A Turn in the Road

At one stage, soon after Grant’s birth, Ruth had been ready to admit her marriage was a huge mistake. She wanted to end it. Marie had listened and been sympathetic to her tales of woe. Richard spent so little time with her and their son that Ruth was convinced he didn’t love her, that he never really had. Their marriage was a sham, she’d told her friend, and it was better to own up to her mistake and get out now before their lives became even more complicated.

Marie didn’t attempt to talk her out of her decision; all she’d really done was ask Ruth a few questions. As she answered, Ruth realized how important it was to do whatever she could to make this marriage work. Not only because of their son, but because marriage was supposed to be a partnership and that required something from her, too. An honest commitment, a genuine effort … In the back of her mind, and it embarrassed her now to admit this, she’d felt she could always go home, back to Florida….

Back to Royce Jameson. She suspected Bethanne had picked up on the fact that there was more involved in this reunion than meeting her high school friends, much as she looked forward to that. Royce would be there, too; Jane had written her with the news. The possibility of seeing him again had everything to do with wanting to return to Florida. They’d been high school sweethearts—an old-fashioned term, perhaps, one Annie might have scoffed at, but it was true. They’d been so young and so deeply in love. But she’d hurt him terribly and even after all these years she wasn’t sure he’d forgiven her.

The last time they’d stood face-to-face was the summer after their high school graduation. They’d held each other and they’d kissed, vowing that nothing would ever come between them. He was leaving for boot camp and she was heading off to college. They’d promised to love each other forever and ever. Six months later she was engaged to Richard.

Their final conversation had been horrific. Ugly. She’d taken the coward’s way out and written him from college that she was marrying Richard. Back then Royce was in the marines and stationed in California before being deployed. When he received her letter he’d phoned her at her college dorm, angry and hurt. She’d listened while he accused her of terrible things. The conversation was one of the most painful of her life, and she’d sobbed for hours afterward.

All she knew of Royce’s life in recent years was that, like her, he hadn’t attended any of the previous reunions. And, like her, he’d lost his spouse.

In the end, of course, Ruth had stayed with Richard and later given birth to Robin. She’d heard from Diane, her high school friend, when Royce had married. It’d been a good time in her own marriage and she was happy for him. She wished him well.

“Can I help you?” A woman in her late sixties or early seventies hurried out from the kitchen, wearing a white apron. Yellow rubber gloves covered her hands; she appeared to be the dishwasher.

“Marie?” Ruth asked tentatively. “Is that you?”

Marie came a step closer. “Ruth? Ruth Hamlin?”

They both gave a shout of recognition and advanced toward each other, arms outstretched, laughing and talking at the same time.

“I’d recognize you anywhere,” Marie claimed.

“You look wonderful.”

“I’m an old bat,” Marie countered, still laughing.

“Me, too.”

They embraced like long-lost sisters, hugging each other and clinging hard.

Bethanne followed Ruth into the café and watched the two women embrace. When Annie had suggested they spend the night in Pendleton, Bethanne had her doubts. She was loath to disrupt Ruth’s careful plans. Yet from the moment they’d crossed the Columbia River, her mother-in-law had been animated, reminiscing about the early years of her marriage, the cities in which she and Richard had lived and the friends she’d made.

“Bethanne, Annie,” Ruth said, turning to them, her face aglow. “Meet Marie. She was one of my dearest, dearest friends all those years ago.” She shook her head, then hugged Marie again. “Annie’s my granddaughter and Bethanne, her mom, was married to Grant.” She lowered her voice but Bethanne could hear every word. “Officially, they’re divorced, but I have high hopes of a reunion now that my son has come to his senses.”

“Hi,” Annie said, and raised her hand in greeting.

Bethanne decided to pretend she hadn’t heard Ruth’s comment and smiled at the other woman, who seemed five or ten years older than Ruth. Marie’s hair had gone completely white and her face was heavily wrinkled. The years hadn’t been nearly as kind to her as they had to Ruth.

