A smile edged her lips. “Were you looking for me?”
“No. I was…I live close by. I visit my parents a lot. That’s all.”
“You sound nervous, Jack. Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” I said, hoping the redness had left my face.
She looked up, her deep brown eyes meeting mine. “Your parents died on August 8?”
I nodded.
She leaned back into the bench, her eyes on the heavens. “Strange, the coincidences of the world.”
“My Auntie Jo says there are no coincidences.”
“Is she here with you, your Auntie Jo?”
Again, I nodded. “Back at my parents’ graves. We come every year.”
“Then maybe I’ll see you again.”
“You’re leaving? But you just—”
“Stella.” The woman with the white hair again.
Stella narrowed her eyes and settled deeper into the bench. “Not yet. I have one hour.” I got the impression she said this not for my benefit but for the two women, because she said it much louder than necessary, if only speaking to me.
I saw something then, movement in the backseat of the SUV.
A man. No, a boy. “Who’s that?”
Stella followed my gaze, then frowned. “That is David Pickford.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s nobody.”
“How old is he?”
“Why would that matter?”
“Just wondering.”
She shrugged. “Nine or ten, I suppose. Our age.”
“Is he wearing a mask?”
Her gloved hand went to my comic book, and she flipped the pages. “Forget him. Tell me about your turtles.”
I smiled and did just that. This boy watching us from the SUV, the women in white, too.
I wouldn’t see him again for thirteen years, and even that proved too soon.
2
“This is not an All-American Slam,” I said, staring at the plate Mr. Krendal set in front of me. Thanksgiving was ten days away, and Auntie Jo had been picking up as many double shifts as possible, hoping to scrape enough money together for a full turkey dinner. That meant no pizza for a while. She suspended my allowance, too. I was okay with that. I had saved up one hundred forty-one dollars. Since Auntie Jo wouldn’t take any of my money, I gave it to Mr. Triano, the building’s super, to buy a turkey and surprise her.
Elden Krendal, the owner and sole cook at Krendal’s Diner, had a policy. He allowed his employees to eat for free, provided they didn’t order off the menu but instead ate whatever was in surplus before the food expired.
A few weeks back, when Auntie Jo asked if she could share her free meal with me, Krendal wiped his thick sausage hands on his once-white apron and knelt down in front of me. “This guy is little, too little for what did you say? Eight years old?”
He wasn’t very tall, only about an inch taller than Auntie Jo, but Mr. Krendal was a big man. I imagined he nibbled away all day back in that kitchen just to maintain such a size. He probably weighed at least three hundred pounds and reminded me of a flabby Mr. Clean, the guy from those commercials, twenty years past his prime. The top of his head didn’t contain a single hair. I once overheard him say he got tired of hairnets and shaved it all off. Auntie Jo said his hair got tired of him and left on its own accord. He had an infectious smile. I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t smiling. Even when he shouted out from back in the kitchen, he did so from behind a grin.
“Nine,” I corrected him.
He shook his head. “You’re skin and bones. You’re not going to grow up to be a big strong man sharing plates with your aunt. You need a plate of your own.”
“I can’t afford—” Auntie Jo started.
Mr. Krendal waved a hand at her. “We will feed this boy until it’s coming out his ears. Maybe someday he’ll come work for me.”
“I’m going to go to college and become an astronaut or maybe a reporter for the Daily Planet,” I said.
“Or maybe a reporter in space? I imagine we need those, too,” Krendal said. “Pick out a seat, I’ll put something together for you.”
Auntie Jo nodded toward the row of stools lining the counter, but I went to a booth instead, a small booth built for two people in the far corner near the bathrooms. Over the coming weeks, this became my booth. Mr. Krendal made a small paper sign that read RESERVED FOR JACK THATCH – ASTRONAUT REPORTER in large block letters and placed it out there every day before Auntie Jo’s shift, knowing I’d probably be in, too.
Today, when he asked me what I wanted for dinner, I told him I’d like an All-American Slam like they have at Denny’s, along with a chocolate shake. He brought me a chicken sandwich on rye bread with a side order of french fries and a glass of water.
“This is a Krendal’s All-American Slam. It may vary slightly from the competition’s meal of the same name,” Mr. Krendal said. “When the kind people at Denny’s stole the name from my menu, they did not take the time to read the description. I had a similar problem with the people from McDonald’s. For nearly a year, I told them a Big Mac was supposed to be a bowl of pasta and cheese with bacon on top, but they completely ignored me. In my day, corporate theft of ideas meant something. People take no pride in their thievery anymore.”
Krendal ruffled my hair and went back to the kitchen, leaving me to eat. I always asked for a chocolate shake. He never gave me one. He insisted people were not meant to ingest all that sugar, and water was better for me, particularly my teeth. At fifty-eight years old, he had no cavities. He was also quick to point out he’d never drank chocolate shakes.
I made quick work of the chicken sandwich and fries. The meal was delicious.
Auntie Jo fluttered around the diner as I ate. She smiled, too. I watched as she put on her best smile whenever she faced a customer. I also saw that same smile drop away the minute she turned her back on them. She didn’t much want to be here.
I was about to pack up and go back to our apartment when she dropped four dollars on the corner of my table. “I turned three tables just to get enough for some cigs. Tips are horrible today. This better turn around fast. Can you be a dear and run next door and get me two packs of Red 100s? You can keep the change.”
I wanted to say no. Auntie Jo smoked too much. This morning, she coughed for nearly five minutes straight before she even got out of bed.
If I didn’t go, she’d just buy them on her break, then she’d blame me for any lost tips while she was gone.
Snatching up the money, I started for the door. “Be right back.”
3
The sky churned with gray clouds tipped in white, and the air felt damp. It hadn’t rained yet today, but I’d be willing to bet that it would. In November in Pittsburgh, that was a pretty safe bet, not one a local would take the other side of, that’s for sure. Considering it was nearly noon, the sun should be high in the sky. Instead, I think it departed for Florida, leaving nothing but a dim bulb as replacement.
The Corner Mart grocery sat two doors down from Krendal’s on the same side of the street, so I didn’t have to cross traffic. The store took up the first floor of a wedge-shaped building, narrow at the front and widening further back, no doubt built to accommodate the odd angle of the street which had been built in such a way to accommodate the odd angle of the large hill upon which our entire block sat. Pittsburgh was not known for sprawling flatlands, only odd angles. Even the floors of our apartment dropped off at enough of an incline to propel my Matchbox cars from one end of the kitchen to the other without any help from me.