From his perch at the counter stool, Kenneth watched Helen sweep the tiled floor. He pointed out bits of straw wrapper and matches with powdery black heads—and the occasional lucky penny. By all rights he should have been sweeping, being the hired man, but Helen preferred to sweep—though she missed a lot of crumbs by refusing to wear her new prescription. She worked along the cigarette machine, where he called her attention to a piece of piecrust poking out from under. “If I don’t see it, it ain’t dirt.” This was her standard reply. Though they both hailed from the Tar Heel State, he loved her Boone accent. People agreed that you sounded like you were from North Carolina if you were. But people from Boone spoke Boone. It just sounded different, softer, a bit of mountain music. He swiveled thoughtfully, pinching a speck of tobacco from his tongue, and sighed as Helen bent over, angling the broom under a peach-colored booth, vinyl glowing in the twilight. The Formica table tops sported peach-colored flakes and ivory trim. In fact, all the furnishings in the restaurant were colored peach. It was called The Sweet Peach Café.
Over the years, Helen had added a few touches: peach napkins, award-winning peach cobbler, and a peach-colored jukebox. Atop the roof was a huge peach, created by a neon artist from the college in the mid ’60s. The sign dwarfed the squat building and had been designed to look as though a big bite had been taken out of it. A local acid-tripper claimed that a giant mouth had roared out of space one night and bit it. For many in the town, especially the college kids, the glowing peach was more inviting than the smooth, chrome cross in front of the Baptist church.
Smoke streamed like a vaporizer from Kenneth’s nostrils, slow and warm. This added pleasure to Helen’s haphazard end-of-the-day cleanup. Five years he’d watched her do this. Five years ago he’d responded to her ad for a dishwasher/cook—No Alcoholics Apply. He had been hired on the spot by the distinction of being the only applicant for the job. He didn’t actually want a job at the time. He was recovering from a colossal career setback. He had just been dismissed from the Carolina Culinary for poisoning most of the school’s board at the Easter dinner, including the president’s wife, a corpulent, unkind woman. It was not his fault; the tainted pheasant was bad luck, a result of unsanitary farm practices. But he was the student chef in charge and responsible for all aspects of the meal. There was a saying at Carolina Culinary: “The chef goes down with the gravy boat.” He went down.
At the dismissal hearing he became sarcastic and said that many board members looked like they’d eaten too much already. Purging might have added years to their lives. This did not bode well. Later, he received a certified letter saying his chef’s certification would be withheld in perpetuity. He considered moving to Virginia, where there was no reciprocal food service agreement. But he took the job with Helen. He could flip burgers and make Caesar salads, salmon stew, and puddings in his sleep, plus a whole lot more if he wanted to. But he had sworn off pheasant. That was his cover reason, anyway, for taking the job. He liked Helen’s voice and her facial expressions. Whatever she thought seemed to be right there in her eyes and mouth.
She told him that it was time for her to get out from behind the grill and broaden her horizons, take a look at the world. Mainly this amounted to her becoming the hostess/waitress in her own cafe. She did get to sleep later and see more movies. One day in the summer, she left Kenneth in charge and took a trip up to Manteo to see “The Lost Colony.” It was performed outdoors and featured folks like Sir Walter Raleigh, Miles Standish, and Virginia Dare, who came to life on the stage. There was a weekend trip to Elizabeth City where, Kenneth gathered, she went to say good-bye to her old boyfriend, a carpenter who drank too much and had tried to rough her up. Helen said, proudly, that she had thrown him into a wall of sheet rock. Kenneth hoped that it had not been a fond good-bye, though she came back home crying.
The main thing with Helen was that he had to keep on his toes, find some middle ground. Her emotions ran hot, cold, and boiling over with temper, all of which he found attractive.
