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The Diner at the End of the World
by Kristen Fox
With
some effort, Edith swung the door of the old forest green Plymouth coupe
shut and squinted in the white blaze of the afternoon Arizona sun. Her
rose-patterned cotton blouse stuck to her back, wrinkles and hundreds
of miles of her sweat molded the fabric into an abstract work of art.
Twisting, she pulled at the material and the mottled fabric popped away
from her body, letting in new air that cooled the skin on her back as
it evaporated the perspiration. She looked down at her gauzy cotton
skirt. Also in pretty bad shape. Ain't nothin' I can do
about these wrinkles now, she thought, and quickly dismissed them.
She patted her styled auburn hair back into shape and took a deep breath
of warm, dry air.
She
slowly stretched her left leg. Edith's calf lengthened, bringing
a smile to her face. Experimentally she flexed her right leg - something
popped in her knee, but it actually felt better, less stiff. She
rubbed it gently and chuckled to herself, If it's this bad when I'm
24, how's my knee going to feel when I'm a grandmother?
She
gazed absently at the chrome rims that glinted in the sunshine. I wish
this old Plymouth went farther to the gallon like those new fangled
models in the showroom. Still, she patted the hood affectionately
- it rode like a dream. Positioning her brown leather pocketbook
in the elbow nook of her left arm, she strode across the dirt parking
lot toward the front door of the diner.
Like
the shiny rims on the Plymouth, the silver panels of the diner reflected
the glaring sun, even under the perpetual layer of southwest dust.
She'd
been on the road since mid-morning. The unchanging visage through the
windshield had been playing tricks on her eyes. Wavering and fluttering
blacktop, dots that disappeared when she looked directly at them - sometimes
she imagined that the tires weren't even touching the road, that she was
just gliding along with the wind. Until she saw the diner, Edith
began to doubt she would be able to tell what was real and what wasn't.
The
windowed front door swung open easily; stepping through, she smiled suddenly.
The odors of grilled homefried potatoes and stiff coffee saturated the
thick air. The omnipresent clink of thick china plates and the murmur
of conversation reminded her of the diners back in her hometown of Binghamton,
New York, up in the central part of the state, not near the city.
Edith
always felt at home in a diner. Her parents used to drive out of
their way to eat at a diner, even when they had to pass several fancier
restaurants on the way. They insisted it was more like real food,
more like home.
And
they were still right. Her mother and father had been dead now for some
time now - How long had it been? She didn't remember exactly, but it
was no matter - even Edith's childhood house didn't feel as much like
home as any diner. Home had always been a place to be busy: to clean,
to fix, to straighten, to organize. In a diner, you took time to
eat and sit, and talk about things.
She
walked past a few vacant red vinyl stools at the counter, finally claiming
an entire booth for herself. The springs in the seat and the vinyl
covering creaked as she slid in. She plopped her purse down next
to her.
Edith
relaxed with a sigh and unconsciously patted her hair into place as she
took stock of the other patrons. Most looked a bit vague, unfocused,
as she guessed that she must also look. The road did that to
people. Most of them appeared to be traveling alone. There
wasn't one family here today, no children. Perhaps the supper crowd
offered a different mix of people.
She
clasped her hands and sighed again, and then remembered what she was here
for. To her right, stuck behind the stainless ketchup and mustard
tray, a menu stuck up at an odd angle where the last patron placed it.
She slid the slick, plastic-covered sheet from its place and read the
contents as she traced her finger down the page. Most of her favorites
beckoned under the scripty "Entrees" heading. Another stroke of good luck!
As
if on cue, a waitress in a crisp pink serving frock, complete with apron
and pink paper crown, appeared at the end of the table and smiled. Edith
looked up and couldn't help but smile back. The waitress seemed
young in her figure and hands, but her eyes twinkled with gentle, patient
humor. Her long, thick, dark hair was tied at the nape of her neck
with a matching pink ribbon. In a calm, unhurried voice, she said,
"What can I get for you today, sweetie?" Her name, Uriel
was engraved on the plastic name tag pinned to her pocket. Idly,
Edith wondered if her name was really "Muriel" with the "M" worn away.
But then, different names for different places, she wagered.
