Part 4
The next morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets greasy and black under a low, white sky.
Clara arrived at the diner at five-thirty for the prep shift. The air inside was cold, holding the stale smell of yesterday’s grease and the sharp tang of the floor cleaner she’d used the night before.
She set the coffee urns to brew, the heavy metal baskets rattling as the water began to heat.
At seven, the morning regulars started trickling in. Old men from the railway yards, three shifts of night-watchmen from the warehouses, and Mr. Henderson.
Mr. Henderson was eighty-four, walked with a silver-tipped cane, and always sat in the small stool at the very end of the counter, nearest the cash register. He ordered two eggs, over-medium, and rye toast with no butter. He had been coming to the diner since before Clara was born.
"Morning, Clara," he said, his voice like dry leaves scraping across a sidewalk.
"Morning, Mr. Henderson." She slid a mug of black coffee toward him. She waited until he took his first sip, his hand shaking slightly but practiced. "Can I ask you something about the old days?"
The old man smiled, his eyes disappearing into a web of deep wrinkles. "The old days are the only ones I remember clear, girl. What do you want to know?"
"Did you know my grandmother? Ruth? When she worked here?"
Henderson’s hand stopped on its way back to the saucer. He looked at her, his expression shifting from pleasant vagueness to something sharp and focused. "Ruthie? Of course I knew Ruthie. Best waitress this side of the river. Had a way of talking to the dockworkers that kept 'em from tearing the place apart."
"Did she work here alone?" Clara asked, leaning over the counter, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry toward the back office where Lou was currently sorting through receipts.
"No," Henderson said slowly. He picked up his fork, turning it over in his hand. "She had a partner for a while. Shorter girl. Dark hair. Italian girl from up north. Teresa."
Clara felt the breath catch in her throat. "What happened to her?"
Henderson looked toward the back office door, then back at Clara. He leaned in a little closer, the smell of peppermint lozenges and old wool coming off him. "She disappeared, Clara. One night in seventy-six. Just... gone. The old man—Lou's father, Big Eddie—he claimed she took the weekend receipts from the safe. Said she cleaned him out and caught a bus to Chicago."
"Did she?"
Henderson let out a soft, dry snort. "Teresa? Not a chance. That girl wouldn't take a sugar packet she hadn't paid for. She and Ruthie were thick as thieves. They were saving up to buy the place from Eddie. Had the papers drawn up and everything. Then, overnight, Eddie says she’s a thief, Ruthie stops talking about the partnership, and three months later, Eddie signs the whole place over to Lou."
"Did my grandmother believe she stole it?" Clara asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Ruthie never said a word about it," Henderson said, his voice dropping even lower. "But she stopped smiling. And she never looked Eddie in the eye again. She stayed another year, then she just quit. Walked out middle of a Friday rush and never came back."
The kitchen door swung open, the rusted hinge letting out a high-pitched whine.
Lou stood in the doorway, a stack of menus under his arm. His eyes flicked from Clara to Mr. Henderson, his mouth tightening into a thin line.
"Clara," Lou said, his voice flat. "The bacon’s burning on the back grill. Pay attention to your station."
"It's not burning, Lou," she said, but she turned away anyway, her hands trembling as she picked up the spatula.
May you like
"We don't pay you to gossip with the customers," Lou muttered as he walked past her to the register.
Clara didn't answer. She looked out the window, across the cracked asphalt of Alderton Street, straight at the boarded-up facade of 412. The plywood on the front door looked loose, one corner warped by years of rain, pulling away from the frame just enough to leave a dark, narrow gap.