“Where is everyone?” Ruth asked, looking around the café. Many of the tables had yet to be bused. The counter was cleared, but a couple of syrup bottles remained, standing in sticky puddles.

“When Richard and I lived here, there wasn’t a seat to be had, day or night. Don’t you remember we used to quote Yogi Berra? We said the place had gotten so popular, no one went there anymore.” She giggled like a schoolgirl and so did Marie.

“Everyone wants to stay close to the freeway these days,” Marie lamented. “Thank goodness the bus still stops here. Otherwise, I’d be out of business for sure.”

“Your mom’s chicken-fried steak was the best I ever ate,” Ruth said. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted gravy that good, before or since.”

“It’s still on the menu. A heart attack on a plate, as they say, but it’s my bestseller.”

“No wonder.”

“I was about to close up shop,” Marie said, drying her hands on her apron. “Maggie phoned in with the flu and my dishwasher’s out sick, too. I don’t have any choice.”

“I thought the bus stopped by every day.”

“It does, but I can’t cook, wait tables and wash dishes all by myself.” She frowned, shaking her head helplessly.

“Has the bus come by today?” Ruth asked.

“Not yet.” Marie glanced at her watch. “It’s due in another forty minutes.”

Annie tugged at Bethanne’s sleeve and whispered, “We could pitch in.”

Marie stared at them. “Could you? I mean, I’d be willing to pay you. I’m afraid if I close for even one day, the bus company might not renew my contract and then I’d be flat out of business.”

Ruth shoved her sweater sleeves up past her elbows. “I’m a champion dishwasher, at your service.”

“I can bus tables,” Annie offered.

“Uh.” Bethanne hesitated. She was thinking she should wash dishes.

“Come on, Mom, you’d make a great waitress.”

“Nothing like a pretty girl to build up business,” Marie told her, grinning as she said it. “And I could certainly use the help.”

“Then I’d be delighted.” The last time Bethanne waited tables had been the summer after she graduated from high school. She’d gotten a job working at the local Denny’s. The experience had convinced her that she wasn’t waitress material. It’d been hard work, lifting heavy platters and busing tables. In addition, she’d discovered that people could be demanding, rude and insensitive. But she’d be able to manage for a few hours.

“I’ve got another apron in back. Let me get it for you.” And Marie bustled into the kitchen, with Ruth close behind.

“I hope I don’t spill coffee on anyone,” Bethanne worried. “Or mix up all the orders.”

“Mom, like Grandma always says, don’t borrow trouble. We’ll do great.”

As little as ten minutes ago, Bethanne had been sitting quietly in the car knitting a wedding gift for her future daughter-in-law. Now she wore a pink apron with a frilly starched border. She looked like a character in some movie about a diner, and since she wore the uniform, she might as well play the role. She purposely tucked the pencil behind her ear, then reached for the order pad and slipped it in her apron pocket.

“The specials are listed on the chalkboard outside,” Marie explained. “It might be a good idea to memorize them.”

“Gotcha,” Bethanne said, and walked outside. She studied the blackboard. Ham and redeye gravy was first, followed by macaroni and cheese. The third special was pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy. Apparently, Marie was fond of smothering food in sauce.

She’d finished familiarizing herself with the specials when she heard the roar of motorcycles in the distance. The sound was deafening as it drew closer. “What is it about men and motorcycles?” she muttered as she went back inside.

“How long before the bus gets here?” Annie asked. She wore her own apron and carried a cleaning rag and a gray plastic tub piled high with dirty dishes.

“About twenty minutes,” Marie called from the kitchen. “Listen, you might fill the water glasses now. It’ll save you time later.”

“I’ll do that,” Bethanne said. She found a pitcher and set about pouring water into each glass. While she was at it, she figured out how to work the coffee machine. Meanwhile, Annie washed the counter, cleaned the tables and put out silverware.

The roar of engines thundered to a stop just outside the café and, shortly after, four burly men dressed in leather vests and calf-high boots walked in as if they owned the place.