forgotten Rain

The bell over Rooster’s II gave one thin jingle. Heat rolled through the open door and settled across Mama Bear’s shoulders. The chilled glass of the pie case clouded along one edge. She waited for the door to swing shut, let out a long breath, then looked up.

The man stopped inside the doorway with one boot across the threshold. The skin around his eyes had cracked into narrow creases, like dry ground that’d forgotten rain. The sun had cured his cheeks to the color of old saddle leather.

He took off his cap.

A pocketknife appeared in his right hand, its bone handle worn smooth. He turned it once between his fingers, tucked it away, and slid into the booth beside the window. Sugar sand sifted from the welts of his boots onto the tile.

Nora reached across the counter for a menu. Her black hair, unnaturally dark for a woman her age, was pulled back tight in a bun. The breakfast rush had worked a wisp loose. It tickled her cheekbone. Mama Bear poured coffee instead, handing it to her. “He needs this.” Nora carried him the cup, murmuring, “Sial ah.” Mama Bear smiled. “Thank you.”

Outside, an old pickup sat crooked between the lines. The passenger window was lowered half-mast. A leash, red, faded by the years, lay coiled on the seat, its brass clasp resting near the door, beside a dented water bowl.

Every so often his eyes went to the passenger seat without asking him first, the way a hand finds the switch in the dark.

Mama Bear topped off the cup. “What’re you eating?” He opened the menu. His eyes drifted across the pages without reading. “Whatever’s good.” Mama Bear glanced toward the kitchen, then back at him. “Meatloaf.” He nodded once. She worked the menu loose beneath his hand a finger’s width at a time and carried it away.

The man wrapped both hands around the mug. His knuckles were broad and scarred. White dust sat deep in the seams, past where soap could reach.

He drank.

Set it back in the same wet ring. Twisted the mug as if settling it into sand.

Mama Bear watched him glance toward the truck again.

When the plate came up, she carried it herself. Extra gravy. Potatoes. Green beans cooked past apology. A biscuit rested on the far edge of the plate. “I didn’t order that.” Mama Bear shrugged. “Biscuits don’t know that.” One corner of his mouth lifted. The other stayed put.

He ate slowly. Halfway through, his fork stopped. A pale dog hair clung to the front of his dusty Billabong shirt. He pinched it between two fingers, held it there, then tucked it beneath the edge of his plate. His fingers rested on the rim a moment longer.

Mama Bear turned toward the coffee station, water puddling in the crease of her eye. Nora cocked her head, tossing the loose hair from her face. Mama Bear cleared her throat.

Some things deserve the privacy of another person’s back.

When he finished, Mama Bear came back to the table. “Can I get you anything else? Maybe a slice of pie?” He glanced at the pie case, then shook his head. “No, ma’am. Just the check.” “Seven dollars.” He counted eight onto the table. Mama Bear slid one back. “I said seven.” He looked at the dollar, then closed his hand around it.

At the door, he stopped. Mama Bear watched him, the dish towel loose between her hands. “Hard going home to an empty house?” His eyes went to the passenger seat. The cracks around them deepened. “House was empty before.” He swallowed and put his cap back on. “Wasn’t lonely, though.” The bell gave another tired jingle.

The pickup lifted sand from the shoulder. Mama Bear watched it disappear into the afternoon until the heat folded over the road behind it. Nora came alongside her. “You think he’ll be all right?” Mama Bear turned back to the ticket rail and straightened two orders. The bell gave one thin jingle behind them. She reached for the coffee pot. “Hard to tell.”