Miss Arnold lifted her chin a little higher, the epitome of a Southern woman with an iron core. “Seein’ to myself is a privilege. Gonna take advantage of it as long as the good Lord’ll let me.” She dipped her head toward the door at the front of the bus. “Best get yourself to Dorothy’s and that handsome boy of yours.”
Damn. Shut down again. “All right, but don’t think we’re not gonna talk about this next time.”
“Lookin’ forward to it, beautiful girl.”
Evie shook her head and headed to the door.
“Evette.” Miss Arnold’s sharp voice halted her just before she took the first step down. She waited until Evie met her steady stare before she spoke again. “Gonna be all right. Whatever it is...it’s not gonna beat you. You just keep on remembering that.”
A tightness noosed around Evette’s throat, and tears tingled along the bridge of her nose. Maybe she wouldn’t have another chance to talk Miss Arnold out of taking the bus to the grocery store. Not unless her next job took her to the same part of town she’d been working in. She clenched the handrail beside the steep steps and forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Don’t you worry, Miss Arnold. Gonna take more than a kick or two to keep me down.”
The older woman nodded as if she’d expected such an answer, then went back to staring out the window opposite her seat. “Good girl. Now get on to that boy of yours and tell Dorothy I said hello.”
Outside, the temperature still hovered near eighty-five degrees. Not exactly an unbearable number at the tail end of September, but the humidity from the gulf and the subtle stench that last night’s rains had stirred from the Quarter didn’t exactly make for an ideal stroll on the streets either. She hurried past a cheesy souvenir shop, a convenience store and a pub—the latter leaving the faint scent of cigarette smoke on the sidewalk despite the front door doing its best to trap the conditioned air inside. At the end of the block, Dorothy’s Diner sat like a neighborhood beacon. The entrance was right at the corner, two long walls of windows stretching for a good twelve feet on either side so those moseying past could get an easy view of the crowd inside.
And there was always a crowd at Dorothy’s. As diners went, it was an institution. A safe haven in the middle of hell and a slice of soul food heaven all rolled into one. Per usual, Emerson was at the soda-shop-style counter perched on the barstool closest to the front door, his shoulders slightly hunched forward and his forearms around his plate like a linebacker braced to protect his food. His dirty blond hair was a nod to her daddy’s side of the family and was a tad too long and tousled like any other seven-year-old boy’s probably was at the end of the school day, but his expression was far too empty. His hazel eyes too void of emotion for someone so young.
She forced another bogus smile and shoved the glass door open. The bell overhead gave a cheerful jingle, and two or three of the waitresses on the floor called out a greeting.
Evie gave them all a polite wave, but went straight to her kid and added a little extra mess to his hair with a playful ruffle. “Hey, champ. How was school?”
For the briefest of seconds, her little boy stared back at her. Not much more than a hint of a smile, but enough to let her know the kid who had curled so innocently in her lap a few years ago was still in there somewhere. The openness was gone again in a blink, the sullen scowl she’d grown to hate aimed back at a plateful of turkey and dressing. He shrugged and stabbed a bite of turkey. “Just a day.”
“Yeah, but it’s a Friday and everyone knows Fridays are always better by default.” She slid onto the barstool next to Emerson and let her purse drop to the raised step beneath her feet. “Anything big go down at recess?”
Emerson shook his head.
“Any surprise tests?”
Another shake.
“Meet any cute girls?”
To that, he simply lifted his head and looked at her like he was torn between walking home without her and suggesting she have her head examined.
“Well, at least that got your attention,” she said. “You know, when I was your age, my momma couldn’t get me to shut up.”
Emerson pushed a green bean that had strayed too close to his dressing back to the exiled portion of his plate. “No point in talking if there’s nothing going on.”
“Hmm.” She crossed her arms and pretended to check out the rest of the diner’s patrons while her brain scrambled for any clue on how to engage with her son. He might be only seven, but he talked with more sophistication than most adults. Barely any slang. No Creole mannerisms and definitely no profanity. More like a gentleman stuck in a child’s body. So, why she thought some shocking revelation on how to talk to him at his level was gonna plow its way to the forefront of her thoughts right this second after over a year of searching was beyond her. “Well, if you’re not gonna talk to me, maybe Miss Dorothy will. You seen her?”
Emerson politely wiped his mouth with his napkin and dipped his head toward the kitchen. “She disappeared in there right before you came in. Table seven didn’t like their special.”
Evie glanced at the turkey and dressing on Emerson’s plate. “Someone’s complaining about the cooking? Are they high?”
Miracle of miracles, Emerson’s mouth twitched with a smile that didn’t quite break free. “Not everyone has good taste, Mom.”
“True dat,” she fired back, wishing with everything in her she could get her kid to let go and be a kid again. She swiveled toward the kitchen and waved her hand at her bag. “Watch that for me. Don’t want our payday finding legs and running off without us.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Yes, ma’am.
Evie meandered toward the kitchen, her son’s perfect reply echoing in her head. If she’d been that proper growing up, her momma would have celebrated with street parties and however many charitable contributions for the offering plate their bank account would allow. Instead, she’d been sassy. Never disrespectful, of course. That would have earned her a butt whoopin’ or boxed ears. But an okie dokie pokey or a you betcha was way more common than a proper Yes, ma’am.
The scrape of metal chair legs against the black-and-white industrial tile shot through the diner.
Evie paused at the end of the counter and turned toward the sound.
Backing away from the popular round booth in the back corner was a slightly balding fortyish-looking man with a short-sleeve checked button-down barely covering his paunch. His black pants were a tad too short in the length, but they were clean and well-pressed. He clenched some papers in his hand and executed a semi-bow that could have been interpreted as fear or extreme respect. Maybe a little of both.
One glance at who was sitting in the booth and the tense gesture made sense.