Oasis of Night (2 page)

 

 

Y
OU
WOULDN
'
T
think it even gets hot in a place like this, but let me tell you, brother—it does. Around about the middle of July, the fog clears away and the sun comes out, hot enough—as they say around these parts—to split the rocks. It's a different sort of place, not like anywhere I'd ever been before, but when you have to leave home as suddenly as I did, you don't much care. You just pick a direction on the map and head out, hoping things turn out okay. Twelve hundred miles as the crow flies to St. John's, Newfoundland, from my hometown of Philadelphia. I slept nearly the whole way, never mind the roaring of the airplane engines. Some things hit harder than others, and I'd been dealt a knockout punch.

When we landed at the airstrip in the little town called Torbay, I felt like I'd come to the end of the world. Nothing much to see except trees—black spruce and tamarack and scrub pines—and the red gravel airstrip. I got out of my seat and climbed down, stiff and sore and feeling like I'd been run down by a truck. I guess I was still in shock a little bit. The air was colder than I was used to—even Philadelphia winters didn't have this kind of soggy bite. All I wanted was to get inside the little terminal and maybe get a cup of coffee. I had five hundred bucks, American, in my wallet, a passport, and a copy of my discharge papers from the Army. I guess I should have felt ashamed, because here was Hitler, stomping his jack-booted way across Europe, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Unfit for active service.
Yeah, that's me, thirty-eight years old and already broken beyond repair.

This—all of this—was just a blur to me. I was seeing other streets and hearing a different accent, and I was walking into Moe's first thing in the morning for a cup of joe, sitting down at the counter to look over the newspaper before I went outside and took a sharp left toward the waterfront. Maybe that's what drew me to this place, the promise of cold salt air and the tang of the sea in my nostrils, the bustle of the waterfront, and ships coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I loved the idea that I could do the same, just go whenever I wanted to, anywhere I liked, and not have to answer to anybody. If I felt like it, I could hop a freighter to some other place and work my way across the world.

It was something Moe and I had talked a lot about, whenever I was in there.
You thinking of going somewhere?
He'd always refill my coffee cup without my having to ask, and I'd always leave a tip.
Thinking of leaving old Philly, huh?

Right up until the last of it, I wasn't sure. Even after it happened, I figured I could just keep on the way I was, doing all the things I'd been doing. I figured I was strong enough to take it, right up until I stood on the Delaware River Bridge one morning, looking down into the swirling water and wondering if I had the nerve.

You want to know what stopped me?

Egypt. Yeah, you heard me, Egypt. See, I'd always wanted to go, and standing there on the bridge with the wind whipping me around, I figured if I followed through with what I had in mind, I'd never get to go. I'd never get to see the pyramids and ride a camel and do all that stupid, touristy stuff that people do. Pretty dumb, huh? Maybe, but it was enough to get me down off the bridge before the cops came, and it was enough to make me understand that if I ever wanted to see the pyramids at Giza or stroll the native quarter in Cairo, I had to get out of Philly. I had to go somewhere far away and try my best to forget.

“Passport?” She was young and pretty, the girl behind the counter, with dark red hair worn in rolls at the sides of her head. She smiled at me like she meant it. “Welcome to Newfoundland, Mr. Stoyles. If you follow that corridor and turn right, there are taxis out front to take you into town.”

“Is it….” Goddammit, it was starting again. I took a deep breath and tried to get ahold of myself. “Is it far, into town? I have a room booked at the hotel, I just….” I fumbled in my pockets and found the scrap of paper. “Yeah, I have a room at this hotel downtown.”

She looked it—and me—over and smiled again. She sure was pretty—and nice, in that way women hardly ever are anymore. She looked at me like she was interested in more than how much money I had on me or where I was likely to go in life, once the war was over. That was something I didn't even know myself.

Listen, Jack—why don't you come up to Newfoundland with me? They're building all kinds of stuff up there, and the whole place is ripe for the picking.
Frankie Missalo, an old Army buddy of mine; we'd both joined up long before the whole thing went to hell at Pearl Harbor. Only thing was, he'd stayed in while I'd gotten kind of… waylaid.
Lots of Army contractors up there, and lots of Yanks like us needing somewhere to get a proper cup of coffee. Come on! Ain't you always said you wanted to have your own place?

So I did what he said and bought my ticket, and here I was. All I wanted now was to live a quiet life, waiting out the war to the best of my ability and minding my own business. I wasn't interested in anything but that.

 

 

I
SPENT
three days at the hotel while Frankie and I scouted around for an empty space downtown. I'd just about given up hope when a real gem came on the market, a little storefront with lots of room for chairs and tables and a piano. The space was longer than it was broad, and flared out nicely toward the back. Already I was making mental nips and tucks, adding a pot of flowers here, some ornaments and paintings there, and over here, the bar, with its rows of bottles and a big mirror behind it. I found a cash register for cheap at a consignment store, and when Frankie showed up with a truckload of cafe chairs and tables, I didn't ask him any unnecessary questions. I just got busy moving in.

“Whatcha gonna call it, Jack?” Frankie spread his hands out in front of him and squinted. “Whatcha want's a big sign, neon lettering. Jack's Cafe.”

“Naw, that's been done. I want something that people are gonna stop for, something that'll really bring 'em in.” I slung a towel over my shoulder and came out from behind the bar. “Something catchy, you know?”

“Yeah.” Frankie shook his head and then lit a cigarette. “Something like Moe's Place?”

I faked a punch at his jaw. “Keep it up, mug.” We both laughed. “How about a beer?” I couldn't stop touching the shiny brass taps; it was hard for me to believe this was my place, my very own.

