American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,123

that you?”

Mona’s mouth drops open and she lowers the gun. Not just because this black-and-white static-man seems to know her mother, and has mistaken Mona for her: but also because, unbelievably, she recognizes him. She saw him once before, in an old book in a library, where she read an interview of his about his idealistic plans for his laboratory and the town it was going to have built around it.

“Laura, my dear, my dear, what happened to you?” asks Dr. Coburn. “Where have you been? What are you doing here?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Whereas most of the other waitresses at Chloe’s despise their jobs, secretly or openly, Gracie often cannot wait to come into work. She does not mind the scalding coffee, the heat radiating from the griddles and ovens, the uncomfortable wool skirt and the ridiculous, tiny hat; nor does she mind the balletic stride required to ferry however many pies (in Wink, pies are quite popular, and people usually order more than one piece) through all the aisles, which frequently resemble an obstacle course, with children’s feet and stray boots standing in for tire runs; she does not mind that it is a demeaning job that demands a veneer of chipper friendliness, though behind each beaming smile every waitress is feverishly counting however many nickels and dimes Mr. So-and-So put down, and did he really just tip us with just change, good Christ, he really did, what does he expect us to do with that besides buy a newspaper?

Gracie doesn’t care about any of this. Because when she puts on the pearly-pink uniform and sticks that rhinestone-covered name tag in her front pocket, people forget who she is. All they see is a waitress, and that’s all they care about. That and when their food will get there.

At school and at home and nearly everywhere else, it’s different. People know who Gracie Zuela is. She is Talked About. She is, after all, the girl who has been Tapped, Touched, Chosen. Though they don’t know what she’s been chosen for—God help them if they ever figure that out—they know she has Connections. They fear her as they would the child of a mafia don or a corrupt mayor, worrying her whims and attentions could result in dire consequences.

But the eponymous Chloe, owner of the diner, doesn’t care about Gracie’s relations at all. Her work ethic is so inflexible, so demanding, that she is blind to Gracie’s background, and deaf to all the rumors that follow her around like so many muttering thunderclouds. Some people are aghast at this: Gracie’s fellow waitresses, for example, exchange terrified looks when Chloe gives Gracie both barrels for whatever mistake she’s just made, as if her recriminations could bring the whole roof down on their heads. These comments can’t go ignored, they say; surely Gracie’s—they stumble for the word—benefactor must intervene?

But nothing happens. Gracie always just nods meekly (she really cannot nod another way) and fixes her mistake. Chloe blows away the stray strand of blond hair that’s always in her face, sighs, apologizes; then, as always, follows up that apology with another warning, though this one less severe than the last; Gracie nods again, and Chloe mutters, “All right, then,” before moving on to more important affairs.

And everybody just stares. The sleeping dragon has just had its eye poked; surely there must be a column of blasting fire, and a terrible roar?

They just don’t understand, thinks Gracie as she buses a table, mopping up coffee with a used napkin. They just don’t understand how unimportant they are. How unimportant I am. And it is only at Chloe’s that she feels as unimportant as she knows she really is. It’s only here, except possibly in her times with Joseph, that she feels normal, whatever that means.

It has been a long while since Gracie’s felt normal for any length of time. Perhaps she has never felt normal. After all, everything started when she was just an infant. She cannot remember her first visitations, and to this day she does not really know why she is visited, she over everyone else. Her own parents prefer not to discuss it. All they told her (and this was grudgingly given) was that one evening, mere weeks after she was born, they had just put her to bed and turned the baby monitor on, and both her mother and her father went to bed smiling as the speaker told them of the tiny creature across the hall snorting, grunting, and, frequently,