The Turnaround

Twelve

Eighty-five on the soft-shells, Juana,” said John Pappas.

“Got it, baby,” said Juana Valdez, running a damp rag over the countertop where a customer had eaten moments before. “One mo.”

Alex heard the exchange but did not turn his head. He was busy ringing out the lady attorney who had just gotten off her stool. The lunch rush was winding down, with only stragglers left at the counter. There would be little turnover now.

“How was everything today, dear?” said Alex.

“Fantastic,” said the dark-haired woman.

She looked over Alex’s shoulder as he made change. The dessert case was there behind him. His father had chosen its location, thinking that customers would want a little something to take back to the office on their way out the door.

“Tempted?”

“How’s that peach pie?”

“Nice. I can wrap you up a slice if you want.”

“Better not. Shame to let it go to waste, though.”

“It won’t go to waste,” said Alex.

The peach pie didn’t move well at the store, but Alex brought it in because the soldiers, many of whom were Southerners, seemed to like it. He had half a cherry cheesecake in the refrigerated case as well. He planned to box them both and run them by the hospital on his way home.

“Dad.” John Pappas had come down to the register and stood behind his father as the woman left the store.

“Yes?”

“Eighty-five on the soft-shells.”

“I heard you,” said Alex, swiveling on his stool to face his son. Johnny wore black slacks and a sky blue shirt. He looked like a guy about to order a martini, not a counterman. “That’s good.”

“Don’t be so enthusiastic.”

“No, I mean it. It’s good. We made a profit and some new friends. I heard positive comments from the customers. Not so much about the soup, though…”

“I shouldn’t have gone with asparagus, I guess.”

“It makes your pee smell funny. People don’t like it when their urine stinks, especially at work. They gotta share the bathrooms, remember.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

Alex tapped the side of his head. “Use your myah-law.”

“You want that last order of soft-shells for lunch?”

“Don’t eighty-six them yet,” said Alex. “A paying customer might want them.”

“Right.”

“But if they’re still around in a half hour, have Darlene set me up a plate with sides. She knows what I like.”

“Okay.”

“And Johnny?”

“What?”

“Are we done with your music for today? Because it all sounds like the same song.”

“This is Thievery Corporation, Dad.”

“I don’t care if it’s General Motors and IBM combined. We sell food here, not tabs of X.”

“ Tabs of X?” John chuckled.

“That’s not the right term?”

“Maybe you ought to stick to your own era. Love beads and bell-bottoms, like that.”

“Son, that was before my time.”

“I’m going to talk to Darlene.”

“Go ahead.”

“She’s stoked about tomorrow’s special: shrimp Creole.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“The shrimp’s on sale this week.”

“Just don’t get too extravagant. This ain’t the Prime Rib.”

Alex watched John walk down the rubber mats. He stopped to talk to an NAB executive on the way back to the prep area. He asked him about his meal, and what he’d like to see on the menu in the future. The executive seemed pleased that his opinion was being solicited. He had been eating here for years, and he and Alex had not exchanged more than a few pleasant but weightless words.

By the grill, Darlene stood with her spatula pointed up at the drop ceiling, making a chin motion toward Johnny, then smiling at Alex. Beside her, Blanca was whistling as she began to wrap and store her colds. Rafael was doing some Latin Joe two-step back by the dishwasher. Okay, so they all seemed happier when Johnny was in the house. Not that Alex was a slave driver or a grouch. But the boy did brighten the place like a coat of fresh paint. Still, Johnny had plenty to learn.

“Love beads,” said Alex as a customer stepped up to the register, guest check in hand.

“What’s that?” said the man.

“My son thinks I’m a dinosaur.”

“Join the club. The difference is, mine has no ambition and he can’t cook.”

“Come by tomorrow,” said Alex, experiencing an unfamiliar twinge of pride as the man pushed bills across the counter. “He’s doin something with shrimp.”

Charles Baker had gone into the nursing home for a few hours, on account of his PO, a nice-looking Latina gal, had scheduled a meet. It went all right. He told her he liked his job and had a real good attitude about the future, all the bullshit she wanted to hear. She said that the urine sample he’d given to the clinic had tested fine. It was no surprise to him that he’d dropped a negative. He drank just a little, which was legal for an offender, but did not smoke reefer. Even in his youth, he had not cared for it. It was just as well. The plans he had made were complicated, and for them to work out, his head needed to be right.

His African supervisor covered for him, told the parole lady that Baker had fulfilled his duties and in general was one of his Johnny-on-the-spot employees. The PO went on her way, and as soon as her car was gone, so was Baker.

