The American Café Read online

  The American Café

  Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA PRESS

  TUCSON

  The University of Arizona Press

  © 2011 Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  All rights reserved

  www.uapress.arizona.edu

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hoklotubbe, Sara Sue, 1952–

  The American café / Sara Sue Hoklotubbe.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8165-2922-3 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Restaurateurs—Fiction. 2. Restaurateurs—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Cherokee women—Fiction. 5. Oklahoma—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.O4828A44 2011

  813'.6—dc22

  2010046946

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the United States of America on acid-free, archival-quality paper containing a minimum of 30 percent post-consumer waste and processed chlorine free.

  16 15 14 13 12 11 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-0-8165-2123-4 (electronic)

  For Eddie, my source of joy and inspiration, with love

  Acknowledgments

  Grateful appreciation goes to Gloria McCarty for her help with the Muscogee Creek language and her kind words of encouragement; and to Dennis Sixkiller and Wynema Smith for sharing their knowledge of Cherokee language and culture. Any errors in Native language are entirely mine. I am thankful for Judith Lee Soriano, who so generously lent her expertise to my manuscript; Pam Daoust, whose friendship and writing advice are beyond measure; Brandi Barnett, Linda Boyden, and Martha Bryant, who kindly gave of their time to lend fresh eyes to my work and make helpful suggestions; Mary Ellen Cooper, who inspired me to write mysteries and then left this earth before I had a chance to say good-bye; the Cherokee Nation Adult Choir and the Etchieson Indian Church Choir in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, who taught me to sing Cherokee hymns; my aunt Vera Youngblood Robertson, who is now baking bread in heaven, for her unconditional love, secret recipes, and principles of generosity; Patti Hartmann, acquiring editor, who believed in me enough to give me a second chance; the entire staff at the University of Arizona Press; and of course, Eddie, my loving husband, without whose constant cheerleading and loving support this book would never have been written.

  Prologue

  Goldie Ray knew she didn't have long to live, but she wasn't going to sit around and mope about it. Instead, she poured a second cup of coffee, stirred in a double helping of cream and sugar, and let the screen door bounce shut behind her as she made her way onto the back porch. The heady fragrance of a nearby honeysuckle bush enveloped her as she lowered herself into an old wicker chair, propped her feet on an empty flower-pot, and balanced the antique cup and saucer on her knee. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and smiled. What a beautiful day.

  As she sipped from the gold-rimmed cup, she savored the taste of the fresh coffee. Holding the cup close, she used her thumbnail to outline the design of the fragile yellow rose painted on the side. The world looked different to her now as she had suddenly come to appreciate life's smaller joys. Natural, she supposed, when staring at one's own mortality.

  A nuthatch landed on the feeder, picked at the seeds, then fluttered into the Oklahoma sky. Two hummingbirds zoomed through the air above her head and then disappeared. Goldie set her cup and saucer on the floor, walked to one of two hummingbird feeders hanging from the porch ceiling, and examined it. Satisfied that the flow of the ruby-red water remained unobstructed, she picked up her coffee and returned to her chair.

  The way Goldie understood it, the wall of her heart had a weak spot that could explode any time—an unpredictable aneurysm. The young heart doctor with deplorable bedside manners had painted a hopeless picture, estimating a less than favorable chance of surviving surgery at her age. However, without it, he had said, her heart would give out soon. She would simply collapse and die.

  Doctors don't know everything.

  Goldie believed if it was her time to go, she'd simply go. She planned neither to waste money on an unpromising surgical procedure, nor spend her last days debilitated, lying in a hospital bed the way her father had done. Instead, she would opt for the unorthodox philosophy of living life to the fullest—to the very end.

  Goldie didn't plan to tell anyone, including her sister Emma, about her plight. No one needed to know. She had already taken care of everything. She had prepaid her funeral years ago, and her one and only bank account didn't have enough money in it to worry about. She had deeded her house to the only living person she cared about and had sold her beloved café. And finally, when Emma arrived, they would release the ugly secret harbored for entirely too long. Then Goldie could relax and enjoy what little time she had left.

  Her daily rituals hadn't changed for more than thirty-six years, but from this day forward someone else's hands would knead and punch pounds of yeast dough to yield dozens of pull-apart rolls. Some other person would roll out the pie crusts and sweeten the fruit filling to another's taste. Today she would sit on her porch and watch the sun peek over the trees, drink strong coffee, and delight in the melodies of the birds.

