Fran watched the rain falling in the street outside as she leaned idly on the counter. There would be little business today, she knew, not on a rainy Sunday morning. This wasn’t her usual shift in the café, but another of the waitresses had been sick and Fran had volunteered to take her place. It meant missing church, but she didn’t mind doing a good turn for a friend. Besides, it would be a change. Sunday mornings were so often all the same.
So far, there had been only some early orders for coffee and doughnuts, mostly to go. The cook wasn’t due in for another half hour, when full breakfasts were offered. All the booths had their original place settings from when she had set them up at 7:30. Saturday’s daisies still looked fresh and new. The coffee urn gave off a faint hissing sound and an aroma of institutional coffee. Everything was ready—but no customers. A few people walked past, under their umbrellas--some in a hurry in their Sunday clothes, some just idly strolling by. A few of the usual bums passed the café, glancing hopefully inside. Fran recognized them from her regular shift, weekdays at lunchtimes. Then, when it was so busy and crowded with office workers, the bums hung around outside, waiting for the opportunity to ask for handouts. Funny, she thought, maybe the fact that it’s Sunday is why they’re behaving themselves. She laughed at the thought.
She lit a cigarette as she stood there. The owner allowed the staff to smoke if there was no one else in the café. Otherwise, ashtrays were just for customer use. She’d wipe this one clean when she finished.
Her mind wandered a little. Was it this afternoon that she had promised to go shopping for her elderly neighbor? No, couldn’t have been…she herself didn’t need to go to the store for at least another week. She would have promised to go then, when it was convenient. But, yes, there was something to remember! Pulling her order pad out of her apron pocket, she made a brief notation on the cardboard back: “flowers—Sorenson”. She must remember to drop by the church after the other waitress arrived to take over at 3. This morning’s flowers should go to Mrs. Sorenson at the hospital. I can call the church at 12: 15, Fran reminded herself, making another note. I hope I remember, she thought, or someone else will pick them up. Then I’d have to go get some at the grocery store—another trip! It was hard to remember all the things she’d promised to do, but so far, thank goodness, she hadn’t forgotten anything. Flowers to the hospital, shopping for her neighbor, taking the odd shift here and there when her co-workers were sick, always remembering to put something from her tips in the March of Dimes container. At that thought, she frowned. She suspected that someone was taking part of the money out of that container, too, come to think of it. She stubbed out her cigarette, walked over to the cash register and bent to inspect the donation display. It didn’t look like anyone had tampered with it, and yet there didn’t seem to be as much money in there as she remembered. And the coins never seemed to be in the same order. She felt a little suspicious and annoyed and hurt. She liked seeing the dimes and pennies mount up; it made her feel good. The little girl on the display looked so pathetic—say, wasn’t the level of the coins up to the middle of the wheel on her wheelchair last Friday? It certainly wasn’t there now. Looking quickly towards the front door, Fran pulled out her pencil and put a tiny dot on the display, corresponding to the level of the coins. There! she said triumphantly to herself. Now I’ll know for sure! She didn’t want someone to be taking HER money out of that March of Dimes container. It was for that poor little girl in her wheelchair, not for any old bum or kid who came in off the street!
The door opened suddenly, with its usual loud noise. Fran straightened up from the display and stuffed the pencil in her pocket. She looked to see who had entered. A young man stood on the mat by the door, shaking the raindrops off his head and his light blue sweater. He looked up at her and smiled hesitantly. Fran just looked at him.
She took in everything about him—his close-cropped hair, tightly tailored clothes, slender frame, small moustache. Why, he’s forgotten his earring! she thought. I thought all of them wore earrings. God, why hadn’t it been one of the bums instead? That would have been bad enough, but no—this Sunday morning she has to have one of them walk in the door. Stonily she watched him as he came up to the counter. Oh, sit in a booth, over there in the corner! She prayed to herself. But the young man seated himself right in front of her, next to the cash register, and took off his sweater. Without a word she held out a pastry menu to him.
“No, thank you,” he said, “Just coffee for me, please. With sugar.” Fran took back the menu and tossed it into its holder under the counter. She turned, picked up a cup, and started filling it from the coffee urn.
“You’re new here?” the young man asked her. Fran said nothing. “Brenda’s usually here at this time. What’s the matter, is she sick?”
