All in One Place (6 page)

N
eck, Sore.

Awareness seeped into my mind as my body slowly became cognizant of where each part lay. One leg hanging onto the floor. Arm
twisted underneath. Blankets askew.

A couch. A living room. Leslie's house.

And then all the events of yesterday brushed away any remnants of sleep with an abrupt hand.

I glanced at the clock, whose ticking had kept me awake half the night. I thought Dan would have been up at first light slopping
hogs, gathering eggs, feeding cows, or whatever it was farmers did at the crack of dawn, but so far it seemed as if the entire
household still slept.

Within a few minutes, I had the blankets folded and my clothes packed up again. I slipped my coat on and then my backpack.
Time to go.

Remembering Leslie's admonition about communication, I tried to find a pen and some paper, but all I managed to scrounge up
was an envelope from a utility company and a worn pencil.

What eloquence could I fit on a 4 × 11—inch piece of paper?

“I'm leaving to make my fortune to pay you back”?

“Sorry about the money. I'm going to make some more”?

“Bye”?

“Where are you going, Auntie Terra?”

I slapped my hand over my mouth, stifling the scream that jumped into my throat.

Anneke stood in the doorway, hugging a tiny body dwarfed by an old ratty sweater covering a faded flannel nightgown. Her hair
was a nest of wispy blond, and her cheek still held the sleep imprint of a hand.

“Are you going away?”

I nodded.

“You aren't going to stay?” I saw a glint of moisture at the corner of her eye. Her lips pooched out in a pout that made Angelina
Jolie look positively thin-lipped.

I remembered from previous visits that Anneke could turn on the tears and the accompanying drama quicker than a director could
holler, “Action.”.

I dropped my knapsack and ran to her side, hoping I could forestall the coming storm that would probably wake my sister. “It's
okay, honey,” I said, holding her little body close to me. In spite of the woolly sweater, her shoulders poked through the
knit like little knobs of wood, giving her a vulnerability that made my heart clench.

“Anneke, honey, I'm only going to Harland.”

“But I want you to stay here,” she cried, her voice muffled as her tears dampened my neck.

You're one of the Jew,
I thought, indulging in a moment of self-pity.
Poor Terra Froese. The people you want don't want you, and Eric, who you don't want, does want you.

“I'm just going to Harland,” I whispered again.

Anneke sniffed and pulled back, wiping her nose with the heel of her hand. “Will you come and visit us?”

I smoothed her sleep-snarled hair back from her face. “Of course I will, honey.”

“Then you can bring me candy.” She gave me a watery smile. “You didn't bring me and Nicholas a present. Karl and Femmelies
brought us presents.”

The innocent words piled yet another brick on my back. “Maybe next time I come…” I was as lousy at this auntie thing as I
was at the sister thing.

Anneke wiped her hand over the stomach of her nightie, rumpling the ghostly pattern of a tiny horse.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

Anneke ran her hand over her nightgown with a proprietary gesture. “My mommy had it.”

She had it because one day our mother decided that we needed new pajamas and we were allowed to pick them out ourselves. Leslie's
had flowers; mine had horses. Then we went to McDonald's for lunch, and we were allowed to order burgers and milk shakes and
fries. I remember our mother laughing out loud that day. I remember that her eyes were clear and her breath fresh and her
smile pure and lovely.

Every time Leslie and I wore those pajamas, the memory of that day was like a beacon in the darker days when our mother was
not cheerful or fun or lucid.

I wondered where Mom was and what she was doing. Leslie seemed content with her new life and with Wilma as her “mom.” But
I wasn't as able to dismiss our mom from my life. Now and again, I would wonder if she was happy, if she had found someone
to take care of her. Wonder if she had put herself in as bad a situation as I had.

“I used to wear that nightgown, you know,” I whispered, caressing her tiny shoulder with my hand.

“Mommy said you liked it the bestest of all your clothes.”

I claimed the memory like a greedy gold digger seeing the flash of gold in a pan. Leslie had shared a piece of our childhood
with her children. A connection. “I wanted to wear it to school, but my mommy wouldn't let me.”

“Where is your mommy?”

Funny how those innocent words could hold so much. My mommy was as much of a grandma to her as Wilma was, but she didn't see
any connection.

“I don't know where she is, sweetheart.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Did you know that my mommy is your grandma too?”

Anneke shook her head as she frowned. “I have a gramma. Oma Wilma. Mommy says she's a good gramma.” Anneke delivered the information
in a matter-of-fact tone that neatly sheared away any bit of family connection I shared with Anneke, Nicholas, and Leslie.

“I'm sure she is,” was all I could squeeze out. I heard the floor creaking upstairs. Time to go. I gave Anneke another smile,
then brushed her soft cheek with a kiss. “Tell your mommy that Auntie Terra says she's sorry.”

Anneke's head bounced up and down as if passing on apologies from a little-known aunt was a perfectly normal event.

“Can I lay on the couch?” she asked. I quickly tucked her in, then before the household came to complete wakefulness, I scooted
out of the house. In the distance I heard the faint rumble of a truck, and I jogged down the road, knowing that if I didn't
catch it, my chances for a ride would be pretty slim.

H
elp wanted.

We'll see how badly they want help,
I thought, adjusting my knapsack as I stared at the sign posted on the window of the Harland Café. Luckily, the first ride
I got this morning had brought me most of the way back to Harland. But I'd been on my feet the rest of the day, looking for
gainful employment.

I was in an awkward situation. I couldn't use my previous references because one of them was Eric and the other was a friend
of his, which created a three-year gap in my résumé that caused more questions I didn't feel like dancing around.

