The Atheist's Daughter Read online

  Maybe if he mentioned her, just once, in all of our hours together. Would it kill him to share his feelings with me?

  Speak to me, he thought. Don’t lecture me. Don’t preach. Talk man-to-man, father-to-son.

  Fat chance.

  “Almost done?” his father asked from the podium. Straightening the index cards, he pulled a rubber band around them.

  “Getting there,” Hawkins said. “See you at home.”

  “I’ll be late.” Opening his briefcase, his father slid his practice materials into an inner sleeve. “I think I’ll get a few reps in.”

  “You’re going to the gym?”

  “‘Exercise thyself into godliness’.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember seeing the slogan over at 24 Hour Fitness.”

  Swinging the briefcase, his father left the podium. Humming lightly, he went past his son and through the large Gothic front door. Hawkins saw him pass a pedestrian and climb into his car just before the door snicked shut.

  Hawkins remained inside the doorway. The pedestrian on the walkway was familiar to him. He’d seen him before.

  It was the guy at Piotrowski’s, the one who’d bullied Kristin. The one who called her ‘meat’.

  What’s his name again?

  “Mr. Locke.” Saying the man’s name, a bizarre feeling washed over him. He felt a sudden need to hide. He wanted to crawl under one of the pews and curl himself into a ball. That way, when Mr. Locke entered the church, he couldn’t find him.

  Grow a pair, he told himself.

  Remember Hunter Davis, senior year? He was a lot like this guy. Just as aggressive but bigger. Chunked-up biceps, same kind of strut when he walked. What did you do when he got in your face?

  You didn’t back down. You stood up to him. Kicked his butt, that’s what you did.

  Hawkins shoved at the heavy front door, stepping onto the front landing. “What do you want?”

  Out on the walkway, two fingers of each hand tucked into the top of his pants pockets, Mr. Locke grinned. “Are you talking to me?”

  “You know who I’m talking to.”

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t. I was on a walk, strolling past this lovely church, when the door suddenly flew open and you came out, shouting. Have we met?”

  The anger drained from Hawkins’ face, quickly replaced by embarrassment.

  I’m such a jackass. He doesn’t even remember me.

  Taking his left hand from his pocket, the other man rubbed at his face as if something was bothering him. His fingers played over his mouth.

  He let his hand drop. “Wait, I think I’m wrong. Maybe I do know you. You’re the kid who was at my restaurant.”

  “Sorry. Just – sorry.”

  “You were staring at me.”

  “That’s not....” He couldn’t finish the sentence. In its own way, it was true enough.

  “You told me to screw myself.”

  “I never said that.”

  “That’s okay. It didn’t make me mad.” His hips pistoned awkwardly as Locke came up the concrete path. “You can stare at me if you want.”

  Hawkins retreated. “That is not what I want.”

  Mr. Locke said, “You’re not very friendly. I thought the God-fearing were supposed to be friendly.”

  “I apologize, all right? For coming out here. For shouting. For...for staring, if that’s what you think happened.” He reached for the large cast iron door handle behind him. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Do you want to know a secret?”

  Hawkins clutched at the handle more tightly. “No.”

  “I can whisper it in your ear if you’d like.”

  “Mr. Locke!” a female voice cried out. A woman ran toward them, her cotton dress too large for her frame. Her golden bracelet bounced along her thin wrist as she raced along the sidewalk.

  With regret in his voice, Mr. Locke said, “Alice Poe.”

  “Where have you been?” The woman’s watery blue eyes went past him to Hawkins. Unhappiness pinched her tight face.

  “I was on a walk.”

  “Mrs. Norton wants you to return. Now.”

  “Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Norton. I’m tired of hearing about the wants and demands of our Mrs. Norton.”

  “You dare not say that.”

  “Not to Mrs. Norton,” he told her lightly. Allowing himself to be tugged away, he looked over his shoulder as he left. “Young Master Hawkins?”

  “What?”

  “We’ll share our secrets later. In private, just you and me. Okay?”