The Bunn-o-Matic spit fresh, hot coffee into the carafe. Kenneth sniffed appreciatively as he set up two mugs and spoons, peeled the tops from three creamers, and set them by hers. “Doughnut?” he called out, clicking the tongs rhythmically. “Cinnamon’s good.” She was two stools away jabbing at the debris. When she got to him, he raised his long spider legs, thinking it made him look silly. She swept vigorously around his martyred Nikes, almost impatiently. “Frosted,” she said, accenting the second syllable, a bit irritated. “It’s always been frosted.” He took in her aroma, faint bleach from the apron, KT.’s Firebird Chili, some salesman’s cigar. Maybe something faint, like lily of the valley. He wished she wore perfume. Somehow that might make things easier; she might be more receptive. After five years and several anxious days, he had decided to declare himself to her. Tell her how he felt. Dread cramped his stomach. Perfume or not she was plenty feminine enough.
Finally, at the far end of the counter she bent over and swept the dirt into a dustpan, her peach skirt lifting above her legs. A well-pronounced calf. Soft, fleshy skin behind the knees. Her butt was wide, but nicely shaped. His face was suddenly warm.
She plopped down one stool away from his and began pouring out the creamers. “More on the floor than gets in their mouths,” she quipped. Kenneth deliberately stubbed out his cigarette and stirred coffee. He was feeling a bit listless now, tired. Maybe all of this could wait. Speaking up had never done him much good before. And, if it didn’t go well, he’d most likely be packing up tomorrow. He could just let it go, on this, a cozy, discontented life. Keep an eye on Helen from a distance.
One night, about a year ago, they were talking about the menu. Helen had selected a few tunes on the jukebox; she was a big Patty Page fan. Kenneth had stood up suddenly and planted his hands on the counter. He uttered a word that she couldn’t understand. “Dance.” He wanted to say, “Helen, dance with me?” but he froze. His hands stuck to the counter as if they’d been Super-Glued. He stared straight ahead into the refrigerated dessert case. He felt Helen next to him, breathing, waiting. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t look at her. Finally she left, slamming the door with a decisive bang, upsetting a bowl of plastic peaches from the shelf above. He thought he’d tell her he’d had a spell of some kind, but neither of them mentioned it the next day or after that. There was something in both of them, a shy carefulness, some undercurrent, a silent agreement that things would take their course when it was time. Now Kenneth, though frightened, felt that he had to move on it. What if some carpenter or plumber came along that was really nice to her?
He took a gulp of coffee, got up, went to the front window, unhooked the blackboard from its chain, and wiped it clean with his bandana. He made a note that the Kale and Ginger Soup was probably too fancy for Peach’s. He set the board between them. A bit of doughnut fell from Helen’s lips as she said, “What’s it gonna be?” This signaled the start of their daily meeting to decide on the next day’s specials. Kenneth always knew what the special was going to be, but he enjoyed the process.
“Hmm,” he feigned some uncertainty. “Let’s see…I’m going to take those meatballs out of the sauce and use ’em for a taco salad.”
“Why?” Helen demanded.
“Because that sauce is tired.”
Helen pressed on: “How do you know the meatballs are good?”
“Sauce kept ’em good, juicy. Now the sauce is tired.”
She looked at him skeptically. “And,” he went on, “I’m going to take all those farm eggs you got from Mr. Clarence and make a Julianne wrap out of ’em.”
Helen set her mug down, abruptly. “I don’t trust wraps. I’ve told you that.”
“Everyone’s makin’ ’em now. It’s the new sandwich. A little strip of ham, egg, mesclun, hint of relish. They’ll get eaten up.”
“I’m not a wrap type,” she announced. Her edge was starting to show.
“They’re simple, Helen, like salad, but rolled up.”
“Huh.” She looked back toward the kitchen, then examined the ceiling. “Goddamn place needs painting.”
“Yeah,” he drew the word out.
She went behind the counter and took the carafe, splashing coffee into her mug. He looked at her hands. The cuticles were stained with red-eye gravy, a variety of food smudges over her fingers. He glanced at her waist. She had been trying to diet lately, eating a lot of tuna and lettuce, though she liked to sop up the salad dressing with heels of Italian bread. She hit the No Sale button and extracted a coin envelope and slid it across the counter.
