CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
We wait while Rita serves the big man his butter.
“Anything else?”
The guy's mouth is a mush pit of half-chewed broccoli and bread. “I need more sour cream.” He says this while stuffing the crusty heel of a dinner roll into his face.
“No problem.” Rita dashes back toward the kitchen.
Now Ceepak's the one holding up his hand, trying to catch the waitress's attention by waggling his fingers.
Rita sees him. Stops before she hits the doors.
“You guys need more chowder? More crackers, Danny?”
“Negative,” says Ceepak. He taps the charm bracelet photograph. “However, I would like to discuss….”
“Sure. I'll be right back.”
Boom. She hustles into the kitchen.
“Actually, I could use a couple more crackers,” I say. Waverly Wafers. You can never have enough.
Boom. Rita cannonballs out the double doors with a quart-sized mountain of sour cream scooped into a salad bowl.
“Here you go, sir,” she says to Tubby, who has too much bread and meat in his mouth to even mumble anymore.
“Miss?”
A woman with a helmet of hard hair is tapping her lipstick-rimmed coffee cup with an index finger-the universal symbol for
“Regular, right?” Rita's still smiling.
“Right.”
While she's on her way to the coffee pots, a woman at another table-with what looks like all her sisters and their husbands-holds up a half-full breadbasket.
“Excuse me? Miss? We need more of the rolls with the salty tops … not the brown ones … no one likes the brown ones….”
Rita, that smile permanently planted in place, grabs the basket.
“No problem.”
When she gets to the Bunn coffee warmer, this old guy nearby tugs on her skirt with one hand, slurps his coffee with the other.
“I could use a little more decaf.”
“Of course.”
The guy holds out his cup like a beggar under the boardwalk.
Suddenly, Ceepak slides out of our booth and marches toward the center of the dining room. As he walks, he unpins the badge on his shirt, holds the shiny shield in the palm of his right hand, raises it high above his head.
This is so cool: Ceepak's going to tin the entire dining room.
“Ladies? Gentlemen? May I have your attention please? I am Officer John Ceepak of the Sea Haven Police Department.”
People turn. Forks lower. Chewing ceases. Even Tubby shuts his trap.
“Because of an ongoing police investigation, your waitress will be temporarily unavailable to serve you. If you require anything, kindly wait until Ms. Lapczynski returns to the floor in approximately five minutes. Thank you and enjoy the rest of your dinners. Ms. Lapczynski?”
Ceepak tilts his head, indicating that Rita should follow us outside. Immediately. She is trying very hard not to laugh. With a big grin on her face, she accompanies us out the front door and into the parking lot.
• • •
“He gave one to all the girls who came to the Life Under the Son Ministry. The church roof tilts back. And inside are these teeny little pews. I think I still have it somewhere….”
Ceepak watches her closely.
“When exactly did you go there first?”
Rita drops her head. “1991. Sixteen years ago.” She waits a second. Then looks up. “When I was pregnant with T. J.”
Ceepak nods. I see no judgment in his eyes. Neither does Rita, so she continues.
“I was just a kid. I made a mistake.”
“We all make mistakes.” Ceepak's voice is steady but soft. “That's …”
“You're not going to tell me ‘that's why your pencil has an eraser’ again, are you?”
In fact, Ceepak probably was going to tell her exactly that, because that's what he always says whenever somebody else goofs up.
“No, ma'am.”
“Good. Because T. J. isn't a mistake.”
“Of course not.”
“His father was long gone. I'd only known him for a few weeks. We were kids, John. Teenagers hanging out on the beach. He was just this cute boy, a summertime fling. He lived outside Philly, I think.”
She pauses. Ceepak nods again, encouragingly.
“Anyway, I stayed there at the Inn for a couple months. My parents wanted nothing to do with me. I'd come down here with a bunch of friends from high school, all of us looking for summer jobs. We rented a cheap apartment. Slept three to a room. My bed was an air mattress on the floor.”
Been there. Done that.
“When I told my mother I was pregnant, she said if I was grown up enough to get knocked up, I remember that's what she called it, knocked up….”
Her lips curl into a sad, remembering smile.
“She said if I thought I was mature enough to become a mother, then fine-I could fend for myself. She wouldn't help. Neither would my father.”
“But Reverend Billy would?”
Rita nods.
“How so?”
“He used to do these surf baptisms. Not as much as he did back in the ’80s, but every now and then. You'd walk out into the ocean at low tide, all the way out to where the waves were breaking. He'd say a few prayers, you'd ask Jesus for forgiveness, accept him as your personal savior, and then Reverend Billy would, you know, dunk you backward under the water three times.”
“So, you were you baptized by Reverend Billy?”
“No. I kept putting him off. Told him I wasn't ready. He told me to keep praying on it. And I did. But then I met this very nice woman who stopped by the motel one day to donate some food. She was a little older than me-not much, maybe five years. We started talking. She told me she had been in my ‘situation’ herself a few years back. Even spent time with Reverend Billy at the motel. Her own pregnancy ended badly.”
“Abortion?”
“Miscarriage. Anyway, I guess she took pity on me. The next thing I know, she's offering me a job in this store she just opened-plus free room and board in the small apartment above the shop. She even gave me paid maternity leave when T. J. was born, though I'd only been working for her a couple months.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Yes. A very good one. In fact, she's currently one of this town's most prominent and respected merchants. Nobody knows about her past and how she almost became an unwed mother at the age of eighteen. No one knows that she put in time at The Sonny Days Inn. She'd like to keep it that way. So would I.”
I don't think that was the answer Ceepak was looking for when he asked, “Does she have a name.” I think a simple “Michele” or “Judy” would've sufficed.