"First,
a big glass of water, if you please. And, well, all morning I've
been thinking about some thinly sliced smoked ham and white gravy over
a heap of mashed potatoes. I'm really suprised to see you have it
on the menu." Edith then blushed, feeling somewhat foolish telling the
waitress a story that the woman, no doubt, didn't particularly care about.
But after driving alone for so long, any conversation was worth it.
The
waitress just smiled back at her, "And today's your lucky day, because
it's also the special." Without looking, she gestured to the chalkboard
over her right shoulder, near the front door.
"I
must've missed that when I came in." Edith's eyebrows raised and she grinned.
"Talk about a coincidence, eh?"
As
the waitress scribbled the order on her small pad, she said, "There's
no such thing as a coincidence." And then she winked at Edith and
walked back toward the kitchen.
A
small tingle flittered up Edith's spine. Her mother had always insisted
that everything happened for a reason, that God never left nothin' to
chance. She muttered to herself, "I guess that short conversation
just proved it!" and she smiled in spite of herself. Edith wondered
what was the importance to her that she should stop in THIS diner.
In any case, it was a godsend.
Edith
tucked a stray auburn hair behind her right ear and looked out the dusty
window. On the desert plain, the heat shimmered above the ground,
making the earth seem insubstantial and transient, as if a strong wind
could blow it away. The diner was definitely more comfortable than
the temperature outside; two steel fans mounted near the ceiling kept
the air from slowing down enough to feel too sticky.
Her
eyes drifted toward her car, parked one row away from the diner.
A few years before she died, her mother had wanted to get rid of the car
and buy "something that didn't look as old as I did." Instead,
Edith had talked her mother into giving it to her, since she'd be needing
a car when she went away to the teaching college.
Suddenly,
she frowned. Something tugged at her memory. Something about
that Plymouth. Did she forget to check the oil? No.
It wasn't like that. She shook her head. Something about her mother
and the car.
A
clunk interrupted her thoughts. Uriel had set the dewy glass of
ice water on the table in front of her. Edith smiled at the waitress
again, unconsciously, and Uriel smiled back, like a doting mother.
Or grandmother, depending on how old she really was. Again, Edith
felt a little silly, like she was missing something. "That sure is quite
a view. Seems to go on forever."
Uriel
nodded, looking out the window herself. "Some things do just that."
Then she sighed and turned purposefully to Edith, "And some things just
seem like they will." Edith chuckled when Uriel left.
A waitress or a philosophy student? She gripped the cold, slick glass
and guzzled the water until she felt she had to stop to breathe.
Setting the glass back down on the table, she looked for a napkin to wipe
her wet hand but found none.Then, searching the dining area for Uriel,
but not finding her, she rose from the booth to get a napkin herself.
Expecting
to feel stiffness in her legs from the long hours driving, Edith was surprised
that she moved smoothly across the green and white flecked tiled floor.
From the counter, she took a small stack of paper napkins from the pile
and walked back to her seat.
In
her booth again, Edith dabbed at her hand with the fragile napkin.
Suddenly, as if pulled by an invisible cord, her head swiveled to the
right. In the booth behind her, an old man with a crinkled face
and bemused eyes stared at her. Edith jumped in surprise, regarded
him for a moment, smiled politely, and then turned back to her table.
She shook her head to dismiss the event, but still felt his eyes on her.
The
booth shuddered as the old man shifted position. Edith tried to ignore
him, but it wasn't possible. A young woman traveling alone needed
to play it safe. But she actually DID feel perfectly safe, especially
in the diner, so she dared a look over at him again.
His
head was mostly bald, with white frazzled hair fringing his ears.
His hand gripped the vinyl back of his booth. His fingers were long
and thin, almost delicate. And his fingernails were well-groomed.
He wore a dark green windbreaker over a cotton plaid shirt.
"Did
you know," he spoke with a mellow voice, another surprise, "that in some
native tribes, when they die, a beautiful white horse comes to take them
away?" His speech came slowly, as if he was remembering how. Then,
without waiting for a response, he turned back to his table and stuffed
a few french fries in his mouth.
Edith
also turned away. She didn't know much about native culture death
beliefs, even in the United States, but she guessed that it could be true.
She'd never spent much thought on what happens when you die at all, let
along other cultures. Sure was on odd thing to say though.