  Hawkins watched the pair go from sidewalk to asphalt and then around the corner. Headed, he supposed, back to Piotrowski’s Café.

  Back to Mrs. Norton.

  Entering the church, he closed the door. That was definitely kinda creepy.

  Later, he wondered: How did Mr. Locke know my name?

  Chapter Eighteen

  An hour after the café opened, she saw him still there, sitting at a corner table. Small, alone and largely forgotten, Martin Piotrowski desperately wanted to be of some use to someone, somewhere.

  It’s a pity I can’t give him the opportunity, Mrs. Norton thought.

  Alice Poe stopped at his table to fill his water glass. Knowing Mrs. Norton was watching, she tipped her head in the direction of another solitary customer. Sitting at Table Seven, this one slurped pasta into his mouth, letting it slide over his chin before it disappeared.

  This particular customer didn’t seem like the kind to welcome company before his plate was empty. Mrs. Norton decided she’d deal with him soon enough. First, she needed to send Martin on his way.

  Glass in hand, he waved in her direction. When he did, Alice Poe left him for the next table. Mr. Locke stalked sullenly behind her, a busboy’s blue apron tied around his waist.

  “Something else to eat, Martin?” Mrs. Norton asked. “A slice of pie, perhaps?”

  He patted at his stomach. “The linguisa was more than enough.”

  “Do I get your review?”

  “Good, the meal was good,” he said. “Add a little chopped marjoram with the peppers and onion, it would be even better. It’s a subtle touch but the customers love it. I can show Mr. Brass how it’s done, if you’d like.”

  “You know what they say about too many cooks, my dear.”

  “I’ll bring the recipe tomorrow. Just in case.” Pulling out his wallet, he dropped a bill on the table. When Mrs. Norton protested, he raised his hand. “You can’t afford to give away food. Not when you’re starting out.”

  “Money isn’t everything.”

  “It is in the restaurant business.” He stood up from his chair. “I know a few things about running a restaurant. You agree?”

  “Martin....”

  He lowered his voice. “Piotrowski’s Café failed once. I don’t want you to know such heartbreak.”

  “I won’t,” Mrs. Norton said.

  “You can’t be sure. After all, this is your grand opening, Constance. The grand opening and there are empty tables around me.”

  “Two empty tables, Martin. Three, once you leave. It’s hardly time to file bankruptcy papers.”

  “The café has to generate more income to survive,” he said. “You’ve got to serve something besides lunch. If you add breakfast to your menu –”

  “No.”

  “Two eggs, two pieces of toast, a slice of bacon. It costs pennies, it brings in dollars. If I’d served breakfast, I’d still be in business.”

  Mr. Locke circled around them. Removing the table’s dirty dishes, he slid them into a black plastic tub.

  “We can talk about this later. For now, go home. Rest.”

  “You’ll do what’s best.” Martin’s tone implied only he truly knew what was best.

  “With your help, I’m certain we’ll muddle through.” Placing a hand on his shoulder, she pressed gently to encourage him to move toward the exit.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he left.

  Mr. Locke stayed at the small, circ
ular table. “Why does he call you ‘Constance’?”

  “The invoices we receive are made out to Constance Norton. Martin made an assumption.”

  “It’s not your name.”

  “He thinks it is.”

  “Constance Norton.” The thought amused him. When he smiled, his cheekbones became more pronounced.

  He really is beautiful, Mrs. Norton thought. Such a shame.

  Beauty was so rare it attracted interest. The interest of others was, now and forever, unwanted. She’d do nothing about it yet. In a few months, if Mr. Locke hadn’t learned to disguise his looks, she’d take action.

  It would be rash to act too soon. Better to wait until the others realized his appearance was a detriment to their future, to the opportunities awaiting them. Mrs. Norton had survived this long because she knew when to let others think her ideas were their own.

  If and when the time came to address the issue in a physical manner, she’d let Mr. Brass assist her. He enjoyed those kinds of things.

