James Burke - Light of the World

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“I thought it might be too hot. I put it in the micro because you were in the washroom.”

“You have a nice place here.”

“It’s out of the way, but we like it,” she said, refilling his coffee cup, her face filling with pleasure because the customer had complimented the place where she worked.

“It’s a family-type diner. That’s the best kind. I bet it’s American-owned,” he said.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

He gazed out the window, his eyes sleepy and warm with sentiment. “Salt of the earth,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I was talking about those people out there. Mother and child. That’s the salt of the earth.”

“You talk like a preacher.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Which church?”

“The big one, the one that doesn’t have a name.”

She seemed to think a moment. “Meaning Jesus doesn’t belong to just one denomination?”

“That pretty much says it all. Watch yourself.”

“Sir?”

“You’re about to spill that hot coffee on your foot.”

“I know better than that.”

“I bet you do. I bet you know plenty.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“About the restaurant business and public relations. About the people who come in here. You’re a good judge of people, I bet.”

“I can tell the good ones from the bad ones.”

“Which am I?”

“You’re a preacher, aren’t you? That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“You better be careful. I might run off with you. If my daughter had grown up, I bet she’d be like you.”

“You lost your daughter?”

“It was a long time ago. You have a sweet face, just like she did.”

She blushed and was about to reply when another customer came through the front door and tapped on the counter for his order to go. “Excuse me,” she said. “I better get back to work.”

As she walked away, she did not see the change of expression in the face of the man who called himself the Reverend Geta Noonen. He set down his fork and looked at it with deliberation, then picked up his coffee and drank from it and stared at his reflection. By the time he set the cup back in the saucer, his expression was once again benign and ordinary, his attention focused on his meal, his eyes drifting back to the scene behind the motel, where the mother was pushing her daughter back and forth on the swing.

He put a two-dollar tip on the counter and waited until the waitress was in the vicinity of the cash register before he got up to pay his check.

“I forgot to ask if you wanted any pie,” she said. “We have peach cobbler that’s good. The cherry pie isn’t bad, either.”

“I never pass up cherry pie. What time do you close?”

“Ten. I usually don’t work this late. I’m filling in for somebody else. In the morning I have to come in early and open up. I don’t mind, though.”

“You belong to a church?”

“I go at Christmas and Easter.”

“I’ll wager they know you’re there, too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t mean to be too personal a moment ago. But I need to tell you something. You have an aura. Certain people have it. I think you’re one of them.”

Her eyes filmed, and there was a visible lump in her throat when she looked back at him.

He walked out of the café into the night, the stars like a spray of white diamonds from one horizon to the other, the highway that led to Lookout Pass climbing higher and higher into the mountains, where the headlights of the great trucks driving into Idaho tunneled up into the darkness, then dipped down on the far side of the grade and seemed to disappear into a bowl of ink.

Reverend Noonen walked onto the lawn where the mother had been swinging her little girl. The swing was empty, the chains clinking slightly in the breeze. The man glanced at his wristwatch and looked back at the lighted windows of the café, inside which the young waitress was wiping off the counter, bending over it, scrubbing the rag hard on the surface where some of his spilled food had dried. He worked a toothpick between his teeth while he watched her, then heard voices from the parking lot and realized the mother and her child were moving their suitcases from a battered van into a room at the back of the motel, in an unlighted area where no other guests seemed to be staying.

The woman was struggling with a suitcase while the little girl was climbing through the side door of the van, trying to pull out a sack of groceries that had already started to split apart, her rear end pointed out. The man removed the toothpick from his mouth and let it drop from his hand onto the grass, then walked into the parking lot. “My heavens, let me help you with that,” he said.

“Thank goodness,” the mother said. “I’ve had enough problems today without this. Our room is just over there. This is very kind of you.”

In the morning he rose with the sun and showered again and put on fresh clothes and ordered a big breakfast in the café. The owner was doing double duty, running the cash register and carrying plates from the serving window to the counter and the tables.

“Where’s the little lady who was working here last night?” said the man who called himself Reverend Geta Noonen.

“That’s Rhonda.”

“Where might she be?”

“She didn’t show up this morning.”

“She has a glow about her. Sorry, what was that you said?”

“She didn’t come in. It’s not like her.” The owner looked out the window at the highway, where the sun was shining on a rock slide. The rocks were jagged and sharp-edged, and some had bounced out on the shoulder of the asphalt. The owner frowned as he looked at the broken rock on the roadside.

“Maybe she’s sick,” said the man sitting at the counter.

“She didn’t answer her phone,” the owner said.

“Does she have folks here’bouts?”

“Not really. She lives way up a dirt road by Lookout Pass. I’ve always told her she should move into town.”

“I bet she had car trouble. Her cell phone wouldn’t work out here, would it?”

“I called the sheriff. He’s sending a cruiser. You want more coffee?” the owner said.

“Maybe a piece of that cherry pie to go. I guess every man should be allowed one vice.”

“What’s that you say?”

“I’ve got an addiction to desserts. I can’t get enough. Especially cherry pie.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I doubt it.”

“Come again?” the owner said.

“Nobody likes pie and cobbler and chocolate cake and jelly roll doughnuts as much as me. I don’t gain weight, but I can sure put it down. I hope the lady is all right. She seemed like a sweet thing.”

The owner turned around and looked at the shelf where he kept his pastries. “Sorry, the cherry pie is all gone.”

“I’ll have some the next time I’m by. I like it here. You’ve got a nice class of people.”

The owner began picking up the dirty dishes from the counter and didn’t look up again until the man had left. He dialed the number of his missing employee and let the phone ring for two minutes before he hung up. Because he didn’t know what else to do, he went outside into the harshness of the sunlight and looked up and down the highway, waiting for her car or a sheriff’s cruiser to appear. Then he crossed the four-lane and began kicking the fallen rock off the edge of the road back onto the shoulder.

Geta Noonen loaded his suitcase into the used SUV he had just purchased and drove slowly out onto the highway, the gravel that was impacted in his tire treads clicking as loudly as studs on the asphalt. He passed the owner and tapped on the horn and stuck his arm out the window to wave good-bye. The owner waved back and continued to clean the broken rock out of the traffic lane, lest someone run over it and have an accident.