take her out for dinner, my treat. After all, she’d had a hard day, too.
NEWHART’S DINER IS SMALL and always crowded for dinner, a reflection of the great price for the off-season blue plate special. Today it was meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes made from real potatoes, gelatin salad, and chocolate cake. In the summer, the menu is largely fish, including sushi, which owner Arnie Newhart sells to the tourists for pretty high prices. From October to April, Arnie and his wife Marguerite take it easy, as he puts it, and they scale back the menu and add the blue plate special. I had been willing to splurge and take Aunt Madge to a more formal restaurant, but she wanted Newhart’s.
We were seated at a booth near the door, and three people had already stopped by to say hello to Aunt Madge. She introduced me each time, and I would make appropriate comments and turn my attention back to the walls, which are lined with photos, framed newspaper articles, and various Ocean Alley memorabilia. When I was here during high school, the collection was displayed in a helter-skelter fashion. Now, each news article is matted in a thin wood frame that is painted the same color as the booths. Aunt Madge told me on the short drive to the restaurant that Arnie’s aunt had left the couple $30,000 a few years ago and they put half of it into redecorating the diner.
Arnie served us himself. “How do you like my new photo?” he asked. He pointed to a framed head shot above the door. “Bob Newhart. And he autographed it, too.”
I looked more closely and could see the words but could not make them out. “What’s it say?”
“It says ‘To my favorite cousin.’” Arnie laughed.
Aunt Madge looked skeptical. “I didn’t know you were related to him.”
“We aren’t. I asked him to sign it that way, for a joke.” He looked quite pleased with himself.
“Why put it up so high?” I asked.
He frowned. “Some jerk would take it, wouldn’t you know?”
“Hey, Arnie.” A food server looked out from the kitchen. “When’s the next batch of meat loaf done?”
We turned our attention to our dinners. We had both gotten the special, and what the food lacked in glamour it made up in volume. I figured we’d be asking for doggie bags.
Aunt Madge had just started on her salad when she frowned. I turned to follow her gaze and saw an older woman in a blue wool coat, which kind of matched her hair. She had her coat on and money in her hand, making her way to the cash register by the door. “Who is she?” I asked.
“Elmira Washington,” she said, with a small frown.
“Ignore her,” I said, turning back to my food.
“I don’t like to be rude, but she’s the one who’s been letting people know why you moved here.”
“I heard. She’s a jerk. I don’t care what she says.” I pushed my dinner plate toward the edge of the table and pulled the cake toward me. “Is this as good as it looks?”
“Better,” said Aunt Madge, as she looked directly at her plate. I took this as a sign that Elmira was approaching.
“Good evening, Madge!” Her voice was loud and had a sing-song quality. I didn’t think I’d ever met her, but her voice alone was enough to make me want to stay far away from her.
“Evening, Elmira,” Aunt Madge said. She gave the woman a brief nod and continued eating, even after Elmira paused at our table.
“So,” Elmira said, “this is your niece.”
I gave her one of my best smiles. “Yes, the one you’ve been talking to folks about.”
Aunt Madge reached for her water glass, but she didn’t fool me. I could tell she was trying not to laugh.
Elmira stiffened. “Talking about you? I never…”
“Come on, Elmira,” I said. “There’s no point in being a gossip if you don’t want to own up to it.” I continued to smile pleasantly.
“Really, Jolie.” She looked to Aunt Madge, as if she expected her to reprimand me.
“How are you this evening, Elmira?” Aunt Madge asked her, as she
NEWHART’S DINER IS SMALL and always crowded for dinner, a reflection of the great price for the off-season blue plate special. Today it was meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes made from real potatoes, gelatin salad, and chocolate cake. In the summer, the menu is largely fish, including sushi, which owner Arnie Newhart sells to the tourists for pretty high prices. From October to April, Arnie and his wife Marguerite take it easy, as he puts it, and they scale back the menu and add the blue plate special. I had been willing to splurge and take Aunt Madge to a more formal restaurant, but she wanted Newhart’s.
We were seated at a booth near the door, and three people had already stopped by to say hello to Aunt Madge. She introduced me each time, and I would make appropriate comments and turn my attention back to the walls, which are lined with photos, framed newspaper articles, and various Ocean Alley memorabilia. When I was here during high school, the collection was displayed in a helter-skelter fashion. Now, each news article is matted in a thin wood frame that is painted the same color as the booths. Aunt Madge told me on the short drive to the restaurant that Arnie’s aunt had left the couple $30,000 a few years ago and they put half of it into redecorating the diner.
Arnie served us himself. “How do you like my new photo?” he asked. He pointed to a framed head shot above the door. “Bob Newhart. And he autographed it, too.”
I looked more closely and could see the words but could not make them out. “What’s it say?”
“It says ‘To my favorite cousin.’” Arnie laughed.
Aunt Madge looked skeptical. “I didn’t know you were related to him.”
“We aren’t. I asked him to sign it that way, for a joke.” He looked quite pleased with himself.
“Why put it up so high?” I asked.
He frowned. “Some jerk would take it, wouldn’t you know?”
“Hey, Arnie.” A food server looked out from the kitchen. “When’s the next batch of meat loaf done?”
We turned our attention to our dinners. We had both gotten the special, and what the food lacked in glamour it made up in volume. I figured we’d be asking for doggie bags.
Aunt Madge had just started on her salad when she frowned. I turned to follow her gaze and saw an older woman in a blue wool coat, which kind of matched her hair. She had her coat on and money in her hand, making her way to the cash register by the door. “Who is she?” I asked.
“Elmira Washington,” she said, with a small frown.
“Ignore her,” I said, turning back to my food.
“I don’t like to be rude, but she’s the one who’s been letting people know why you moved here.”
“I heard. She’s a jerk. I don’t care what she says.” I pushed my dinner plate toward the edge of the table and pulled the cake toward me. “Is this as good as it looks?”
“Better,” said Aunt Madge, as she looked directly at her plate. I took this as a sign that Elmira was approaching.
“Good evening, Madge!” Her voice was loud and had a sing-song quality. I didn’t think I’d ever met her, but her voice alone was enough to make me want to stay far away from her.
“Evening, Elmira,” Aunt Madge said. She gave the woman a brief nod and continued eating, even after Elmira paused at our table.
“So,” Elmira said, “this is your niece.”
I gave her one of my best smiles. “Yes, the one you’ve been talking to folks about.”
Aunt Madge reached for her water glass, but she didn’t fool me. I could tell she was trying not to laugh.
Elmira stiffened. “Talking about you? I never…”
“Come on, Elmira,” I said. “There’s no point in being a gossip if you don’t want to own up to it.” I continued to smile pleasantly.
“Really, Jolie.” She looked to Aunt Madge, as if she expected her to reprimand me.
“How are you this evening, Elmira?” Aunt Madge asked her, as she
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