  Pulling a cloth from his waistband, Mr. Locke swiped at the splattering of sauce on the table. “The old meat is right. The café isn’t busy enough.”

  “It’s our first day.”

  “If every table was full, we’d have more to choose from. As it is, hardly anyone has gone upstairs.”

  “It’s only our first day.”

  She knew he wanted to offer another protest. His courage faltered and he pretended to be distracted by the cloth in his hand. “We could serve breakfast, though. It would be easy.”

  “Do you know who comes to breakfast?”

  “Customers.”

  “Busy people,” she said. “People in a hurry, grabbing a bite before they go to work. We don’t want that kind of clientele.”

  He was still lost, she could tell. He thought he knew so much. It chafed him to discover there were more things left to learn.

  Pretty or not, he was becoming tiresome. It would be a pleasure to scar his lovely face.

  “Busy people are people with responsibilities,” she said. “People who will be missed. They have families in need of their paycheck, co-workers who count on their presence. When something happens to someone who is needed, alarms are sounded.” She tipped her head toward Table Seven. “We want the lonely. We want the dispossessed. We want customers who have nothing better to do in the middle of their day than to go to an adequate restaurant in a strangled little town.”

  “Because they mean nothing to anybody. Less than nothing.”

  “Because no one cares about them,” she corrected him. “No one except for us.”

  Mr. Locke tossed his cloth into the tub of dirty dishes.

  “In the last few years, with information ever more available, I’ve had to learn to be patient,” Mrs. Norton said. “In time, you’ll learn to be patient, too.”

  Mr. Locke appeared doubtful.

  “Finish your duties. I need to see a customer.”

  * * *

  He said his name was Kevin Zhou. In his professional life, he’d made his living in one of the oldest of the professions.

  He was a traveling salesman.

  “For years, I traveled coast-to-coast. Medical supplies. Colonoscopes, mostly,” he said, as if a discussion of colonoscopes was appropriate for casual conversation with a stranger. “There’s some serious money to be made in the medical field, I’ll tell you.”

  If he’d kept any of his money, it wasn’t apparent on first inspection. His worn camel hair sport coat was folded sloppily over the top of the empty chair at his table. He wore a nondescript cream-colored shirt with plastic buttons; the shirt’s tail was tucked into a pair of unfashionable brown slacks. If she was a betting woman – and she, most definitely, was not – Mrs. Norton would have wagered on Zhou’s choice of footwear. Beneath the table’s white cloth, she was certain she’d find him wearing a pair of cotton-nylon socks tucked into scuffed department store shoes.

  Still and all. He was retired but not enfeebled. He lacked a dining companion and didn’t wear a wedding ring. He had possibilities.

  Dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, Zhou said, “Are you the diner’s owner?”

  “My family and I.”

  “You work as a waitress, then?”

  “I’m the manager.”

  “Yet you wait tables.”

  “Alice Poe is our waitress,” she said. “When business demands, we all step in to help.”

  “Wise, very wise,” Zhou responded. “Piotrowski killed his business, you know, paying for staff. Two waitresses, a cook’s assistant, and God knows who else. Anyone who asked for an application, he gave them a job. And to what end? Out of business in less than three years time.”

  “At least his name lives on.”

  “He made good food, I’ll give him that much. “ Zhou dropped his napkin to the table. “Your chef isn’t as talented. The pasta was overcooked, the sauce tasted bland. I’m surprised I was able to finish my lunch.” He picked up his bill and toyed with it.

  She’d seen Zhou’s kind before. They’d finish their meal, leave not a crumb uneaten, and then utter some vague complaint in the hope their bill would be discounted. Thinking they were clever when all they really were was annoying.

  “Perhaps I can offer a dessert in way of apology,” she told the round-bellied man.

  Retreating through the rear door, she went into the kitchen. Opening the large commercial refrigerator at the back of the building, she stepped inside.

  The remains of the afternoon’s two-crust apple pie waited for her. Miss Sweet believed her particular combination of fresh sliced apples, ground cinnamon, and white sugar was a panacea for every mortal complaint. It was almost too good. If demand grew for the treat, it would be removed from the menu.

