“It’s for me.” Studying the menu board on the wall, I ordered the double-decker fried bologna and cheese, offering her a friendly smile. It was returned with a cagey bother. I was an outsider and couldn’t mistake the suspicion and unwelcoming that flitted across her piercing eyes.
Again, I inspected my hands.
“Would you like to add dessert to that?” She adjusted her ruffled waitress hat, pulled the pencil away from a grease-stained Guest Check notepad, and pointed to a cake stand with a glass dome. The four-layer caramel cake was missing several slices, its yellow cake dry, and the caramel icing had lost its luster and concreted.
“Made fresh today.” Her eyes dared me to say otherwise as she scratched her auburn hair with the tip of her pencil.
“Just the sandwich, chips, and Coke.” Whiffs of rancid oil, soured milk, and stale cigarette smoke wafted from her uniform.
She called out to the cook behind her, “Order, double-fried bologna an’ cheese.” A young boy popped his head up from a grill while she began emptying the welled-glass ashtrays along the counter. She stopped and refilled the farmers’ cups, then rested an elbow in front of them and whispered. They glanced at me and looked over their shoulders toward the parking lot to our automobile. The towheaded farmer shrugged and hunched back over his drink. But his bearded friend continued to stare,his jaw twitching.
Growing uneasy, I turned to the automobile, the steamy day rolling across the broken asphalt. Mrs. Claxton’s head nodded to the steering wheel, and I know’d her ol’ bones were exhausted.
“Mustard?” The waitress set down the Coke and held up greasy condiment packets beside the sack.
“Yes, please,” I replied, peering back out the window, my eyes locked on her vehicle, more worriment nicking my thoughts.
“That’ll be seventy-two cents.”
Then the librarian’s head dipped down, and she slumped over the steering wheel.
The waitress pushed the bag across. Dropping the five-dollar bill on the counter, I grabbed the sack and drink and ran outside.
“Mrs. Claxton?” I set the bag on the back seat and the drink beside it. The woman’s eyelids drooped, and her face glowed with droplets stitched across the brow and down her cheek.
I snatched up the cup and dug out pieces of chipped ice. “Mrs. Claxton.Mrs. Claxton,” I cried out, leaning over the steering wheel, rubbing the cold across her lips and brow.
“Miss. I’m Sonny Harris.” The towheaded farmer crowded beside me, trying to glimpse inside the vehicle. “She’s overheated.” He tipped his ball cap and reached inside. “You need to get your help outta—”
“Take your hands off her.” I stepped in front of him and glared, fearful of what he might do to Mrs. Claxton.
“I’m getting her outta that hot automobilenow. Move aside, dammit.” He pushed, and I stumbled back.
“Leave her be,” I demanded, tugging on his sleeve.
He jerked away from my grip. “She needs to get outta there!”
Groaning, the librarian roused as the man eased her out, took hold of her arm, his face reddening from the heat.
“Let’s get you inside the diner where the fans can cool you,” I said, taking her other arm.
The man stopped and wagged his head.
She pointed a wobbly finger to the patch of concrete with a sliver of shade. “There,” she rasped.
We helped her to the curb on the side of the diner. Drained, Mrs. Claxton rested her head on her knees.
“I’ll get her some water,” Sonny said and headed into the diner.
“Mrs. Claxton, what can I do?” I lightly shook her hot, dry arm, fearful of what was happening. “Please, sit up. Can I telephone a doctor?”
Someone had littered, and I picked up the diner bag and fanned her.
She grunted and slowly lifted her head, revealing reddened eyes and parched lips.
I fanned harder.
Sonny returned with a tall paper cup of ice water, an old metal bucket, and a dishrag, setting it down in front of us. Then he passed me Mrs. Claxton’s change I’d left on the counter.
