Another Short Story

An Act of Kindness

            With only a spattering of people, it’s clearly not a busy day at the diner. An aged couple and what I guess was a grandkid sit to my right. The little boy looks to be about five or six, and is continually entertained with his grandfather’s antics. He makes a tent out of the napkins, talking about how Mr. Fork and Mrs. Spoon are going camping that weekend. The little boy plays along and the both laugh. The man’s smiling wife watches from beside him, face aglow.

In the corner booth there’s a woman sitting by herself. She’s not much to look at, but there is a sense of raw beauty about her that I can just feel; I don’t know how to put it. In the way she holds herself, just her very existence. She is calm, and yet on the brink of some kind of collapse.

As a regular customer, she takes the usual: a bacon cheeseburger without the mayo (“less fat” she tells herself). This was accompanied by a large fry and water. The waitress, Donna, a nice girl, asks her if that’ll be all? The woman says yes and is left to her thoughts.       

It’s clear that older man at the other table must have said something wrong. His wife gets up and stares out the window. The man is sobered at this, and with a word to the boy to stay quietly, goes to his wife’s side. I watch with interest. He doesn’t say much, but what he said must have made an impact.

She turns to look at him (a breakthrough in any angry girlfriend case of my knowledge) and they smile at each other. Anyone could tell that these two have weathered the years together. The smiles reflect not happiness, but joy; knowing it’s going to be all right.  They stuck with it because that’s what people did in their generation. He then politely and quietly escorts her back to the table, where the boy is amusing himself with the napkins and table settings.

            The fryers around me bubble and sizzle. The kitchen sings to me with unique noises and smells. That sounds odd (the grease and grime about the place would disgust some people) but it gives me a sense of freedom. It’s not quite home, but a place where you can be- you don’t have to think, just exist.

            I look back to the woman in the corner booth just as a man comes hurrying though the door. She doesn’t look surprised, but there in my gut I have a feeling of anticipation. I can feel the clouds gathering, and it looks like rain.

            Bobby calls to me about getting back to work, but it doesn’t register. The man is obviously excited about something. He doesn’t really greet her, but starts talking about what he just came from. I hear the phrase “new job” and the word “opportunity”. The word “travel" makes an impact on her.

            When you talk to someone, there are different levels of interest. I learned this stuff in a psychology class. If the person is interested, they’re looking at you, and they’ve got that look with the tilted head that tells you they’re not daydreaming. Then there’s the thing where, if you ask, they say ‘I’m listening’, but you know they’re not. Their eyes are roaming, their heads are up, but their eyes and thoughts are elsewhere.

            This is different. As he’s talking, her head is drooping more. At first I start wondering if she’s sick. He keeps talking, though, she started fidgeting less and less. It’s obvious that he’s thought this all through; he’s not asking her, he’s telling her. Her hands are left sitting in her lap; not clenched in anger, not twitching with anticipation, but limp with defeat.

            The minute hand on the clock has moved a couple degrees, and he finally notices something. He says something to her and reaches his hand out. She looks up with her eyes, but her head is still down. Her hands are still in her lap.

“Are you sure about this?” He tells her yes, and there’s something else. He reaches in his pocket for something. The dread in me, for whatever reason, begins to build. He stands up and walks to her side. He kneels. I don’t even have to tell you what he says next. It’s universal western body language: he’s proposing.

            Her head falls and I hear a sob. This catches the attention of the grandmother, who’s been talking with her husband. He looks, but they decide to attend to their own affairs.

            The young woman is now sobbing openly. Not knowing what to do the man just stands there. As I’m watching, a sort of loathing or disgust rises up in me. Tell her you love her, you dope! Say “It’s all right, I’m here for you.”

But then it hits me. He’s not there for her. He wants her to support him be there for his sake. As this is racing through my mind, he stumbles back. Without a further word he turns and exits the building.

            “Jeff, are you going to get back here or-” I don’t give Bobby a chance to finish. I load up a plate and step out of the kitchen.

            I don’t say anything. If I did I know I’d have made an idiot out of myself and only embarrassed her more. How do you approach a hurting person? Trying to step lightly with my oversized feet, I slide into the seat across from her and set the plate in front of her. She has composed herself a little now, and looks upward to make eye contact. I smile in what I hope is a reassuring manner and give a little nod.

             I know that, at this point, words are useless. She nods a thank-you and hesitantly takes from the plate, even though she’s not really hungry. I just hope that I can help by keeping her from being alone.

Copyright Jackson Kerr, 2012