“What’s this?”
“It’s Friday,” she said. “Pay.”
“Oh yeah, forgot.” The envelope was tight with stuffed bills, thicker than usual. She didn’t like to write checks. She believed that a business should pay as it goes, avoid building up debt.
“It feels thick,” he said.
She always smiled when she paid him. He thought she might have read in some management book that you’re supposed to smile when you pay the help. She flipped her guest pad and recited: “Nineteen grilled-cheese steaks, eleven shrimp baskets, five Roman omelets, and seven bowls of Firebird Chili, Kenneth, just seven. Your chili did not achieve celebrity status.”
“It’s real chili with hand-picked Mexican habanaros,” he defended.
“It’s too damn hot,” she pronounced.
He felt a little hurt. “I’ll fix it, make a foot-long sauce that’ll make love in your mouth.”
They locked eyes. Helen swallowed the last of her doughnut, then licked the sugar from between her thumb and forefinger.
“Well…you know what I mean,” he trailed off.
She moved down the counter, poured some water and drank it, then turned to look at him. “No, I don’t know what you mean. Exactly what do you mean, Kenneth Tucker?” He knew it was trouble when she called him by his full name.
“I don’t mean nothin’,” be blurted quickly, struggling to say what was on his mind.
“What I know is you been acting weird for days, sneaking around here like a guilty rabbit.”
“That’s not true,” he snapped, nervously shaking a cigarette out of the pack.
Helen slammed the chalk down on the counter, smashing it into shards and dust. “Goddamn it, if you’ve got something to say, say it, because I know what it is anyway, Kenneth Tucker.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name, isn’t it?”
They looked toward the door, where Moses, the lumpy boxer, was whining and scratching to get in. He licked the glass, cocking his head to one side. Helen went and unlocked it. Moses made his way toward the back, checking under each booth for scraps. Helen had done a good job this time and he whined some more. Looking sorrowful, he dropped down in a heap in front of the jukebox. He knew if he bided his time and wasn’t too much of a bother, dinner would be forthcoming. Kenneth eyed Moses resentfully. She has more regard for him than me, he thought.
Helen retreated to the kitchen and was banging things around. “I know what’s going on,” she yelled out the service window.
He splashed coffee into his mug and drew on the cigarette. What the hell’s goin’ on? he asked himself. Then he thought, This is taking a bad turn.
“I heard ’bout it,” Helen yelled.
“What? What’d you hear?”
“That you’d been down to King Street looking at the storefront where the barbecue place closed. I know what’s up.” He had looked at the storefront. He did have ideas about someday opening his own place, a place the two of them could have, use some of that expensive training, but under a different name. Maybe do a higher-level menu, but nothing too fancy. Something people would like. They could make a decent living, together, maybe. But he wasn’t going to mention that until he’d worked things out with her.
“You’re gonna open a little gourmet paradise, aren’t you? Poison some more good folks. Isn’t that your plan?”
He stood up, angry. “I told you that in private, Helen. For you to bring that up is just…ugly.”
“There’s an extra week’s pay in your envelope,” she shouted. “Take it and get out.” He felt the lump in his pocket. That explained the stuffed envelope. He was completely flustered. He looked at Moses threateningly. This was not part of his plan. Should he just walk out? Slowly, he took a guest check, touched the pencil to his tongue, and wrote on it, then slid it cautiously through the service window. She snatched it up. A moment later it sounded like she hammered the stove with a cast-iron frying pan. Moses jumped up and whimpered. The banging seemed to strike his chest. The coffee suddenly turned Kenneth’s stomach sour and he retreated to the head.
