American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,38

counts each car and truck and memorizes the first letter or number of each license plate before she feels satisfied enough to go in.

Chloe’s turns out to be a bright, clean, well-lit eatery with wide, curving tables and snug booths. It is filled with the aroma of bacon and pancakes, and the hiss of the griddle makes the jukebox (which is playing some Perry Como number) sound like it’s coming through an ancient radio. Pies and cakes, each as lavishly prepared as a bridal gown, gracefully orbit one another on the dessert stands on the countertop, which is beaded with spotlights from the pendant lamps dangling above. Mona is a little disappointed to find it is not an all-night diner; she feels this would be the perfect place for restless night owls to come and contemplate their loneliness over a cup of coffee. That is, if Wink had any night owls.

When Mona enters she stands at the door for a moment and watches the waitresses take orders from the customers. None of them, she notices, are writing anything down. Some of them aren’t even taking orders: people walk in and sit down, and a plate of hash browns and biscuits—or a plate of steak and eggs, or just a cup of coffee—is placed in front of them with no more than a happy greeting and an inquiry about the state of the family. They are all regulars, Mona realizes. Everyone knows everybody here, and what they want.

Everyone except her. She can already feel the confused glances darting her way. They silently ask—Who is this? And then there is a turn, a realization when they all say—Oh, the girl from the funeral in the flashy car…

Mona is too hungry to care. She sits down at the counter and looks at the menu, which is made of old and coffee-stained paper. The murmur of confusion dies, but she can still feel a few lingering stares.

A waitress arrives, a girl Mona finds faintly familiar. She is a delicate, dark-haired thing with a neck so skinny Mona can hardly believe it’s holding up her head. Her eyes are huge and brown, with a certain glimmer of anxiety. “Can I help you, ma’am?” she asks.

Mona glances at her name tag. It reads GRACIE. “Sure,” says Mona. “But I was told to say that, uh, Mr. Macey sent me…”

“Oh, Macey,” says Gracie. She smiles briefly, but it feels like a formality: Mona gets the sense that Macey is one of those people everyone has to pretend to like, whether they really do or not. “Sure, we can take care of you, then. What’ll you have?”

“What’s the house specialty?”

“Specialty?” asks Gracie. “Well, ma’am, our pancakes and coffee are pretty talked about.”

“Oh, please don’t call me ma’am. It just about kills me every time.”

This brings about a small smile. “All right.”

“I think I may need something a little more substantial than pancakes, but I would love to try a cup of your coffee. What else you got?”

Gracie looks Mona over. She seems to come to some decision, and says, “I’d recommend the biscuits and gravy, if you haven’t had much all day.”

“Hm. You know, I don’t mean to pry, but I think… I think I might have seen you today. Were you in the alley this morning, showing off your balance?”

“What? Oh.” Gracie smiles, embarrassed, and turns a brilliant shade of red. “Yes. Yeah, that was me.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen Marines go through training like that. You must be made of tough stuff.”

She grins sheepishly. “Miss Chloe takes her customer service seriously.”

“Well, it has definitely paid off. Tell Miss Chloe I’ll have the biscuits and gravy and a cup of coffee, if you could.” She folds up the menu and hands it to Gracie, who gives her a bit of a puzzled smile before heading to the back to relay her order. Within the blink of an eye, another waitress—this one giving her no more than a small smile and a “Here you are, shug”—has slipped her a ponderous mug of steaming coffee, along with some cream and sugar. Mona takes a sip, and she can immediately understand why it’s talked about: it is rich and strong and faintly chocolatey, so good it induces a sigh of satisfaction.

For a moment she does no more than look around the diner, and as she does the clank of plates and the mumbled greetings and the scrape of silverware all align until it feels as if she’s in the center