  For now, the colonoscope salesman could enjoy its pleasures. Transferring a thick wedge of the pie onto a dessert plate, she closed the door behind her.

  Without saying a word, Zhou pushed his fork through the pie’s flaky crust. His expression changed as his mouth closed over the treat. “This is fresh. Not commercial.”

  “Naturally.”

  He offered no further conversation, his fork clicking against the plate as it swept away the rest of the pie.

  Mrs. Norton pulled the empty chair back from the table. Avoiding her customer’s sport coat, she sat on edge of the seat. “Zhou is a Chinese name, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, removing the fork from his mouth. A flake of golden crust dangled from his lower lip.

  “I knew a Zhou family once. Pig farmers, from the Sichuan Province.”

  “You’ve been to China?”

  “Hundreds of years ago. Or so it feels at times.” She rested her hand upon his forearm. “I hope you don’t have to run off.”

  The fork in Zhou’s hand wobbled. Incredibly, he blushed.

  She said, “All those years ago, back when China and I were both so much younger, I found a most interesting curio in the Hualong Valley. Do you know of the area?”

  “It’s in the Songpan mountains.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Norton said. “You really should see what I found. It’s interesting, so very special. I think you’ll be amazed.”

  “Amazed?” The thought pleased him. “For something amazing, I might spare a moment.”

  “Wonderful.” She rose from the chair. “It’s upstairs.”

  Belatedly, Zhou climbed to his feet. Mrs. Norton went ahead of him, confident he’d follow after her.

  By the time he reached the stairway, she was already on the second floor’s upper landing. His gaze traveled up the stairway to find her.

  “Join me, Mr. Zhou,” she said.”Come and see our little piece of magic.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Propped up by an oversized pillow and loosely covered by a lavender sheet, Susannah Guitierrez rested on the living room sofa. Her warm brown eyes were slightly unfocused as a pleasantly empty expression played about her features.

  What a waste of time, Becky thought, t
he bristles of her paint brush skating over the rectangle of hardwood. This painting will never, ever sell.

  I’m not just wasting my time, I’m wasting Susannah’s time. I’m wasting my supplies.

  Once she finished the piece, she’d be lucky to give it away. Susannah wouldn’t want it. Her townhouse walls were crowded with photographs. Should she decide, one fine day, to hang a painting in her home, it wouldn’t be this painting. This painting wouldn’t appeal to her at all.

  Will it appeal to anyone? Lowering her paintbrush, Becky rested its handle against her hip.

  Trying to consider the painting objectively, she admitted it wasn’t remotely realistic. With so many bursts of different colors on the board, an outside observer might question if her subject was even human. Instead of calling it, “Portrait of S. Guitierrez”, she should have named it, “Explosion at the Paint Factory”.

  She pressed her brush to her pallet into a circle of Cremnitz white. So why do I feel so happy?

  Because...well, because.

  No, “because” isn’t an answer. Try a little harder.

  Because I’m not doing this for the money, she decided. No one commissioned it. I’m not expecting anyone to buy it. It’s not important if anyone else likes it.

  This one is for me. No reason to even send it to the gallery.

  A mental stab struck at her with the last thought. If Larry at the Centerville Gallery saw the painting, he’d have a heart attack. In Lincoln City’s Centerville Square, abstract art didn’t sell.

  “Abstract art is worthless,” Larry declared, not five months ago. “Who wants it? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  We’ll have to agree to disagree, Larry.

  These monstrous splashes of color symbolized more than a portrait of her friend. The slashes of her brush were an emotional response to Becky’s own feelings about age and loss. Susannah was far removed from the young woman she’d first met all those years ago and Becky herself hated to discover new wrinkles reflected in her mirror. Someone, somewhere, needed to shout out against the injustice of life’s losses. To cry out at the lurking presence of death.

  Do not go gentle into that good night. Not if I have any choice, anyway.