We Played a Dirge for You and This Time You Wept

See the dark, wet squares of pavement that the late hours of the morning can't dry; see the long shadows that hold pockets of insurgent snow; see the reflected light, from countless, towering windows, that gives the appearance of daylight during the afternoon. Ms. Myra, third generation owner of The Downtown Cafe, saw these things, and it made her anticipate the change of seasons.

For a few weeks in October, the sun twisted just so to the south and looked down the alley that ran at a right angle to Ms. Myra's restaurant. Like a friend who looked over her shoulder one last time before going, those autumn sunrises lit up the cafe's polished counters and threw wild reflections onto the warped ceilings.

It was on such an October morning that Ms. Myra sat at the counter facing the windows, facing the sun, thinking of her father; it was on this October morning that Ms. Myra's busy hands came to their final rest.

***

"Don't bother her." Miles, the large cook, put up a wide hand.

"It's 6:30. People wanna eat."

"Then let's feed them." The cook looked into the small waitress's eyes and spoke with his teeth together. "Don't bother her."

Blaine glanced one more time down the aisle at Ms. Myra, shook her head, and then posted the newest order. It wasn't two minutes later, however, that she said, "She ain't drinkin' that anyway. She puttin' her finger over it all I can see."

"Is it your tea? -- Order up," and Miles rang the bell twice in Blaine's ear.

Regulars came and went; some stopped at Ms. Myra's elbow to chat, some who knew her well only smiled into her face after pausing a beat or two.

"I don't get it." Blaine found and stole another moment in a lull of the morning. "Somethin' ain't right. She -- "

"What? She's usually workin' circles around us? Yeah -- " and Miles rested his eyes on Ms. Myra's white-streaked hair; it glowed around her scalp where the sun hit it. "You see that? That light comin' in? When you seen it before?"

"I don't know -- probably yesterday."

"Okay, yesterday. Before that?"

"I guess I don't know."

"That's because you ain't been lookin'. This time of year is the only time it comes in those windows."

Blaine wiped down the counters. "But -- "

"Why she sits there is somethin' else." Miles rang the bell again, and Blaine delivered eggs and poured coffee. She walked back behind the counter, her fingers tapping.

He smiled. "You ain't gonna work right until I tell, are you?"

She looked up at him for a second, and then leaned back toward the pick-up window. "Well?"

Miles sighed, but Blaine knew he wanted to talk. "I been here a long time. I knew her pop; he's the one who hired me." He thought a moment. "What? Can't a guy think? Look, the two of them used to sit there when the sun came in." Then he was busy until the light was bright and full on Ms. Myra.

Blaine went back to work; her hands busied themselves as she tried not to look toward the windows, but the corners of her eyes wandered as she filled glasses and cleared tables. Later that morning she had to shove her hands into her apron pockets, for they trembled, and she didn't know why but that she couldn't shake the idea of Ms. Myra sitting with her father.

***

Was it so many years ago? If she'd had to measure the time in October mornings, it was no time at all. Sitting there that one particular October morning, Myra felt warmth on her face, and she watched the sun dance through her transparent drinking jar, casting the shape of a fiery angel across her fingertips. The steam from her tea climbed the windowpane.

She could hear him, even now.

"What are you doing Daddy?"

"Here. Come sit. I'm lookin' at this."

"What are you thinkin'?"

"Well, I set my cup here, and I look at the heat rising off it. I think about how long I've been here."

"You've been here? We've been here since two years ago."

"Yes. And how long I'm going to be here."

"Are we moving?"

"No, Honey, we're not moving."

***

A new customer walked in the door. He saw Ms. Myra, removed his hat, and sat next to her. She wrapped her arm around him. She kissed his temple like a mother would.

"Now I come to think, I don't know I'd sit there if I was her." Miles laid his elbows on the ledge next to a plate of biscuits and thought about the man who just came in.

Blaine looked up at him, then at Ms. Myra.

"You seen that scar on her neck?"

"Sure. Can't miss it."

"Well, she got it from sittin' there."

"From just sittin' there?"

"From what came through the window." Miles made like he was going to clean the griddle behind him, but Blaine said, "And?"

He laughed. "You gotta know now, huh?" His wide hand came up, but this time he pointed with his other index finger at a smooth spot close to his thumb. "I got my own here." 

"You got you own what?"

"Scar. Look, when I was 'bout your brother's age, a guy bust in our place. I was big even then. I grabbed him, and he shot my hand." He showed his teeth and clinched his fist. "My other hand showed him the door."

"And Ms. Myra?" Blaine crossed her arms.

"Well. What you think? She has one to match on her neck."

"What? Who done that?"

"That boy she just kissed. The car he was in was gone before he knew what he done. But he came back soon enough."

***

"Why did you name me Myra?"

It was a special game they played, this one.

"Oh, because you're mine."

"No -- Daddy. Why did you name me Myra?"

"Oh, why did I name you Myra?"

"You know!"

"Yes I do know, Myra Nicholas."