Her stomach grumbled in response.
Again,
right on cue, Uriel appeared. In front of Edith, she set down an
oblong plate steaming with hot ham with white gravy, and mashed potatoes.
Edith's mouth began to water. The waitress also placed a small dish of
red cabbage and a small basket with two dinner rolls on the table.
"Is
there anything else you'd like, sweetie?"
Edith
shook her head and smiled, her mouth already full of mashed potatoes.
Nodding, Uriel left her to her meal.
She
made short work of the food. Just as delicious as she'd imagined
it would taste. She smacked her lips and wiped the gravy from the
edges of her mouth.
Uriel
drifted by her table and looked with amusement at the empty plate.
"Hungry, eh?" Edith shook her head with mock negation. "So
where you headed today?"
Edith
opened her mouth, but stopped when no words came. She turned and
stared out the window at the shimmering desert, captivated for a long
moment by the illusory dance. With a start, she realized that Uriel
was still there and turned back quickly.
Edith
sputtered an apology, "I'm such a feather head. I got distracted
by the view. What did you say again?"
Uriel
patted her arm, "I asked you if you'd like to have some dessert."
Then her eyes softened, "You're not from around here. Where'd you
come from?"
"My
family's from Binghamton, New York. That's upstate New York, not
near the city."
The
waitress nodded and Edith relaxed a bit. "I've never been to New
York," Uriel added pleasantly, and then nodded out the window, "that green
car yours?"
Absently,
Edith nodded in response and looked out the window again. Something
about the car. What was it? Her voice slow as if in a dream,
"Yes, it was my mother's." And that wasn't quite right either.
Unconsciously,
her hands gripped the edge of her seat tighter. She felt blank.
She turned to look at Uriel, who still stood next to the table, gazing
out the window. Edith stared at Uriel but didn't see her.
The
words came slowly, "I.....the car....my mother sold that car when I was
in elementary school. The body was completely rusted away.
You could see the ground through the floorboards." Yet, there it
sat, shimmering and shining in the Arizona heat.
Uriel
nodded, as if Edith had merely mentioned that it was hot outside.
Then she looked around, and sat down across from Edith. "You seem
a little distraught, honey. What's your name?"
"Edith,"
she said automatically. "Edith Rhinehart." She stared at the
table as if to keep her focal point from moving. "I KNOW Mother
sold that car. Then she bought that huge burgundy Chrysler. That
Chrysler ran forever."
"Like
I said before, some things only seem to last forever." Edith looked up.
The inside of the diner glowed brighter and clearer than it appeared before,
as if the grease from the cooking food had settled out of the air.
But Edith still smelled the coffee and homefries. She looked at
all of the other customers, but no one reacted.
An
image flashed through her mind. A picture of herself as an old woman,
lying in a large bed, with her husband sleeping at her side. The
oversized swan down quilt covered them snugly. She viewed the scene as
if floating above it. She watched Wilson, that was her husband's name
- his chest moved up and down in deep rhythm.
Then,
for an eternity, she watched her own form. It was as still as death.
Then,
Edith remembered more. She wasn't twenty-four, she was eighty-three. Yet, she looked at her hands - they were young. She grabbed her
silver knife and held it up in front of her. Through the splotches
of white gravy she saw a young face, and the auburn hair she'd always
been so proud of in her younger days. She stared blankly.
She
slowly set the knife down and looked to Uriel. Uriel herself appeared
to glow. So soft, the light was so soft. "This lifetime did
not last forever, but you do."
She
touched Edith gently on the cheek. As if Uriel's hand cleared away
all cobwebs, Edith understood. The warm wave of knowing washed over
her, leaving her lighter and happier than ever.
The
surrounding white light grew brighter and brighter.
The
diner gradually faded and then completely disappeared, but Uriel
stayed. Edith looked at her for an eternity. Then she smiled.
©1995,
Kristen Fox. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or distribute without
the author's permission.
About the author:
Kristen Fox is an Artist, and Writer. Visit her shop: Art of FoxVox - Celtic & Eclectic Designs; her weblog: FoxVox; and her art and photo gallery. She's also the co-author of the Conscious
Creation site, and the Food Follies weblog and recipe site. Click here to email her.
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