“You, ah….” Frankie's eyes skidded away from mine. “You having one, Jack?”

“Nope.” I got a glass for him. “What'll it be?”

“Whatever you got's none too good for me.” He sat at a table near the bar and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “So here you are, Jack! Lock, stock, and barrel, huh? An honest-to-God property owner.” He thanked me for the beer as I sat down. “How much trouble they give you about the license?”

“You kidding me?” I sipped from the glass of ice water I'd poured for myself. “They couldn't give it to me fast enough. Anybody woulda thought I was the Second Coming or something.”

Frankie, a lifelong Catholic, grimaced. “Yeah, cut that, okay?” He glanced around and nervously raked a hand through his sandy hair. “Don't be bringing bad luck on yourself before you've even started.”

I didn't answer him. Yeah, I'd been brought up in the Church too, but it never stuck on me the way it stuck to Frankie. I've known him since we were kids, when he was serving at mass and singing in the choir. He wasn't what I'd call superstitious, but he sure had a healthy respect for the church.

“So tomorrow's the big day?” He set the beer glass down.

“Yeah. Tomorrow's the big day.” I spread my arms wide. “Welcome to the Heartache Cafe.”

 

 

T
HE
COLD
,
wet winter of 1941 wore on into spring, and I began to loosen up and enjoy myself a little bit. What Frankie had said was true, I'd always wanted to have my own place, and it was fun being lord of my own little manor, such as it was.

I spent that whole winter making improvements to the Cafe, the kinds of little touches customers appreciate, the things that keep them coming back. I put in a piano so anyone who wanted to play could, and refurbished the tiny kitchen at the rear so I could serve hot sandwiches, fries, hamburgers, and things like that. I stocked the jukebox in the corner with all the latest tunes, and I made sure to get new records in as soon as they came out.

St. John's was a small city compared to Philadelphia, and word began to get around that there was a place downtown on Water Street to get a genuine cup of real American coffee. Pretty soon every Yank in the place was making it a habit to pile into the Cafe after work, sometimes for a bite to eat, sometimes for just a glass of beer.

I opened at noon each day, and the Cafe stayed open until midnight or sometimes later, depending on how business was going. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I offered a lunchtime special, and that got quite a few of the office girls in the door for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Friday usually meant the best business of the week, because all the wartime contractors working in the city were turned loose with plenty of money in their pockets and an itch to spend it, and I was only too happy to take their dough. I didn't mind the work, and I didn't mind staying late. It wasn't like I had to go far to get home. I'd furnished the nice little suite of rooms above the Cafe with everything I needed, and it was plenty cozy up there. Maybe I wasn't exactly happy, but I was content, and brother, that was good enough for me.

Pretty soon, though, the trickle of customers increased, and what had once been a nice, steady pace soon became too much for me to handle. It got so busy that I didn't even have time to go to the bathroom, and most nights I didn't get out of there till well after midnight. I put a Help Wanted sign in the Cafe window and hoped for the best. I had a few tentative inquiries, mostly from local boys, eager to try the bar trade but just as eager for the free booze they figured was a fringe benefit—nobody I'd trust to watch the place while I took a lunch break or ran to the bank with the day's deposits. I'd just about given up hope of finding anybody at all.

I was sitting at a front table by the windows one day, taking advantage of some spare time to square away the books and settle my accounts for the week. What I resented about accounting work—everything—was nicely balanced by my sense of satisfaction. The Heartache Cafe had finally begun to turn a real profit, and my bank account was starting to bulk up a little. It seemed like things might turn around for me, that leaving Philadelphia wasn't such a bad idea after all, and maybe I could make a life for myself in this strange place. The town was even starting to grow on me. The people were really friendly, kind beyond what I expected, and if their odd accents made me guess a little at what they were trying to say, I didn't mind so much. Hell, my Philly accent wasn't exactly kosher either.

I didn't hear the tap on the front door until it reached a certain volume. I was nursing a headache, the result of too little sleep. Around two I'd awakened with a scream dying in my throat and the last vestiges of a nightmare clinging to my back like some hellish succubus. I'd come downstairs to the Cafe and sat for a while in the dark, sipping a cup of coffee and shivering. The row of bottles behind the bar winked at me in the moonlight, and maybe I considered it—hell yeah, I considered it. I'd even gone behind there and touched them all, read their names out loud. I selected a glass and held it underneath the spigot before I came to my senses.

“Hey! Anybody home?”

I got the door unlocked and let him in. He was about my height, maybe thirty years old, with a lean, pale face and the kind of big, dark eyes that hinted at all kinds of secrets. He was ridiculously good-looking, the kind of guy that'd set the hearts of office girls aflutter for miles around, and there were dimples in his cheeks.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Stoyles. I'm Chris—Chris DuBois. From New Orleans, although you probably can't tell. I been gone awhile.” His hands were big, warm, and very clean, and when he shook my hand, his grip was just right—not so weak as to be effeminate, but he didn't try to strong-arm me either. I can't stand a guy who shakes hands like he's trying to break my wrist. Mr. DuBois tossed his jacket over a chair and looked around the place, and already it seemed like he belonged. He wore his clothes like he'd been born in them, but it wasn't cocky self-assurance. He was simply… comfortable. “How many taps you got?”

“Uh, four for right now. I'm planning on expanding later on.”

“Good.” He went behind the bar and examined the rows of liquor bottles, counted the glasses. “You need more highball glasses, especially if you got girls coming in here. Women like them kinds of drinks with cherries and stuff.” He opened the refrigerator and looked over the contents, murmuring to himself. “Not bad, not bad. You serve food?”