He took care of his business and then stood looking into the mirror. He was surprised to see himself crying. “I’m crying,” he said to himself in the mirror. “This is just great, I’m a mess. Army Corps of Engineers ought to come clean me up like a hazardous spill.” He snuffed, wiped his nose, and whispered hoarsely, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He opened the window and leaned out. “Am I going to run away now? Is that it?” he asked himself. “J-e-e-sus!” He looked out across the stubble of an empty lot at the Woolworth’s. Above, the sky was purple and thrumming with stars.
It was still, too early for the college kids to be carousing the streets. A vine of honeysuckle grew up the drainpipe. He grabbed some and held it up to his nose. Such sweetness, such bitterness, he thought. He resolved to go out and face her and cracked the door open cautiously and peered out. Moses was sitting there looking at him, a line of clear drool falling off his jowl. She wasn’t there. He went toward the kitchen and looked in the window. She was standing over the grill, a look of demonic satisfaction on her face. There were two large steaks sizzling and a wad of golden onions slithering on the side like transparent worms. A small side of chili bubbled in a blackened pot. She flipped the steaks violently, banged two platters down, shoveled them in with the onions, some slaw, and a spoon of chili, then set them down in the window. “Table two,” she barked.
“Helen,” he began.
“Table two,” she commanded. Kenneth picked up the plates, peering in at her, slightly comforted by her crazy expression. “You’re a touch odd, Helen.”
“I ain’t no ‘Normal Nancy,’ if that’s where your taste runs.”
Moses followed him to the table, his wrinkled snout angled at the dishes. Helen kneed open the door carrying two 16-ounce cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a plastic bowl she held with her teeth. She set the beers on the table and the bowl under it, where Moses jarred Kenneth’s knee diving in. She extracted some quarters from her apron pocket, “A-7 and B-5, C-1, and,” she paused. “Whatever…”
He considered this request, then went and entered the selections. He sauntered to the table and popped the beer and took a big swallow. It tasted good and cold and right. He followed it down with some more. Helen sawed a piece off her steak, heaped some onions on top, and began chewing. “God, this is good.”
He sat down across from her. Thought about picking up his fork, took another gulp of beer. “Helen, I said something to you back there.”
She stopped chewing, her eyes wide, surveying him. She spoke, even-toned. “You didn’t say nothing to me. You wrote something.”
“That’s true,” he said, squirming in his seat. She kept looking at him, waiting. He said, “For some time now…”
“For some time now, what?”
“Well…,” he was sweating, “The note, I mean what I wrote on the check, plus for some time now.” He swallowed hard.
She pointed the tip of her steak knife a few inches away from his throat. “Don’t play with me, Kenneth.”
“I’m not playing…I…thought you knew,” he said, pitifully.
She leaned back, closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled a deep sigh, like resignation. The milkshake-smooth voice of Patty Page spilled over them. “You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod,” she sang. “That’s where I want to go. I’ve never been further north than Maryland. I want to see the ocean in Cape Cod. I like lobster stew.”
“How about some swan’s eggs with artichoke hearts in champagne sauce? I could make that for you, Helen.”
She cocked a suspicious eye at him. “How’s that, Kenneth?”
“Or maybe shrimp with ginger and leaks, angel food cake for dessert. I’d love to make that for you.” He was looking squarely down in his lap.
They sat quiet for a while. A man looking in his lap. A woman with her head back against the booth, Patty Page singing with strings, Remind you of the town that you were born. Moses slobbering under the table. When Kenneth finally looked up he saw how soft Helen’s face looked in the light. She seemed to be luxuriating, spreading out like a calm lake. He felt something push against his thigh. Annoyed, he reached under to push Moses’ begging nuzzle away. But it wasn’t Moses. It was a foot, her foot, and he took hold of it. Tight at first, then he relaxed his grasp and began massaging it, running his index finger between each toe. He brought his hand up to his mouth, kissed his hand, and touched it to her foot. Her eyes opened up to him, and they looked at each other till the next song began. He was holding her ankle now with both hands, his fingertips at the bottom of her calf.
“How long’s it take to cook a swan’s egg?” she asked.
This article appears in February 2007.
