“Then maybe I’ll see you again.”
“You’re leaving? But you just—”
“Stella.” The woman with the white hair again.
Stella narrowed her eyes and settled deeper into the bench. “Not yet. I have one hour.” I got the impression she said this not for my benefit but for the two women, because she said it much louder than necessary, if only speaking to me.
I saw something then, movement in the backseat of the SUV.
A man. No, a boy. “Who’s that?”
Stella followed my gaze, then frowned. “That is David Pickford.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s nobody.”
“How old is he?”
“Why would that matter?”
“Just wondering.”
She shrugged. “Nine or ten, I suppose. Our age.”
“Is he wearing a mask?”
Her gloved hand went to my comic book, and she flipped the pages. “Forget him. Tell me about your turtles.”
I smiled and did just that. This boy watching us from the SUV, the women in white, too.
I wouldn’t see him again for thirteen years, and even that proved too soon.
2
“This isnotan All-American Slam,” I said, staring at the plate Mr. Krendal set in front of me. Thanksgiving was ten days away, and Auntie Jo had been picking up as many double shifts as possible, hoping to scrape enough money together for a full turkey dinner. That meant no pizza for a while. She suspended my allowance, too. I was okay with that. I had saved up one hundred forty-one dollars. Since Auntie Jo wouldn’t take any of my money, I gave it to Mr. Triano, the building’s super, to buy a turkey and surprise her.
Elden Krendal, the owner and sole cook at Krendal’s Diner, had a policy. He allowed his employees to eat for free, provided they didn’t order off the menu but instead ate whatever was in surplus before the food expired.
A few weeks back, when Auntie Jo asked if she could share her free meal with me, Krendal wiped his thick sausage hands on his once-white apron and knelt down in front of me. “This guy is little, too little for what did you say? Eight years old?”
He wasn’t very tall, only about an inch taller than Auntie Jo, but Mr. Krendal was a big man. I imagined he nibbled away all day back in that kitchen just to maintain such a size. He probably weighed at least three hundred pounds and reminded me of a flabby Mr. Clean, the guy from those commercials, twenty years past his prime. The top of his head didn’t contain a single hair. I once overheard him say he got tired of hairnets and shaved it all off. Auntie Jo said his hair got tired of him and left on its own accord. He had an infectious smile. I couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t smiling. Even when he shouted out from back in the kitchen, he did so from behind a grin.
“Nine,” I corrected him.
He shook his head. “You’re skin and bones. You’re not going to grow up to be a big strong man sharing plates with your aunt. You need a plate of your own.”
“I can’t afford—” Auntie Jo started.
Mr. Krendal waved a hand at her. “We will feed this boy until it’s coming out his ears. Maybe someday he’ll come work for me.”
“I’m going to go to college and become an astronaut or maybe a reporter for theDaily Planet,” I said.
“Or maybe a reporter in space? I imagine we need those, too,” Krendal said. “Pick out a seat, I’ll put something together for you.”
Auntie Jo nodded toward the row of stools lining the counter, but I went to a booth instead, a small booth built for two people in the far corner near the bathrooms. Over the coming weeks, this became my booth. Mr. Krendal made a small paper sign that read RESERVED FOR JACK THATCH – ASTRONAUT REPORTER in large block letters and placed it out there every day before Auntie Jo’s shift, knowing I’d probably be in, too.
Today, when he asked me what I wanted for dinner, I told him I’d like an All-American Slam like they have at Denny’s, along with a chocolate shake. He brought me a chicken sandwich on rye bread with a side order of french fries and a glass of water.
