After the leaf blowers were turned off and the day laborers piled into their trucks, I’d sweep in to cut back perennials and fling annuals onto the compost pile or into the back of the used pickup that I went halfsies on with Hugo. Now that he was back in Mexico for the winter, I sometimes used it for the messy jobs to lengthen the life span of my Jeep, which was nearing 100,000 miles. The truth was, apart from the lousy gas mileage, I liked the idea of driving a pickup. I was still getting used to the stick and the strange center of gravity, but it made me feel tough, adventurous. American, even.
I didn’t pay much attention to the time, preferring to stop whenever the truck got full or when I got hungry, whichever came first. Then I’d head to Babe’s for sustenance. In the past, I’d brought my lunch like the men did, to save money, but without the social life the diner provided I could conceivably go for days without uttering a complete sentence, and that probably wasn’t healthy.
When I got to Babe’s, I found my usual seat at the counter occupied by a lanky guy in a gray sweatshirt and grimy down vest that looked like all the feathers had been sucked out of it. Just seeing him reminded me to wash up, so I did and came back and sat catercorner to him at the diner’s long L-shaped counter, as far away as I could sit without its being obvious that he grossed me out.
I scanned the blackboard for the day’s specials, but nothing appealed to me. Either I was feeling virtuous for having worked off the weekend’s calories or my grubby dining companion had put me off my feed.
“Just coffee, for now.”
“You sick?” Babe asked, mildly interested.
“No, I just need a few minutes.”
She brought my coffee and topped up my neighbor’s. He moved his keys and phone to one side with a veiny, calloused hand. We dutifully nodded like two people without the slightest interest in each other who were required to be cordial.
In a gravelly voice the guy said his name was Chase and he was in town for a couple of weeks to help a buddy of his who was in the countertop business. During the last week or so he’d become something of a regular at the Paradise while I’d been away and then working my tail off at my fall cleanup jobs.
“Is that right?” I said, hoping I sounded polite. Countertops held about as much interest for me as backsplashes, but every ten or fifteen years homeowners were forced to think about them and my number was coming up soon-the tiles on my kitchen island were popping up like cardboard shutters on an Advent calendar. So far my method of dealing with them was to put a heavy pot or vase on the ones that had erupted, but I was losing valuable counter space and would soon have to adopt another strategy.
“What kind of countertops?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual. The black stuff, the speckled stuff. Stuff like this.” He tapped a fork on Babe’s counter.
“Let me guess,” Babe said. “You’re not in the sales side of the business, am I right?”
He smiled, revealing a set of alarmingly bad teeth. “Yeah. I do the heavy lifting.”
You didn’t need to be a detective to see that underneath the down vest, the sweatshirt, the flannel shirt, the thermal, and who knew what other layers of insulation, this guy had all the brawn of an anemic coyote. Heavy lifting would not seem to be his forte. He saw what we were thinking.
“My pal is helping me out. We met in the service.”
Having had a brief flirtation with countertops the previous spring when the tiles in my kitchen started popping up, I happened to know that most of the stone and granite companies in Springfield were owned by Eastern Europeans. Babe knew it, too, since most of them were her customers. Was this guy trying to convince us that he’d been in the Bosnian army? Another dubious look must have crossed our faces.
“Okay, it wasn’t the service. We got in a little trouble when we were kids. Nothing serious-kids’ stuff.”
Something about the Paradise Diner acted like truth serum on certain people. Maybe there was something in the water. They came in and spilled their guts as if Babe were a therapist, a priest, and a parole officer all rolled into one. They shared things they’d never told their husbands, wives, or analysts. And then they left a tip commensurate with how much they’d unburdened themselves.
“Hey, pal, stop right there,” Babe said. “We really don’t need to know where you met The New Granite King of Springfield or what you did to get there. Today is the first day of the rest of your life and all that jazz. Besides, whatever you did, we can probably top it.”
“You don’t say.” Chase leaned in to hear more.
“I once served coffee to a double murderer right where you’re sitting-not that I knew it at the time. Right, Paula?” I nodded, not eager to talk about it. I had worked for the murderer and it had not been my favorite job.
The man gave us a strange, almost admiring look, and there was an awkward silence when that particular line of conversation evaporated.
“Look, I didn’t mean to cut you off,” Babe said, refilling his cup and giving him a donut on the house. “It isn’t that we don’t care about you, but we’re a don’t ask, don’t tell kind of diner. At least until we know you better. One of Babe’s rules.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Babe. That’s not what your mama called you, is it?”
“As a matter of fact she did, but it’s not what’s on my birth certificate, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
I knew Babe’s given name was Wanda and so did anyone else who cared enough to take a magnifying glass to the health department inspection certificate hanging on the wall near the cash register, but this guy was either stupid or flirting. Quite possibly both. He startled both of us by taking a picture of her with his phone and staring at the image although the original was standing right there.
“Let me guess. Your name’s Darlene.”
“No.”
“Brittany?”
“Please, do I look like a Brittany? Listen, pal, there are about a million women’s names, not including the New Agey ones and the ridiculous meant-to-be-creative spellings of old names, and the odds of your guessing mine in the next two minutes, which is all the time I have before the party at booth five wants their checks, are about a trillion to one. So, give it your best shot because now you’re down to thirty seconds.”
“You’re Monica.” The triumphant look on his face suggested that he thought he’d hit the jackpot. He waited for a reaction.
“Game over.” Babe patted her apron pockets for her receipt pad, found booth five’s tab, and excused herself to bring them their checks.
He looked shell-shocked, as if he didn’t believe her, and looked to me for confirmation.
I’d never realized it before, but Babe really was trapped at the diner. As much as she held court and had a steady stream of admirers and friendly faces every day, she also had to deal with loonies like this. What was next? Guessing her weight? It made me appreciate my business, where I rarely saw my clients from March through October, unless they had an infestation of slugs or leaf miners.
“So what is her name?” the guy said, sliding over one seat closer to me. He slurped down the dregs of his coffee and wiped his mouth and his nose on his cuff. If I’d regained my appetite, I’d lost it again.
“Like she said. Her mother called her Babe.” I got up to leave.
“Where you going?” Babe yelled. “Pete’s got a new Nigella cookbook. He’s making converts with it. Two women already left him their phone numbers and asked if he did private parties. Can you beat that? Let’s just hope they were looking for baked goods.”
“I’m going to the nursery. Gotta pick up some orders, including yours. And I may drop in on Caroline. I’ve been trying to reach her. I may catch you on the way back. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow when I work on your planters.” I nodded briefly to the man at the counter, who was now staring at me in a way that made me glad I was leaving.