I needed someone who was not just willing but
desperate
to hire me. After hearing too many “No openings” or “Not hiring,” all delivered with a suspicious look when I balked at supplying
a résumé, I was finally thrown a bone. The young salesclerk at True Value Hardware told me the Harland Café, across from the
sheriff's office, was hiring.

I so did
not
want to be a waitress again.

But Dan's voice kept resonating in my mind. To pay Leslie back I needed work, and judging from the sign on the door, the diner
needed help.

It was a match made in Harland.

I hitched my knapsack over my shoulder and pushed open the glass door of the restaurant as the tinkling bell announced my
entrance.

The diner was one of those authentic frozen-in-time establishments that big cities try unsuccessfully to emulate.

Mismatched chairs were pushed haphazardly around tables that sat too close together, making navigating the restaurant with
a full order an exercise in agility.

A few tiles were coming loose in the floor. On the wall beside me hung a bulletin board—every square inch of it papered with
notices and items for sale, some hanging by a pin, others tucked into the edges of the wood. From the faded look of some of
them, they'd survived a few presidential administrations.

In the past, I had donned my waitressing apron when no other job was available—like now—but most of the places I'd worked
easily had more class than this and were much cleaner and quieter.

Willie Nelson was wailing on the radio, and though it was two thirty, traditionally dead-time for restaurants, conversation
from a variety of patrons filled the gaps. The smiles and laughter from the people hunched over the tables nursing coffee
and digging into flaky homemade pies made me think this could be a good place to work.

I walked to the counter just as a middle-aged waitress scurried past me, her face flushed and her hair slipping out of the
ponytail that should have been tightened seventeen hamburgers ago.

Her tired look told me she wished I would go somewhere else to order coffee.

“Table for one?” she asked, reaching for a menu without breaking stride.

“Actually, I've come to talk to someone about the help-wanted sign.”

She skidded to a halt. “You're a waitress?” Her whole body wilted in relief. “Do you have experience?”

“I know how to eighty-six an unwelcome customer and how to pump the food out when the restaurant is hopping.”

“You need to talk to Lennie.” She dropped the menu on the counter and caught me by the arm, dragging me to the back of the
restaurant. “He's over there,” she said, pushing me toward a door that opened into an office not much larger than a broom
closet. “And don't pay attention to his muttering. He's harmless.”

A large man, whose wobbling cheeks and protruding stomach made me wonder if he had enjoyed a few too many of the restaurant's
fries and pies, hunched over an old oak desk as covered with papers as the bulletin board out front. He stared at the flickering
computer screen in front of him. I guessed this was Lennie. He wore a stained apron, and what was left of his gray hair had
been combed over to cover a shining bald spot. A pair of worn loafers lay haphazardly on the floor beside the desk.

“Yes, I want to do this! No, I don't want to send an error report.” He stabbed at a button on the keyboard. “Just do what
I say, you stupid machine.”

I cleared my throat and took a step closer.

“Don't even think about closing on me. No. No. No.” His large hand slapped the side of the monitor in time to each exclamation.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly, knocking lightly on the wood door.

Lennie's head jerked upward and swiveled from side to side, his comb-over listing to starboard.

“Hello,” I said again, stepping a little farther into the office.

His bloodshot eyes made him look as if he'd been on an all-nighter. “Whaddya want?” he asked, sniffing deeply and rubbing
his eyes.

“I've come about your job opening.”

Lennie leaned back in his chair, scratching his stomach. His fingernails were bitten to the quick and stained with tobacco.
A thin rime of something I didn't want to know about edged his mouth.

I mentally backpedaled, then hit a wall. My “escape fund” needed to be replenished. I needed to pay back Leslie and find a
way to support myself while I was stuck here. This job was my last resort.

“Have you worked as a waitress before?”

I nodded.

“You know anything about computers?”

“A bit.”

“I need more than a bit. But I need a waitress more.” He blinked, then pushed his chair backward with one stocking foot. With
his other, he hooked the wooden chair nearby and pulled it in front of him.

“Come in. Sit down,” he said. “Shut the door behind you.”

I shut out images from a thousand television shows and movies. This would be where the music got spooky if trouble was afoot…

But this wasn't TV. It was my life, and no one knew I was here.

Lennie must have sensed my hesitation. “You can leave the door open if you want. Doesn't matter.”

I left it open, sitting on the chair and slipping my backpack onto my lap.

Lennie sniffed again, scrubbing at his face with the palms of his hands before leaning back in his chair. “Tell me about your
other jobs.”

“I've worked in a couple of hotels, a few lounges, some restaurants. I've done office work for a lawyer and worked as a bank
teller.”

Lennie nodded and scratched his chin with one finger. “What's your name?”

I told him.

“You live around here?”

“I'm new to town.”

“Helen, the other waitress here, might be looking for a roomie. Her friend moved out. Got married.” Lennie sniffed and scratched
again. “When can you start?”

“As soon as you need me.”

“I needed you yesterday.”

“So you don't need any references?”

“You ever been in trouble with the law?”

The question sent my heart diving into my stomach. Did my short time in the Harland County Jail across the street count?

And how small was this small town? Would he find out anyway?

“It's okay. If you don't work out, you'll hit the road, curly.” Lennie yawned and pushed himself out of the chair. “I gotta
get ready for the dinner rush. You got a clean white shirt in there?” He pointed at my knapsack.

I couldn't help but glance at his apron. He caught the direction of my gaze and rubbed his hands over the grease spots that
liberally dotted the slightly gray apron. “This doesn't ever leave the back. But you, you need to look your best. So, is it
clean?”