Jack O'Connell - Box Nine

The disparity of their jobs is no answer. Lenore can actually see the diner as a microcosm of Quinsigamond. It’s not that much of a stretch. A bunch of unassimilated people side by side, droning and bitching from time to time in a native tongue, serving drunks and head cases and average hungry schmucks, passing time. The fact is that even behind the counter, in a much more insulated and controlled world, Lenore would be bullying her way toward the last clean plate and the end of the day.

Lon appears with a dish bin and an embarrassed smile. He clears the table of all the dirty dishes, wipes it down with a damp rag, and heads back behind the counter with this endearing, scampering run. Isabelle walks up in front of her and slides a black coffee onto the table.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this place?” she asks.

Lenore shakes her head. “This is my free zone, Isabelle. This is where I relax.”

“Free zone,” Isabelle repeats, smiling. “I like the words.”

“Got a free minute?” Lenore asks, and Isabelle rolls her eyes like some old-time Hispanic soap opera star. Then she slides in on the other side of the booth.

“Busy day?” Lenore asks.

“Average. They’re all average.”

“You ever get away from this place? You ever take a vacation?”

“I don’t think that word goes into Cambodian.”

The both laugh and Harry eyes them suspiciously from the chopping table at the other end of the counter. Then he can’t help himself and breaks into an approving smile.

“Does he understand what you say?” asks Lenore.

Isabelle shrugs. “When it’s convenient.”

Harry calls something down to her, a series of short high-pitched syllables. Isabelle laughs and makes a long kissing sound back toward him.

“It must be strange sometimes,” Lenore says. “Two different cultures and all.”

Isabelle smiles. “My grandmother used to say it’s good to mix the blood. Keeps things bubbling. No dead water.”

“Dead water?”

“What’s your word? Stagnant?”

“Yeah. That’s it. I think I see what you mean.”

There’s a pause. Lenore sips coffee and Isabelle watches her, then says, “Everything okay today?”

“Isabelle, I hope, I don’t mean to …” She stops and starts again. “Is it possible to love someone you don’t really understand?”

Isabelle shakes her head, bites away a smile, lowers her voice. “Who do we really understand?”

Lenore shrugs, tries to ignore a chill rolling up her back. “Too easy an answer.”

Isabelle lets out a long, heavy sigh and makes a hedging, slow nod. “You never been married, have you?”

“You know,” Lenore says, “this is an area I really want to make people clear on. I really believe, firmly believe, okay, that there are people who, for whatever reason, are not suited to the married life. And I’ve always thought that if these people let themselves go out and fall into a marriage, enter a legal arrangement, because of pressure or doubt or whatever, I’ve always thought, how goddamn unfair to everyone in that picture. So no, I’ve never been married. And the reasons are that first, I value independence above almost anything else, and whether anyone can accept it or not, I honestly enjoy long stretches of solitude, of just being alone. And secondly, I don’t know, maybe I’ve got these ridiculous standards or something, but I’ve never met anyone whose company I’d want to be in for more than a couple of months. Tops. More than two months is pushing it. You start to go brain-dead. You start to have conversations about the color of his socks.”

Isabelle leans back in the booth, looks at Lenore, takes a sip from Lenore’s coffee, sways her head slightly from side to side, like she was giving herself time to think about this speech she’s just heard.

“Maybe,” she finally says. “But for me, Lenore, there’s this time, sometime, every night, midnight maybe, when we”—she gestures toward Harry with her skull—“get out of here and we’re gone upstairs, we’re lying down, we’re watching the black-and-white reruns of The Honeymooners , we’re drinking from the bottle of Riunite, my head’s on Harry’s chest and he’s laughing, which you really don’t hear him do down here, and my head’s going up and down with the laugh … I think, this is it, Isabelle. This is the island. You’re safe now.”

They stare at each other, then Lenore can’t help herself and she says, “Safe? That’s it? You want safe?”

“That’s part of it. You’re lying if you say it isn’t.”

“Part of it. Bingo. Part.”

“And then there’s the rest.”

Isabelle straightens up a little and then leans back again. She seems to be getting a little angry. She says, “What are you asking? You asking do I love Harry? Yes. Simple answer and it’s yes. You can believe that or not. You don’t have the last word on anything, girl.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you—”

“There’s no offense,” she says, an edge clear in her voice, “but, for your own benefit, I’ve got to say, you’re a vain girl, Lenore, girl, woman, a vain woman.”

“I have to disagree, Isabelle. I’m a realist. I’m a pragmatist. I know what my abilities are and I know my limits.”

“Vanity.”

“I guess we define the word differently.”

“Suddenly, you think you want love—”

“Excuse me, who said that? Did someone say this?”

“I, too, know my abilities, Lenore.”

“Simple statement. I place a high value on independence, Isabelle.”

“Independence? This is the reason for the twitches? The chills?”

“Jesus, everyone’s a guidance counselor today. I’m coming down with a cold, is all.”

“Listen to me, Lenore. There are many diners open in the city. They all serve hot coffee. But you’re sitting here. And you ask me about Harry and loving someone without completely knowing them.”

“Friendly discussion, Isabelle. I didn’t mean to set you off.”

“I’m not set off. You’re a very smart woman who I know almost nothing about. Harry and me, we fix your meals for the past year. Fill you with enough coffee to swim in. You smile and you talk. You make Lon’s day every time you come in the door. You know that, don’t you? You pay your check and you tip our people. But we don’t know you, Lenore. We don’t know you at all. Isabelle’s been around a little bit longer than you. She knows some things. Harry too. You’ve got some problems that are not going away. Like that chill and the twitch. No aspirin going to take that away, Lenore. Smart woman like you knows that.”

“Oh, for Christ sake,” Lenore mutters, looking out the window at her car. “You always talk to people you don’t know like that?”

When she looks back, Isabelle is shaking her head no.

Lenore gives her a forced smile and says, “‘One of these days, Alice …’”

Isabelle starts to slide out of the booth.

“I’ve got a stew to put on,” she says. “Your coffee’s on the house.”

Lenore watches her move behind the counter and start to pull vegetables from the refrigerator. When her arms are full with carrots, onions, celery, peppers, scallions, she dumps the heap on a cutting block and draws a huge chopping knife down from its holder mounted on the wall. She goes to work with speed and precision, hacking the vegetables, making a rhythmic chomping sound. Lenore finds the noise oddly pleasing, reassuring, almost peaceful.

She watches Harry at the other end of the diner, writing up a check. She knows he still writes orders in his native language and she wonders what happens if he hands #2 breakfast plate , written in Khmer, to Uncle Jorge, who still speaks only Spanish. Has enough time passed for Jorge to know that the odd lines and slashes scratched on the green pad mean two eggs, scrambled, and a side of bacon?