"Tell me!"

With the same wry smile on his face he wore the first day he spoke her name, he said, as he'd said so many times to her, "Because it's where I was born."

"And then you..."

"...and then I..."

"Ate up my toes!"

"Yes! And I ate up your fingers, too!" He chased her, and they ran until she remembered the game.

"No, no -- what did you do next?"

"Well, everyone who came to see you needed a gift."

"So you gave them -- to everyone."

"What else would I do?"

***

In the corner booth sat a man whose unwashed hair covered his eyes; he had a smell. He pointed to several items on the menu, but he didn't say a word.

Blaine came back, her free arm on her hip. "Miles. Hey, Miles! That man just ordered. Look, all this." She tried to get the ticket back from him. "He ain't gonna pay."

"Yeah -- you know what she'd say." He turned away and then thought of something, "But -- "

"I know. Don't bother her."

Blaine went and filled his cup. The man slid it across the table so it rested just below his face. Blaine didn't see his lips, but she knew from the swirls on the surface of the coffee that he blew on it. His half-gloved fingers wrapped around the mug; he blew again.

***

"You know what I meant."

Cafe windows, father and daughter, autumnal light attending.

"Yes. But how should you know if I don't talk about it?"

"Tell me it's a long way off."

"I can't. That's part of it."

No answer; his curled fingers came to rest on her hand.

"You see? -- From my coffee, the steam rises and sticks to the glass of the window. Now you."

Yet another game, one for all ages.

She said it.

"But even now it fades away -- "

Again she repeated him.

"Don't forget."

"I won't."

Their eyes locked. And the sun, like so many party streamers, cut the chill morning and stretched across the street. It cast their shadows upon the cafe floor, and their shadows were long and their shadows were deep.

"Now for business. You know where the Zellers live? -- Good. They've been in more lately. He won't have me at the door, and I don't want him to know -- send Miles."

"And the twins?"

"They're okay in the back room for now. I met Marco's super just Monday; we had omelets -- it's good you make omelets the way you do, he barely chewed -- he'll be back. We'll talk."

"Sam's not been around."

"It's been awhile. Mrs. Torrez said she'd seen him on 10th. I'll have a look."

"And Anthony won't come in. Still."

"Serve him in the alley then."

***

Miles and Blaine saw her rub her neck. And they watched as her breaths widened her back, her shoulders shifting first left, then right. Her elbows came up to the counter to rest on each side; her head bowed.

"Maybe -- " Miles hesitated. The second wave of breakfast had been served, and the cafe buzzed and swelled with talk. "Ring them up, but come right back."

Blaine put on a smile and took tickets and money. The corners of her eyes were working again. Ms. Myra hadn't moved. Blaine's hands were stuffed deep in her apron when she walked toward Miles.

"So, lunch is around the corner a touch." Miles didn't want to talk lunch. He wiped the pickup ledge too many times, and Blaine stopped him. "Oh. Yeah, take that."

"She ain't moved."

"Huh? Oh. Now, just take that rag and get them tables ready, Blaine."

"Why you want me back?"

"I was -- just take the rag over there." When she went, Miles let his face turn and remain on Ms. Myra.

"Maybe she's prayin'."

Miles jumped. "Hey, ain't you got somebody to set down?"

Blaine huffed, but she was half-hearted about it, and she tried to get a look at his eyes.

"Go on."

***

She knew how long she had. The earth tilted so this time of year, and this time every October it began to turn the cafe away from the light yet again. Her tea had gone cold. Twice she'd dozed off. Her mind took her far away on memories of her father practicing English in front of the mirror, of her mother fussing over his failure to fuss, of her grandfather's cufflinks rolling their circles on the dresser.

Myra prayed. For her parents, for the boy whose bullet found her sitting there, for the man in the corner booth who finally ate inside, for this moment.

She sighed and began to pray with her eyes open to fight sleep. She pulled her elbows up on the counter, bowed her head.

***

After Blaine seated all her customers, she took the long way back. "Ms. Myra?" The hair on her forearms turned at the touch of sun. "Ms. Myra -- Miles told me not to bother, but, ma'am?" Blaine saw her mouth; she knew.

Miles let his impatience show for a moment when he rang the bell and Blaine didn't come -- then he saw her at Ms. Myra's window, her eyes on him. He rushed from the kitchen. Those who had been simply eating a moment before were now frozen mid bite, were now concerned because Miles had run by.

He knew as soon as his apron strings settled at his sides. He let his hand rest on her shoulder, and he turned his body toward the full cafe. Slowly, he looked everyone in the eyes. Even Anthony.

And as sometimes happens, everyday moments became ceremonial; this time, however, those sitting and those standing in The Downtown Cafe understood, and so they turned and looked upon Miles -- all of them, and no silverware clinked and no plates rattled and no feet shuffled -- and they watched as the last bit of sunlight trailed itself over her; one by one they came, they came, still not making a sound, and they filed past their Ms. Myra.