Chapter 23: On the House

By five forty-five on Saturday the line ran out of Hutchins' Diner and halfway down the block.

Pearl had hung a new sign in the window.

OPEN. NO NOTICES. NO FLOWERS.

I tied my apron on at the grill and cracked the first egg of the day.

My hands knew the work, and I let them.

The bell over the door rang every few seconds.

The Tuesday man came in with his wife.

The man with the gray braid came in with three grandchildren, and the woman in the medic's vest came in carrying her clipboard out of habit.

They filled every booth, and then the counter, and then they sat on the windowsills.

Nobody had ordered anything yet.

They were looking at me.

"Eat," I said, loud, over the grill. "I'm not doing speeches. The eggs are getting cold."

They laughed, and the noise lifted the whole room.

Pearl came by with a pot of coffee in each hand.

"The county called at four," she said. "The notice is void. It seems the lot was never Ray's to evict from."

"I know. You've told me three times."

"I'll tell you three more." She squeezed my arm with her elbow. "Look at what you did, honey."

"I didn't do it alone."

"No," Pearl said. "Nobody does."

Mace came in at six, with his arm in the sling and his vest over his shoulders.

The old man followed him in and found the one empty stool at the end of the counter, where he always sat.

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