  The restaurant had consumed Goldie's life for so long that the newfound freedom offered up by empty days seemed strange. She could hardly wait for Emma to show up. They would celebrate with a feast and bottle of pink champagne set aside for this special occasion. Then they would be off on an adventure. She had always wanted to see the Smoky Mountains, and that's where they would go. Goldie had made her peace with God. Now all she wanted to do was make up for lost time with her older sister.

  Goldie took another sip. She liked Sadie, the Cherokee woman who had purchased the café. When they met, they connected as if they'd known each other their entire lives. Goldie shook her head and thought about how Sadie had made an offer to buy the café.

  It all happened so fast.

  It was as if the young woman had somehow known exactly what she needed.

  Maybe she is an angel sent by God.

  Sadie said she would come by and visit this morning. When she did, Goldie planned to share some of her secret recipes, something she wouldn't have done for just anyone. Goldie held the warm cup to her face and smiled again.

  It feels right, and that's important.

  Thoughts about Sadie ended abruptly with a deafening blast. A powerful thud in the middle of Goldie's back propelled her forward with excruciating pain. She tumbled in slow, uncontrollable, and soundless motion as the yellow rose on her delicate cup hit the porch and broke into three pieces, splashing coffee across the wooden floor. For a split second she saw birds flying in all directions, squirrels fleeing the grassy yard for the safety of high tree branches.

  God, help me!

  She felt a nail in the wooden boards of the porch tear her face as the early morning sunshine pierced the air around her. Dimly, she sensed the flight of a hummingbird as it zipped into the dead air, hovered nearby, chirped furiously, and flew away.

  Who is it?

  She tried to turn her head to glimpse who or what had done this to her, but she could no longer see. A blinding white light came toward her, engulfed her, and swallowed her pain.

  Why?

  In the distance, she heard someone speak of being sorry just before her spirit rose from the earth. For an instant, she felt forgiveness toward her assailant as she floated on eagles' wings, saw the face of the one she loved, and was gone.

  1

  On July 23, 2003, a few days after celebrating her thirty-sixth birthday, Sadie Walela beg
an a new chapter in her life. It had been one year to the day since she sat in a country cemetery mourning the loss of a little girl named Soda Pop and lamenting the course of her own life. When she later received an unexpected windfall from a life insurance policy, she used most of the money to fund a foundation for kids like Soda Pop who couldn't afford health care and set aside the rest to finance her new adventure.

  She had always wanted to own a café, a desire instilled in her as a child from the stories of the café her great-aunt had owned during World War II. Sadie pulled a photo out of her pocket and gazed at the image of her great-aunt Vera in a white apron standing on the sidewalk in front of a large plate-glass window, the name “The American Café” painted in ornate, red-and-white letters behind her.

  Both Vera and the café had passed on by the time Sadie was born, but everyone said Sadie resembled Vera in appearance and personality, so she kept the worn recipe books and her great-aunt's handwritten instructions for all of her culinary delights in hopes of following in her great-aunt's footsteps. That day had finally arrived.

  Sadie had decided to carry on her aunt's legacy of the American Café and hoped the painter would be able to reproduce the red-and-white letters on the front window. She slid the photo back into her pocket. Now she had to figure out what to do with the permanent menu fixed high on the wall.

  She walked to the middle of the empty café, placed her hands on her hips, and stared at the menu. “Let's see,” she mumbled. “Liver and onions, meatloaf, fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, and catfish.” She rubbed her chin and continued talking to herself. “What would we do without southern comfort food? I think we can do without liver and onions, but meatloaf might be okay since I've got Vera's meatloaf recipe. We should have ham and beans.” She tapped her foot on the floor, weighing her options.

  Then on the other hand, she thought, why not start out with a variety of custom-made burgers served with a choice of onion rings, regular fries, or her favorite: sweet potato fries. Everybody loves hamburgers. Standing on her tiptoes, she pried at the bottom corner of the menu, trying to loosen its ancient grip on the old brick wall.

  A man's voice came from the corner of the room. “You must be the new owner.”