He caught a crosstown bus where Branch Avenue met Pennsylvania. He was on it, headed west, when his cell rang, showing a blocked number. Baker answered his phone.

“Yeah.”

“Charles Baker?”

“That’s right.”

“This is Peter Whitten.”

Baker grinned. He cleared his throat. He sat up straight on the bench seat he was sharing with a dude who was wearing a coat that smelled like unwashed ass.

“Mr. Whitten. Thank you for calling me.”

“Just to be clear, this is the Charles Baker who left a note in my mailbox, isn’t it?”

“It is me.”

“I think we should meet face-to-face. How does that sound to you?”

“My thoughts, too,” said Baker, going for refined.

“What about tomorrow? Are you free for lunch?”

“Why, yes.”

“There’s a place I like… Do you have a pen?”

“I’ll remember it.”

Peter Whitten gave him the name of the restaurant, its location, and the time of the reservation. “You should wear a jacket. I think they require it.”

“Will do,” said Baker. “See you then.”

He closed his cell. He stared out the window and felt himself smile. He had expected Whitten to be angry at first, if he responded at all. But the man sounded downright reasonable. People with money just did business differently. They acted civilized. Baker wasn’t accustomed to manners and reason, but he could get with it. Wasn’t always violence that got shit done.

This was going to be easy.

Alex Pappas stood by the register, counting out the change drawers, his left hand cupped below the edge of the counter as he slid coins into it with the forefinger of his right. His lips moved as he calculated the amounts and entered them on a calculator the size of a paperback novel. The sun had passed, leaving him in the pale yellow glow of the overhead conical lamps.

Alex cut the register tape at three to hide some profit from the tax man. He left enough money in a metal cash box to get started in the morning, locked the box in the stand-up freezer, and took the remaining cash home to Vicki, who managed their finances, just as he had delivered the chrimahta to his mother when he had first taken over the business. The system worked, and he felt there was no reason to change it.

Juana and Blanca were gone, always the first to leave. Rafael had finished mopping and rolled the industrial-sized bucket and wringer out to the back hall. Johnny and Darlene were by the grill area, working out a recipe in a notebook, Darlene having changed into her street clothes, an outfit complete with matching handbag. It was her routine to come back into the shop from the hallway bathroom, dressed nicely, before going home. Alex knew she wanted him to have a look at her, the way she’d done when they were teenagers. Telling him that she was a grill girl in a uniform but also a woman with a life outside the store.

Rafael ambled down the other side of the counter and had a seat on the stool nearest the register. He too had changed into clean clothing and had doused himself with strong cologne.

“Hey, boss.”

Alex finished counting quarters and made an entry on the calculator.

“Rafael. You got a little behind today on the deliveries. Was there a problem?”

“Blanca send me too far away, all the way to Si’teenth Street. Then when I get there, the lady don’t have the money collected for the order.”

“Sixteenth’s out of our delivery area.”

“I know it!”

“All right, I’ll speak to Blanca.”

Rafael did not move to leave. Alex waited, knowing Rafael wanted one of two things. Advice, because he had no father in this country, or money, because he was always short on cash.

“One more thing, boss.”

“Yes?”

“I’m takin a girl out to dinner tonight.”

“One of our customers or a round-the-way girl?”

“I don’t mess with the customers.”

“You try.”

Rafael smiled shyly. “This a girl I meet in my neighborhood. We’re goin to Haydee’s. You know it?”

It was a place that served Mexican and El Salvadoran food. The owner had come to America from El Salvador, worked as a waitress, and opened her first restaurant on Mount Pleasant Street and then a second on Georgia Avenue. Alex had taken the family to the Mount Pleasant location for dinner one night and bored them, no doubt, with his enthusiastic retelling of another immigrant success story.

“It’s nice,” said Alex. “Reasonable, too. So don’t ask me for too much.”

“Can I get forty dollars?” said Rafael.

Alex reached into his pocket, produced a roll of bills, peeled off two twenties. “You want it all taken out the next payday?”

“Half nex week, half the nex. Okay?”

Alex handed him the money. “Wear a rubber, Rafael.”

“ Que? ”

“You heard me. You’re too young to be a father.”

“I don’t like the raincoat.”

“Do what I tell you, boy.”

Rafael winked. “Thanks, boss.”

Alex made a small wave of his hand. “Have fun.”