“Yes,” Fran said, her tone indicating that that was the end of that conversation. Inside she was seething. So, Brenda knew that this…person…would be coming in, did she? Why didn’t she tell me? She’ll certainly have another think coming if she expects me to ever cover for her again! Fran set the coffee cup down in front of him with a thump. “Sugar’s there,” she said, pushing the container at him.
But the young man continued. “I’m sorry that Brenda is ill. It’s nice to talk to her when I come in. She’s told me about her family—her kids. Did you know that a neighbor of hers takes the kids to Sunday school? Brenda can’t, because of her job. That bothers her a lot.” He took a sip of coffee.
Fran set to work cleaning the already spotless area around the coffee urn. And what do you know about Sunday school? She said to herself. Or about church, for that matter? I don’t know why they let people like you in the front door. I wonder… On impulse, she turned to him. “And where do you go to church?” she asked, looking him straight in the eye with an expectant smile.
The young man’s face changed slightly. “I…haven’t been able to find one that I like,” he said. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes and some matches. He lit one quickly and pulled the ashtray next to his coffee cup.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Fran replied. “Have you lived here long?” she continued.
The young man looked at the lit cigarette and then out the window. “A couple of years.”
“Protestant? Catholic?”
The young man was silent for a moment. “Protestant,’ he finally answered, still looking away from her.
Fran smiled broadly. She couldn’t pass it up. “Have you ever gone to Grace Community Church? That’s where I attend.”
The young man turned toward her swiftly, hopefully, with a smile. “No, I haven’t, but I’d certainly like to…” then he broke off when he saw the look on Fran’s face. The two smiles, so different, held on their faces for a moment. The young man’s was the first to falter and disappear. His whole face seemed to just close up, and he looked down into his coffee cup. His fingers closed around it.
Fran remained there for a moment, becoming more and more aware of the smirk on her face. She let it go. She backed away slowly toward the door into the kitchen. He didn’t seem to notice her movements but continued to sit there, bent over the counter. Fran slipped into the kitchen and let the door swing shut after her.
She stood in there, leaning against the wall. Why, why did these people have to bother her all the time? She didn’t want to have anything to do with them. Couldn’t they see that they weren’t wanted? Maybe if she stayed in the kitchen long enough, he’d get the idea and go away. But what if somebody else came in? She was unsure what to do. From inside the kitchen, Fran peeked through the crack between the swinging door and the wall.
The young man just sat there at the counter, now leaning his head on his hands. His eyes were closed. Fascinated, Fran watched as the ash on his cigarette grew longer and longer, curious to see when it would fall off. But when the burning end reached his fingers, he jerked involuntarily, dropping the cigarette to the floor. He rubbed his fingers absently, paying little attention to what he was doing. He made a movement as if to go, but then paused. He reached into his pocket, pulled out several dollars, and placed them on the counter, close to the coffee cup.
His eyes were open now, but not really seeing anything—or were they? The expression on his face had seemed blank, but as Fran watched, it changed. Something like listening hovered there. Then, surprisingly, he shut his eyes once more, took a deep breath, then raised his head and looked up. Was that surprise, astonishment, wonder on his face? She couldn’t tell. For a moment, nothing happened—then, as quickly as it had come, the expression vanished. He rose off the stool, put on his sweater, and walked out of the cafe.
Only after she heard the front door close did Fran come out of the kitchen. In a rush of sudden anger, she walked around to the front of the counter. She stooped and picked up his cigarette. “Still burning!” she said, outraged. “They’re so inconsiderate of others!” She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray by his coffee cup--and found herself looking at the counter. The surface was marked by splashes of water.
“Tears”, she said out loud. She reached out a finger to touch one of the splashes, but then yanked it back, looking around. Instead, she put the money into her apron pocket, picked up the coffee cup, and moved back behind the counter. She dumped the leftover coffee and stacked the cup and saucer, ready for washing. Picking up a dishrag, she started to wipe off the counter, rubbing hard in order to make it clean and spotless. For a moment after she’d finished, she felt regret—and then threw the dishrag into the sink under the counter. As an afterthought, she stuffed one of his dollar bills into the March of Dimes container.
Outside, it had stopped raining.
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Copyright 2024 by Mary M. Isaacs
From a forthcoming book
