“I can pay.” He opened his wallet to show her. He could smell the food, frying potatoes and meat, he was not going anywhere. He was surprised to be standing up to her—in the old days he would have walked out immediately, gone looking for another place. “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said.
For a moment he wondered if he’d said too much, but then she sighed and pointed him toward the back of the diner, toward the bathroom. The other patron, a middle- aged black man with his lunch pail, looked up from his magazine at Isaac and then quickly back to his magazine. He sipped his coffee and didn’t look at Isaac again.
To get to the men’s washroom he had to edge by stacked boxes of paper towels and cooking oil, and once inside he locked the door and stood in front of the mirror. A corpse mucked up from the riverbed. Or a mass grave. His pants and coat were covered with mud and grass and his face was smeared with ashy dirt. He would not have let himself into a diner, or anywhere. One eye was badly swollen and his lip was split and it was hard to tell where the dried blood ended and the dirt began. After using the toilet he stripped and stood in front of the sink and mirror; his filthy brown face didn’t belong to his pale white body pink scrapes along his ribs, the faint purple of developing bruises. He washed his hair and face in the sink, splashing dirt everywhere, thinking man the most fragile creation —them more than you. Now the cold towelwash, way to clean a corpse. Body’s last bath. Special attention to crevices—probably they use a hose now, drip dry, automatic wash for bulk processing. Who knows who touches you after you’re dead? He took another handful of paper towels and wet them and continued to bathe himself. Shivering already, water cools quickly. A tub a warm womb we take for granted—the nature of wombs. My mother bathed herself. Wonder if they cleaned her after. Like the bogmen—preserved in peat. Not Swede Otto—no baths at taxpayer expense. Pauper’s grave too expensive. Incinerator his final warmth. Clear out your head, he thought. You’re not there yet.
When he was finished he took out his knife and carefully soaped down the blade, rinsed it and dried it, then dried himself with the last of the wadded paper towel, he had used two entire rolls. The place had been very clean before he came in and he carefully wiped off the floor and sink before going back out into the dining room. He examined himself in the mirror. From the waist up, it was okay. The coat had kept most of the dirt off his shirt and sweater. Don’t wear the coat into places, he thought. Take it off first.
When he came out of the bathroom the waitress was watching for him and she raised her bulk up slowly like her knees were going and brought him a menu and a cup of coffee. Sitting there in his booth, the entire back corner of the restaurant to himself, he was warm and clean and dry, it was a comfortable feeling. He added cream and lots of sugar and sipped his coffee and felt his head begin to clear. He would take his time. He would enjoy himself. He ordered country fried steak and hash browns, three eggs over easy, a slice of peach pie. She took the order and refilled his coffee and he adjusted it to his exact preference, sweet and creamy, almost like dessert. He looked around the diner, it was a nice place, it was really more of a restaurant, a few dozen tables with checkered tablecloths, they probably never filled it anymore but it was very clean and pleasantly dim, knotty pine paneling, a high ornate tin ceiling. The walls were covered with team photos of the Monessen Greyhounds football team, photos of Dan Marino and Joe Montana, the Valley’s biggest NFL stars, and a few framed posters from bullfights in Spain, souvenirs of a trip someone had made twenty years before. The waitress came back with his food.
“Get any licks in?” She indicated his face.
“Not really.”
“That bad, huh?”
“There was a bunch of them.”
“You ought to just go home,” she said. “It won’t get any better.”
“You always this nice to your customers?”
She smiled at him and he found himself smiling back. She had braces on her teeth.
“There you go. Don’t take that crap off me.” She went slowly back to her table, leaving two plates of food in front of him. “I’ll bring the pie in a minute,” she said.
He cut his steak into small pieces, the crispy fried outside and the meat inside rich and dripping juice, it was the best food he’d ever eaten. He forked some hash browns, fried hard with onion, mixed one of the eggs into it, it felt like he’d never eaten before in his life, he wanted to take small bites and make it last forever but couldn’t help shoveling huge forkfuls, she brought his pie and refilled his coffee and the sharpness of the coffee was good with the rich food. When the plate was finally empty he went for the pie.
He sat back with his eyes closed, though he knew he couldn’t fall asleep. It is a good life, he thought. It is a good life to walk into someplace and eat food. The waitress appeared again with a bowl of ice cream.
“On the house,” she said. “You clean up pretty good.”
After sitting for a while he could feel himself drifting off, it was so warm, he decided not to push his luck. He looked at the bill. She’d only charged him for the eggs and coffee, two dollars and eight cents. He looked up to thank her but she was already back at her table, daydreaming.
He thought about a tip, he needed his money to last, but left her ten dollars. Poor to the poor. He was going to spend it anyway.
Back on the street his bruises hurt less and he hadn’t felt so good in years, he wanted to lie in the sun and take a nap. Once past the town he left the road and crossed the field to the train tracks again and then found a grassy secluded spot on the riverbank. It was sunny and he took off his shirt and shoes and sat out in just his pants. You need to keep moving. He shook his head. I might be dead tonight. Enjoy the nice things as they come.
He lay there and felt the sun on him. Simple pleasures we’re wired for. A million years of evolution— appreciate a sunny day.
You are being tested, he thought. What’s going to happen with the Swede? I can’t think about that now, he decided. I’ll get to Berkeley and I’ll see. If something happens, at least I’ll have done that. Eventually they’ll find out what you did. Poe will talk. It’s just the way he is. He can’t help it. Even so, he thought. He’s the best of them.
He closed his eyes. He wondered if his sister was still in Buell. What if she just drove by right now? I’d go with her. Have everything I need right here. He tried to will it, get into the car, Lee, and drive. Meet you by the side of the 906. But of course it was ridiculous. She couldn’t hear him.
At her graduation he remembered how he’d felt sitting next to her. The principal had gone on for ten minutes, National Merit scholar, perfect SATs, got into Yale, Stanford, Cornell, and Duke. All four of you were there. That felt like the moment that everything seemed to make complete sense. You could see the exact moment you would be standing up yourself, felt like seeing through time. Very clear picture in your mind—watching her you imagined yourself. Remember that well. Then Mom was dead and Lee was leaving, you hoped she might stay, but of course. Who would—new life waiting—it became even more important to get out. Can’t blame her.
He saw a large hawk, no it was an eagle, they were coming back. Things were always changing. Sometimes good and sometimes bad. Your only job was to wake up until you were stopped. He would. His sister had had it easier but there was no point in worrying about it. He would make his own way. He would be living in the mountains in northern California, green and much taller than the hills around here, they were actual mountains. Near an observatory. An observatory in the house, look at the stars anytime, the house would have a long porch that stuck way out over a cliff so it felt like you were floating in space. Like Lee you won’t be on your own. Remember that visit to New Haven— everyone, in their way, was like you and Lee. It was difficult to imagine but his sister had done it and in most ways she had far less idea of what she wanted. He had always known what he wanted to do. Of course she’d still beaten him on the SATs. Forty points. Within the statistical error. In fact that was the first thing she’d said when he’d told her his score—
Change of subject, he thought. Feel that sun. In California it will be like this most of the year. Dose of the ultraviolet. Heals bruises and kills bacteria. Ultra means you can’t see it. No, it means
I’m past all that, he thought, to the north it’s just woods. The sun was bright, he could feel it on his skin, prickling like fingers running over him, he didn’t want to let himself fall asleep, it felt so good. There were four men
