night of bad dreams.
The next time Jessie ran past me I stretched
for her hand, caught it, and interlaced her fingers with mine.
“Sunny day chasing the clouds away. On my
way to where the air is sweet. Can you tell me how to get, how to
get to Sesame Street?” I sang along with her, helping her with the
missing line.
Jessie tried to skip, but I pulled her back
and pointed at my belly. I looked chagrined, letting her know how
sorry I was that skipping just wasn’t possible right now. She
accepted my limitation, and we sang together, swinging our arms
back and forth, until we reached the doors to the Tallagurnsa Steak
House.
The Steak House was the largest restaurant in
the county and the only one with a AAA rating. Open six A.M. until
twelve P.M. every day of the year except Christmas, the popular
immaculately clean, family restaurant, was known for fresh,
delicious food; nothing too fancy, just good solid home
cooking.
The restaurant occupied a two-story building
in the middle of the block between the SP Drug Store and Bowe’s
Department Store. On the first floor were two dining rooms. In the
front dining room, from which diners could see anyone who passed on
the street and where the majority of the seating was in Naugahyde
booths, the atmosphere was always informal. In the more secluded
back dining room, where lunch was served under the same bright
fluorescent lights, nighttime brought tablecloths, candles, and, by
Tallagumsa standards, a measure of intimacy. The top floor
consisted of one long, large carpeted room, perfect for banquets
and parties, divisible into two or three smaller areas to suit any
occasion.
As I passed through the Steak House foyer,
walking by the Lions Club plastic gum machine, the orange Birmingham News dispenser, and the black Tallagumsa
Times tray, I felt my present collide with my past. I had
worked, dated, and celebrated every significant event of my life,
from my first horse show to my wedding, here.
Inside, the smell of fresh coffee, pies,
biscuits, and sweet rolls enveloped me. I looked down the wall
booth, a single continuous green Naugahyde booth running almost the
length of the front dining room and separating that dining room
from the hallway to the back. Green plants grew out of the planters
framing the top edge of the booth. The wall booth ended like a
giant upside-down L at a corner booth where the owners, Mimi and
Howard Bledsoe, could usually be found, watching over the
restaurant’s activities.
Neither of the Bledsoes was in their booth,
and for a second I worried that they’d sold the Steak House. I’d
recently heard from Mother that they were thinking about selling
the place and retiring. Mimi’s arthritis was getting worse, and
Howard wanted to travel. I sympathized with their reasons, I
understood that one day I would come here and someone else would be
sitting in their booth, and I knew my heart would break when that
day came. I was saddened last year when my parents rented out the
family home and moved to a fancy new wood-and-glass house on Clark
Lake; I needed more than ever for the Steak House to endure
unchanged.
Estelle, my best friend since first grade
and the Steak House hostess, was perched on the stool behind the
check-out counter. Her petite figure was barely visible behind the
old cash register. Estelle’s blond hair was in the same pageboy cut
she’d worn since high school. As Buck always said, she was “as cute
as a button.”
Estelle saw us, squealed “LuAnn,” sprang off
the stool, and flittered over to greet Eddie, Jessie, and me; the
rest of my family was already upstairs.
“Y’all are here! Y’all are here!” Estelle
cried. “Look at you.” She patted my stomach. “You look
wonderful!”
I turned to hug her in a sideways embrace,
the best I could manage with my stomach. “Only a best friend would
say that,” I said.
Estelle hugged Jessie, then Eddie; her head
just reached his chest.
“Jessie, go on and get your candy bar