if she looked at the policeman he would step in to help her, but she didn’t want any help. She pulled the coffee away from him.
“I’m not getting you anything more.”
Ever so slowly the boy who pretended to be something else lowered his head to look at her and equally slowly lifted it again to the back wall. She saw his eyes through the dark glasses.
“I’ll come back when
Then he turned and walked away. His head bobbed in rhythm to an internal meter that slowed his progress to the door.
Sam got up from the stool after the boy had left and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Fine customers you have here,
“What message?” she asked.
“Don’t talk to the cop.”
“He’s nothing. There are lots like him around here.”
“Yes there are.”
He took a dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the counter. His hand remained over it as though it might blow away. She looked up from the money and was held at attention by the seawater color of his eyes.
“Did
She shook her head but said nothing.
“We can’t find her, but we found her baby a few days ago—a little baby girl.”
“She had a baby?”
“That’s right. The baby was dead—abandoned. We think the mother is dead, too. Nobody here seems to know anything about it. How can that be?”
He waited for her answer, but she had none.
“Think about it, Maria. You work here for a while, and one day you don’t show up and nobody thinks anything about it. Nobody asks any questions. What kind of place is that?”
She still had no answers for his questions, but she felt she might drown if she did not look away from his sea-green eyes. She did not look away.
“I didn’t ask any questions, either,” he said, and he looked as if he might drown, too. “If I were you, Maria, I would find a job somewhere else.”
She slowly removed the dollar bill from his fingers and rang up the sale on the cash register. She held the change out for him.
“You keep that,” he said without touching the money in her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
It was her first tip, and she continued to hold the money that he had not touched. After he left, she noticed he had not touched the coffee either.
Sam woke to the familiar sounds of waves washing the rocks beneath his open window and seagulls screeching over the water. He stared at the ceiling and followed a deep crack in the plaster. Someday he would fix that crack and smooth the ceiling. He was tired of waking up to it.
He got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. He filled the coffee machine with water and looked through the windows to the west side of Simpson’s house. It needed paint. Simpson hated any mess on the beach but was less particular with his house. The roof of Georgia’s house rose above Simpson’s, rose above them all.
He picked up a coffee cup from the sink, rinsed it, and put it under the drip basket of the coffee maker. When the cup was almost full, he pulled it out and slid the coffeepot in its place. A small stream of coffee dripped onto the hot plate during the exchange. He leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped the hot strong coffee.
He had the tired feeling that follows too much sleep—too much sleep after too little. He had slept late as he always did on his first day off to make up the time missed through the week, as if in one splurge he could compensate for the absurd hours of his shift. He felt as if he could sleep for a week, but he was awake and already standing.
He sat down at the kitchen table—a luxury reserved for his weekends. He was quite certain it was Thursday. Not that it made any difference, but he looked at the calendar from Popp’s Hardware anyway. There were circles around Thursday and Friday to remind him of his days off. It was Thursday.
He heard noise at the kitchen door, then the sound of a key in the lock. He looked down at himself to see what he was wearing—Jockey shorts and a T-shirt. There was more fumbling with the lock and he smiled. She would be angry if it did not soon give way. She was an artist with keys.
The door popped open and Georgia caught her breath. She was startled to see him sitting at the kitchen table. His smile continued. Who did she think would be at the table?
“Oh hi,” she said.
“Morning.”
“I thought you’d be awake.”
“I am. Want some coffee?”
“Thanks. I’ll get it.”
She opened a cupboard and took out a clean cup. When she pulled the coffeepot out from the machine, coffee poured from the basket and sizzled onto the hot plate. She gave a surprised squeak and thrust the pot back to catch the coffee.
“It’s not done brewing yet,” she said.
“I just got up.”
She found a dishcloth lying in the sink and carefully wiped around the glass beaker. She bent down and peered into the coffeepot. “Ah,” she said, convinced there would be no more surprises. She poured a cup for herself, topped his off, and went to the refrigerator for milk. He had not often seen her dressed for work, and he watched an interesting curve form through her dress as she bent down to put the milk away.
Georgia sat across the table from him and crossed her legs. Although he thought he knew why she had come, he waited for her to tell him. He was certain that would come soon enough.
“I’m on my way to work. We had quite a stir at the office yesterday,” she said. “What do you know about Ben Abbott?”
“I was wondering if you would have anything to do with that,” Sam said.
“Why didn’t you ask me then?”
“Do you have anything to do with it?”
“Everybody in the firm has something to do with it. Mildred Abbott is our biggest client. But I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”
“Yes. Are you working on what they call damage control?”
“Not for Mrs. Abbott. She just wants to know what happened.”
“So do we. Quite a guy, this Ben Abbott. The perfect father, if he was the father.”
“I read your report yesterday, Sam. It must have been horrible to find that baby.”
“It was worse for the baby. So what kind of jerk is this Abbott?”
“I guess Ben was a pretty mixed-up kid.”
“He was twenty-five years old. That’s not a kid.”
“No, it’s not,” Georgia said.
“He might have killed them, you know—both the mother and the child.”
“I don’t think he did that.”
“I don’t think so either, not directly, but he let them live in that fleabag hotel. So did your client, this Mrs. Abbott and all her money. She left them there, too.”
“She didn’t know about the baby. Not until yesterday. She wants to talk to you.”
“Me?”