Rafael headed for the back door with a cocky, athletic dip. Alex was reminded of Gus. He had had that kind of physicality and confidence. Alex had constantly reminded him to use condoms, too. “Your mother and I don’t want any grandchildren yet. You don’t want to mess up some girl’s life.” Gus, like Rafael, didn’t look past the pleasure at the consequences. It was not that they were insensitive, but rather, they were insensible. Alex never had to tell Johnny to use a condom. He knew little about his personal life, but he felt that Johnny would be cautious. Gus, on the other hand, made decisions based on desire and emotion. Gus was certain he would play football at a higher level, despite his average size, and wanted to move to Florida. Gus had joined the army behind his romantic vision of the warrior. Gus had dreams and fantasies. Johnny had plans.

Alex heard a knocking sound and turned his head to see a tall black man rapping his knuckles on the glass of the front door.

“I’ll get it, Dad,” said Johnny.

“No, I will,” said Alex.

He slipped the cash box under the counter, shut the register drawer, passed through the break in the counter, and stepped up to the door. Through the glass, he mouthed the word “Closed” to the man, but the man did not move. Alex flipped the dead bolt and opened the door just enough to speak to him.

“We’re closed, sir.”

“I’m not here for food or drink.”

“What can I do for you?”

“My name is Raymond Monroe.”

The name was a common one. It was also vaguely familiar. Alex had the growing feeling that he had seen this man before.

“Can I come in for a minute?”

“Why?”

“Look, I’m not here to rob you.”

“I know that,” said Alex, a bit embarrassed and also annoyed.

“I saw you outside the Fisher House yesterday, at Walter Reed. You and I almost bumped into each other.”

“Right,” said Alex. So that was where he recognized him from. He didn’t quite remember the encounter, but he had no reason to think this man would lie.

“It was Peggy. You know Peggy, don’t you? She told me who you were. See, there was something about you. Well, it was your eye, you want the truth. And then, when she said your name… You are the boy that got hurt out at Heathrow Heights, aren’t you?”

Alex hesitated. “I was.”

“I’m one of the young men who was involved in the incident. The younger brother.”

Monroe drew his wallet and held out his driver’s license so Alex could match the photo to the name. Alex glanced at it, keeping his foot against the door.

“Look, I don’t want anything,” said Monroe.

“You’ve, uh, caught me off guard here.”

“Just a word.” Monroe placed his palm on the glass of the door. “Please.”

“Certainly.” Alex stepped aside. “Come in.”

Monroe entered the shop, and Alex locked the door. They walked toward the counter.

“Can I get you a soda, something?”

“I’m okay,” said Monroe.

“Dad?” said Johnny, standing with Darlene by the rear door.

“Go home, both of you,” said Alex. “I’m just gonna have a word with this gentleman. I’ll be right behind you.”

After Alex waited for Johnny and Darlene to go, he gestured to the stool nearest the register. As Monroe got situated, Alex took a seat himself, leaving one empty stool between them. Alex rarely sat on this side of the counter. He didn’t know what to do with his arms.

“That was your boy?”

“My oldest, yes.”

“Nice-looking kid.”

“Thanks.”

“I have a boy, too, a soldier. Kenji’s in the Tenth Mountain Division, First Battalion. Third Brigade Combat Team.”

“God protect him,” said Alex.

“Yes.”

“Is that why you were at Walter Reed?”

“No, I work there. I’m a physical therapist.”

“That’s admirable.”

“Well, I’m getting paid for it. So it’s not like I’m donating my time. But I’m tryin to help out, you know. I felt a little useless, what with Kenji over there, doing his part.”

Alex nodded. On the Coca-Cola clock, the second hand swept past twelve, dropping the minute hand with a soft click. Alex placed his forearm on the counter and ran a finger along the artificial grain of the linoleum.

“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m not exactly clear on why you came to see me.”

“I’m just reaching out,” said Monroe. “You move along in life, you feel the need to make the beds you left undone.”

Alex nodded. He could think of nothing to say.

“We don’t have to do this all at once,” said Monroe, sensing the man’s resistance and confusion, deciding that the rest of it would have to be left for another, more appropriate time. “When you feel more comfortable, when you’re ready to talk again, give me a call.”

Monroe reached for the guest check pad and the pen that was lying beside it. He wrote his name and cell number on the top sheet, tore it off, and pushed it along the counter to Alex. Alex was polite and did the same.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your son,” said Monroe.

“Thank you.”

Monroe and Alex got off their stools and headed for the door.

“Mr. Monroe.”

“Make it Ray.”

“Your brother… What was his name again?”

“James.”

“Is he around?”

“He’s alive, yes.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s out. Stumbled some, but he’s out now. Back in D.C., working. Yeah, James is doing good.”

Monroe offered his hand, and Alex shook it.

After Raymond Monroe had left, Alex sat in the quiet of the shop, thinking about the door that had just been opened. Picturing himself walking through it, and wondering what he might find if he did.