“Well . . . I suppose that won’t be an issue. But you need to make sure your parents understand I’m just editing your applications, not suggesting which universities you should apply to. Besides, who am I to stop someone from pursuing his dream? I think it’s admirable. God knows I wish I would’ve pursued mine, whatever it once was. You’re going to be great, Trace. I’m more than happy to help. When you feel they’re ready, just drop them off.”
“Thanks, Mr. Daniels. I really appreciate it.”
“Call me Grey, Trace. My dad is Mr. Daniels.”
“Thanks, Grey.”
Our conversation had taken place several months ago, and Trace was patiently awaiting responses. When the restaurant began receiving university flyers, pamphlets, and such in the mail addressed to Trace, I realized he’d used the restaurant address for his dream school applications. I let it slide. What harm could it possibly do? All teenagers keep secrets from their parents. Besides, I always enjoyed working with Trace. He was tidy and quick. He did his job and didn’t play around like the other bussers. He was serious but always smiled. His parents were also regular customers at Daniels’, and just from local gossip and observing their manner, I knew they would not be happy with Trace when they found out he was applying to non-Baptist universities. Mr. and Mrs. Thompson had a reputation as helicopter parents, always circling about the high school and Sunday school, keeping an eye on Trace, and more importantly, those who interacted with him. Teachers at Harrison High, I was told, purposely avoided the Thompsons. Yet in spite of his parents’ constant attention, or perhaps because of it, Trace began his musical ascent as lead in Harrison High School’s glee club, along with the youth choir at Wabash Valley Baptist Church. He sang often at weddings and funerals.
As he cleared a four-top, I asked him to make his way to the banquet room when he finished. “I’m sure they need help in there,” I said. He tucked the chairs under the table and looked up with excitement.
“Did you see Pastor Daryl?” Trace asked.
“Yes, yes I did.”
“Isn’t it cool he’s come back here? Our rehearsals at church have never been better. He’s got some great ideas for our youth choir. He’s even promised more solos for me. Mrs. Boil rarely gave me a solo,” Trace said, a gleam in his eye.
“That’s fantastic, Trace. I know you’ll be great.” And with a bounce in his step, Trace then pushed his bus cart toward the adjoining banquet room. Watching him leave, I noted he was one of the few bussers that not only stacked dishes neatly in his cart, allowing for easy unloading in the dish room and therefore less breakage, but he also wiped off the chairs before moving on.
“Grey, you have a call on line one. Grey, line one,” the cashier announced via the intercom. Opposite me, on the dining room wall of the restaurant office, above the dinner crowd, hung a silver circular neon clock. Its turquoise glow drew my attention; its hands pointed to one p.m. I knew it was Rosabelle. She called every Sunday at the same time to get the scoop on my Saturday night.
Chapter Two
November
As I walked toward the restaurant’s office, I thought about Rosabelle. Both her manner and her style were very dramatic. I always thought she was the embodiment of theater living in a thee-ater town. Thee-ater is how she pronounced it. She was whip smart and quick-witted. And I loved her southern accent. Her voice was vodka and cigarettes whispered in your ear. High kicks at dinner. Reason at lunch. Her sentences sifted, drawing her words out between breaths. To me she was Bette Davis, Marlene Dietrich, with a dash of Mae West.
Rosabelle was my touchstone, the voice of Fort Sackville reason. She knew the community, what people were capable of. She understood their humanity and their brutality—I learned all of it from her. She often tried to save me from myself. And even though she’d gone to high school with my dad, she and I were friends. I’d known her all my life. Rosabelle was the first friend I told I was gay.
For almost thirty years, she’d lived with Mae MacIntosh. Rosabelle had met Mae on a buying trip in Chicago at a quarterly trade show for retailers. They now operated Bonhomme’s Apple Orchard and its only remaining profitable business, Rosabelle’s, a gift shop and general store housed in the orchard’s former roadside market. Everyone said they were just roommates. I’d learned long ago, however, that in Fort Sackville two women could live together without folks taking issue. But when two men lived together, eyebrows were raised and voices were lowered.
When I was in high school, Rosabelle and Mae sold parcels of orchard land for commercial development, and it was on former orchard property bordering Highway 41 that Daniels’ Family Buffet had been built after Grandpa Collin shuttered Daniels’ Diner, our family’s first restaurant located near Main Street on Fairground Avenue.
Rosabelle’s phone calls were always the highlight of my Sunday afternoons at the restaurant. I walked into the office and closed the door behind me, sat down at the desk, and picked up the receiver for line one. I could hear Rosabelle talking to someone—I assumed it was Mae.
“Well, you’re gonna be disappointed,” I said. “I only got home yesterday and spent my Saturday night unpacking.”
“Mae, he’s there, you were right.” There was a pause. “Welcome back, sugar,” Rosabelle said. “I wondered if you’d make it to work today.”
“And miss feeding the Sunday Christians? Are you kidding me? It’s the highlight of my week.”
“Mae and I just drove by a half hour ago. The parking lot was full. I couldn’t tell if that snazzy sports car of yours was there or not,” Rosabelle said.
“I parked behind the restaurant. And yes, we are wall-to-wall up in here.”
“So did you have a nice time in South Beach?”
“Of course! Are you kidding? In fact, I figured I’d stop by this week and give you the scoop. Do you want to do dinner one night?
“Things are crazy with the holidays ramping up, but let me talk to Mae. Maybe we can all go to the Executive Inn one evening in the next couple of weeks. Wednesday is prime rib night. Otherwise, I’ll be at the market every day this week. Stop by sometime.”
“Perfect. Hey, I almost forgot . . . did you know Daryl Stone has moved back to town? He was in here earlier with his wife and kids. Can you believe he has a wife and kids?”
“I heard he was coming back,” Rosabelle said. “I bet his daddy’s happy, him takin’ a preachin’ job at the Baptist church. That kind of prestige is right up Farmer Stone’s alley.”
“How’d he ever get the nickname Farmer Stone?” I asked. Having known Farmer Stone for most my life, I had never heard how he’d earned the name.
“Lord, folks around here’ve been calling him that since Jesus was in diapers. It’s said that when he was a boy working his daddy’s melon fields south of town, he’d come to a dead stop, whatever he was doing, and begin searching for old river stones. Apparently he had one hell of a collection. His daddy would tell anyone who’d listen that the only kind of farmin’ his boy did was for stones. Ain’t nobody made a living selling stones, he’d say. I guess since his last name was Stone, it all just kind of stuck. Farmer Stone did prove his daddy wrong, though. Ain’t nobody around these parts made the kind of living Farmer Stone has. Of course, his trucking and shipping business has made him a pretty penny too. It’s paid for everything Daryl and his older brother ever wanted, even though, Lord knows, he’s a hard man. Set in his ways.”
“See, that’s where I thought they made their money. I always thought farming was sideline.”
“It’s hard to tell. Farmer Stone’s daddy told everything he knew. Whereas Farmer Stone wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful. I suspect Daryl’s the same way.”
“I