it quickly before picking up the coffee.
“Good appetite,” said the waitress, clearing Cissy’s plate.
“She’s a good girl,” Delia said.
Cissy scowled.
“Kids, huh?” The waitress had the grin of a woman who had raised her own.
“Uh-huh.” Delia drained her coffee cup. She had never liked the coffee in California. It was too strong. This coffee she could drink all day. It was right, like the smell of the air was right, the humidity soothing her parched skin. Delia had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She was home. This place smelled and felt like home.
“I know you.” The cook was leaning through the window behind the counter, soft white arms slung over the edge. “I know you,” she said again.
Delia felt a shock go through her. She had not thought about this, being recognized here in Cayro. For a moment she hesitated, and then that brief signature smile crossed her face. Randall had trained her to smile, say thank you, and move on when people stopped her to gush. “Give them as little as you can,” he always said, “but give them something. They make our life possible.” Reflexively Delia ran her palms down her hips. There was nothing in her pockets, no pen to sign an autograph. She looked to the waitress with an embarrassed shrug.
“You that bitch ran off and left her babies.” The cook’s voice was loud and definite.
The waitress’s eyes widened. Delia felt her knees go weak. Cissy stared at the cook, transfixed, half outraged and half hoping she would call Delia a bitch again.
“You took off with that rock band. Did all right for yourself, did you? Had yourself a good time? Well, don’t think people don’t remember. We remember. You the kind we remember.” The cook crossed her fat arms and nodded her head.
The man sitting at the counter beside Delia twisted on his stool to face her, his starched uniform crackling as he turned. The long hair at the back of his collar was bound with a little rubber band. “Delia? Delia Windsor?” His eyes swept up and down her body, and his mouth crooked up at one corner. “Well, damn!” he said. “Damn!” He gave the cook a stern glance. “Don’t pay that old cow no mind.”
Delia backed away from the counter. The waitress’s face was white and angry. Everyone was staring. Someone said, “Who is it?” and got a whispered reply. The people in the booths stood up to get a good look.
The waitress lifted her right hand. The change from Delia’s tip was cupped in her palm. Quarters jingled against dimes, and then the hand opened and spilled the money on the linoleum in a loud rain.
Delia’s mouth flooded. She pulled Cissy off her stool and tugged her away by one arm.
Everyone watched as they headed for the door. Every person in the restaurant watched Delia’s staggering, stubborn walk. She had never walked off a stage weaker or resisted a drink with more grim determination.
Help me, God, Delia prayed as she dragged Cissy along. Help me.
Cissy wrenched her arm free as soon as they were outside. Delia turned vacant eyes on her and walked on toward the Datsun. Cissy looked back at the restaurant and saw faces at the window, a crowd pushed up close to the door. This was Cayro. This was home.
Until the day she died, despair for Cissy would taste of ice chips and sweat. Fear would wear a pushed-down cap with a stained sun bill. Shame would sport bright-colored barrettes and a tight mouth. And the word “honey” would be a curse.
Chapter 3
Y ou’ll love Cayro. People are different there,” Cissy sneered once they were safely in the car.
Delia stared out the windshield. Her face was pink and flushed with heat. Her mouth was slack. She gripped the wheel of the car and looked back at the diner. There were two posters in the window, one announcing a fish fry sponsored by the local fire department and another proclaiming a welcome week at Holiness Redeemer, with a guest preacher from Gaithersburg. She could see the waitress looking
“Good appetite,” said the waitress, clearing Cissy’s plate.
“She’s a good girl,” Delia said.
Cissy scowled.
“Kids, huh?” The waitress had the grin of a woman who had raised her own.
“Uh-huh.” Delia drained her coffee cup. She had never liked the coffee in California. It was too strong. This coffee she could drink all day. It was right, like the smell of the air was right, the humidity soothing her parched skin. Delia had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She was home. This place smelled and felt like home.
“I know you.” The cook was leaning through the window behind the counter, soft white arms slung over the edge. “I know you,” she said again.
Delia felt a shock go through her. She had not thought about this, being recognized here in Cayro. For a moment she hesitated, and then that brief signature smile crossed her face. Randall had trained her to smile, say thank you, and move on when people stopped her to gush. “Give them as little as you can,” he always said, “but give them something. They make our life possible.” Reflexively Delia ran her palms down her hips. There was nothing in her pockets, no pen to sign an autograph. She looked to the waitress with an embarrassed shrug.
“You that bitch ran off and left her babies.” The cook’s voice was loud and definite.
The waitress’s eyes widened. Delia felt her knees go weak. Cissy stared at the cook, transfixed, half outraged and half hoping she would call Delia a bitch again.
“You took off with that rock band. Did all right for yourself, did you? Had yourself a good time? Well, don’t think people don’t remember. We remember. You the kind we remember.” The cook crossed her fat arms and nodded her head.
The man sitting at the counter beside Delia twisted on his stool to face her, his starched uniform crackling as he turned. The long hair at the back of his collar was bound with a little rubber band. “Delia? Delia Windsor?” His eyes swept up and down her body, and his mouth crooked up at one corner. “Well, damn!” he said. “Damn!” He gave the cook a stern glance. “Don’t pay that old cow no mind.”
Delia backed away from the counter. The waitress’s face was white and angry. Everyone was staring. Someone said, “Who is it?” and got a whispered reply. The people in the booths stood up to get a good look.
The waitress lifted her right hand. The change from Delia’s tip was cupped in her palm. Quarters jingled against dimes, and then the hand opened and spilled the money on the linoleum in a loud rain.
Delia’s mouth flooded. She pulled Cissy off her stool and tugged her away by one arm.
Everyone watched as they headed for the door. Every person in the restaurant watched Delia’s staggering, stubborn walk. She had never walked off a stage weaker or resisted a drink with more grim determination.
Help me, God, Delia prayed as she dragged Cissy along. Help me.
Cissy wrenched her arm free as soon as they were outside. Delia turned vacant eyes on her and walked on toward the Datsun. Cissy looked back at the restaurant and saw faces at the window, a crowd pushed up close to the door. This was Cayro. This was home.
Until the day she died, despair for Cissy would taste of ice chips and sweat. Fear would wear a pushed-down cap with a stained sun bill. Shame would sport bright-colored barrettes and a tight mouth. And the word “honey” would be a curse.
Chapter 3
Y ou’ll love Cayro. People are different there,” Cissy sneered once they were safely in the car.
Delia stared out the windshield. Her face was pink and flushed with heat. Her mouth was slack. She gripped the wheel of the car and looked back at the diner. There were two posters in the window, one announcing a fish fry sponsored by the local fire department and another proclaiming a welcome week at Holiness Redeemer, with a guest preacher from Gaithersburg. She could see the waitress looking
Similar Books
