The Atheist's Daughter (10 page)

“I think I understand that.”

“So when the maintenance man calls to say he’ll be out of town for the rest of the week, someone has to sweep the floors. Someone has to clean the pews. All too often, this ‘someone’ ends up being the congregation’s leader.”

Or his son
, Hawkins thought.

“We’re clear on this? If I decide to practice my sermon, I’m not going to have to listen to a laugh track?”

“Not with one of your sermons,” Hawkins muttered. Scooping the rag from the gray bucket of water, he twisted it forcefully. He rubbed its face along the curved edge of the pew’s side support.

His father bent his head down, scrutinizing his notes. The light mounted over the lectern reflected off of the brown mulch that was serving as his hair.

Hawkins didn’t know why the color change bothered him so much. It was only hair, no matter what his father did to it. Keratinized protein filament, if Greg Cohen, his old chemistry teacher, was to be believed.

Howard Hawkins own protein used to be silver-white, a good color for a preacher. Now it was some kind of burnt umber.

A good color for a used car salesman.

He’d obviously done the dye job himself. It was just as obvious that he’d made the change because of the church’s newest parishioner. Brenda Parkes was new to the congregation and to Winterhaven. She was a middle-aged divorcee, all soft curves and bright smiles. Her hair was brown and, because of her age, it was probably dyed, too. On her, the color seemed right.

Hawkins kind of liked her. Still, it bugged him to see his father suddenly buying new clothes, changing his hair, and pretending as if everything was normal.

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, circular 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.”