A Promise Remembered. Elizabeth Mowers
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a smile, though her eyes had darkened. “Nope. I’m taking care of it.” She scooped out a heaping portion of egg salad and flicked the spoon over a slice of bread with a plop. “Perfect,” she said before waltzing out to the dining room.
* * *
WILLIAM DEVOURED HIS SANDWICH, his ravenous appetite suddenly apparent as he sized up his old stomping ground. At first glance it had all the basic amenities of a greasy spoon: heavy white mugs with varying degrees of coffee stains; slices of pie displayed attractively in a countertop dessert case; and tables adorned with ketchup bottles, sugar packets and coffee creamer. But unfortunately it hadn’t changed much since he’d left, and the wear and tear, which had been noticeable years ago, was now grossly evident.
The tiny entryway was cluttered with empty vintage gumball machines he’d once kicked over as a kid. A large, opaque glass-globe light fixture hung awkwardly low at the entrance, caked with a heavy film of dust and dated 1960s’ appeal. The three perimeter walls of the long, narrow diner had large bay windows to catch the warm, cheery glow of the morning sun, but by nightfall, the fluorescent overhead lights, sterile and intrusive, made William shudder. He tried to ignore the childhood memory of being forced to work in the restaurant most evenings as his stepfather, Dennis, disapprovingly scrutinized his every move.
Elbows planted firmly on the counter, William distracted himself with the sight of Annie as she hustled in and out through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. With each push of the aluminum door, he caught a whiff of the sizzling, steaming engulfment of grease just beyond it. Even the momentary sniff of it made his stomach churn. That kitchen had seemed like a humid prison, caking his skin and hair in a grimy film. He took a swig of coffee and turned to inspect the dining room.
The scuffed sand-colored tabletops were still sandwiched between vertical vinyl booths of spruce green and chestnut. Most seats were torn, with faded spots where thousands of patrons had plopped their derrieres over the years. As Annie seated a couple in their fifties, William grimaced as he waited for the thwart sound the seat cushions always made. The couple crouched over to manipulate their bodies into the booth, and—thwart—their weight pushed the air out of the giant rips in the vinyl. He used to find it amusing as a kid, the sound playing into his adolescent sense of humor, but now it, along with all the other sights, was beginning to be too much.
William slowly swiveled his barstool, also grossly cracked and fading. Running his hand along the long L-shaped counter with a cream laminate and two-inch metal banding, he forced a few deep breaths. The counter still comfortably sat twelve people and provided a perch at the far end to view the entire diner and all its happenings.
It was from this perch William sipped his coffee and studied Annie as she served her customers, occasionally fidgeting with the waist of her apron whenever her eyes shifted his way. It wasn’t busy for a dinner rush, leaving her time to chat with patrons as she breezed by him, nose tilted ever so slightly in the air. By the time she slapped his bill on the counter, he concluded she had developed a serious attitude problem.
William’s inner monologue finally found his lips. “Refill on your coffee? Sure, sounds great, Annie. Thanks so much for offering,” he said. From across the countertop, she gritted her teeth and poured him another cup, stopping short at least an inch and a half from the rim. “A little more, thanks,” he told her with a sweet smile before glancing at the bill. “That’s awfully steep for a lousy sandwich and a pickle, don’t you think? Are you highballing me here?”
Annie shrugged and cleared his plate before he could finish his pickle or protest further. She was a far cry from the vivacious girl he had known in high school who had been hard to miss with her natural good looks and vibrant laugh. As she hustled back and forth behind the counter, the heavy polyester uniform couldn’t mask her thin frame and bony elbows, while her hair, tied up in a ratty knot, framed dark circles shadowed beneath her eyes.
“How long have you been working here?” he asked, eyeing her intently. He hadn’t been prepared to see her again, not after all this time. But as she scooted here and there, her eyes focused only on the task at hand, he found himself yearning for her to look at him. “I said, how long have you been—”
“I heard you.”
“Do you like it here?”
Her mouth twisted. “I suppose.”
“Don’t be too enthusiastic,” he said. “It’s only my mom’s place.”
Her chin jerked up. “What was that?”
“I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, Annie.”
A flush crept up her face as she stopped short in front of him. He braced himself, waiting for a reaction of any kind, even if it was an outburst. Anything had to be better than the silent treatment.
“Can I get you something else, sir?” she asked. William’s stomach lurched at the coldness in her voice. At how forced it was, as if she were straining for control.
“Grab me a water, would you?” he said, holding a fist to his mouth to try to calm his upset stomach. Seeing Annie had thrown him for a loop, that was for sure, but he never expected he would have such a physical reaction to it. “I’m feeling a bit queasy.”
Annie’s eyes slowly widened as William groaned and leaned heavily against the counter, tiny dots of perspiration percolating on his forehead.
“Oh,” she said, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Oh, William.”
“What?” He motioned for the water. Annie slinked backward to fetch an ice water and crept closer again, hesitating before handing it to him.
“I’ve done something...” She winced. “Awful.”
“What?” William asked, although he wasn’t really listening. A wave of nausea propelled him to his feet.
“The restroom is over by the—”
“I know,” he gulped, racing to its sanctuary.
“I’m sorry!” Annie called after him, but he didn’t have time to wonder what she meant.
* * *
ANNIE HURRIED TO the kitchen, grabbed the carton of remaining egg salad and slammed it into the trash. She paced, or rather hid behind the kitchen door, periodically peeking out the porthole to see if William had ventured back out among the living. As each minute ticked by, her own stomach clenched tighter as if in a vise.
“Is everything okay, dear?”
Annie jumped at Joyce’s warm voice, homey and inviting like a crackling fire. Immediately, a pang of guilt slammed her. Joyce was her dearest friend, and she might have killed her only son. As much as she wanted to throw herself at Joyce’s feet and offer a dramatic confession, she decided it might be best not to mention what she’d done until all the facts shook themselves out in their own good time.
“William’s sick,” she blurted.
“Sick?” Joyce said, her face contorting into a mass of wrinkles in the blink of an eye.
“He’s been in the bathroom for a while now.”
Joyce scurried off as Annie found Miles staring at her.
“What?” she said, popping her hands to her hips like a hen rearing to peck.
“Annie Curtis,” Miles reprimanded her. “Do I even want to know why?”
“I’ll take the blame, Miles, so I’ll stop you right there,” Annie replied, sneaking a peek out the porthole window again.
“Joyce could lose her license.”
“Nah, he won’t call the health inspector on his own mother.”
“What about on you?”
Annie scrunched her face. “Don’t you have something to fry back there?” She furiously slammed the top of his order bell several times and shooed him back to the kitchen. “Order