  Startled, she jerked her hand away from the menu and stumbled backward. Her heart raced when she looked toward the stranger, his face obscured in the early morning shadows. A ray of light filtered through the plate-glass window behind him.

  “Geez, you about gave me a heart attack,” she said. “Are you the painter my uncle called?”

  The man calmly removed his hat and placed it on the stool next to him. His face remained hidden in the shadows. “You're not going to change the menu, are you?”

  Sadie slowly exhaled. Her eyes had finally adjusted to the glare of the window, and she could tell her visitor appeared to be an Indian man in his early sixties. He had a slight build, gray hair, and an infectious smile. He looked like someone the neighborhood kids would gather around to tug at his pant legs until he gave them each a piece of candy or lucky coin.

  As she walked toward him, she smoothed a wisp of shiny black hair from her face and offered her hand. “I'm Sadie Walela,” she said.

  “Eto-Catuce.” He took her hand. “But you can call me Red.” His clear eyes reminded Sadie of the sky on a moonless night.

  “Say it again,” she requested. “That's not Cherokee, is it?”

  “Edo Chah-doo-chee.” He emphasized the pronunciation for her and then added, “Muscogee Creek.” The wrinkles deepened in his weathered face and his eyes flashed as he grinned. “You're taking over the place? What are you going to paint?”

  “Yes, I need the new name painted on the front window.” Sadie fished for the photo in her pocket.

  “What's the new name?”

  Sadie laid the photo on the counter in front of him. “The American Café. Can you do it just like it is in the picture?”

  “Not me. I don't paint.”

  She could feel the warmth rising to her cheeks. “You're not here to paint the window, are you?”

  “Nope. Just anxious for the café to open back up. Why did you name it the American Café? Why not the Indian Café? Or, how about the Cherokee Café?” His face took on a mischievous grin. “This is Cherokee country, and you look like you might be Cherokee.”

  Sadie replaced the photo in her pocket. “If you're not the painter, then who are you?”

  “Told you already,” he said. “Red.”

  Red seemed an unlikely name for an Indian. “You guessed right,” she said. “I'm Cherokee. Where'd you get a name like Red?”

  He nodded. “Eto-Catuce means Red Stick in Creek.”

  “Oh, okay. Nice to meet you, Red. I named it the American Café in honor of an ancestor.” Dismissing the man, she returned to the middle of the café and began to eye the menu again. “Thanks for stopping by,” she said, “but I'm not quite open for business yet.” She hoped he would take the hint and leave.

  “You want me to make the coffee?” he asked. “People are going to be here soon.” No sooner had he finished his statement than the front door opened and three men in worn overalls entered. They each nodded silent greetings to Red, took their seats, placed their arms on the counter, and looked at Sadie.

  “Are one of you guys the painter?” she asked.

  The men exchanged puzzled looks and all three shook their heads.

  “Well, then, I'm sorry, but I'm not serving food. The café's not open. The only reason the door is unlocked is because I'm expecting a painter.”

  The man in the middle spoke first. “That's okay, Miss,” he said. “We heard you were here and came by to see what you looked like. Figured we could run a pot of coffee if nothing else. Goldie always lets us make our own coffee.”

  The man next to him removed his cap blazoned with the Farmer's Coop emblem and nodded at Sadie. “I'd be proud to do the honors.”

  Sadie didn't know what to say. This was only her second trip to the café since she had closed on the deal. She had made this trip to do some cleaning and meet the painter. She certainly hadn't counted on so many folks taking such an overly friendly interest in her project. She shrugged her shoulders, not troubling to hide her irritation at the distraction these determined customers were creating. “I don't even know if I have coffee.”

  The second man slid around the end of the counter and pulled out a box of coffee packets from an underneath shelf. With a toothy grin he said, “Yes, ma'am, we've got coffee. May I?” He held open the palms of his hands. “They're clean. I just washed up before we came.”

  “Well, I guess.” Sadie reluctantly nodded.

  He pulled a packet of coffee from the box and placed it strategically in the strainer, then hit the red button on the front of the brewer and waited. Moments later, steaming coffee spewed into the waiting pot. The man returned to his seat and the conversation resumed.

  The man in the middle spoke again. “My name is Virgil Wilson,” he said. “These are my two boys, Barney and Junior. Moved here from Arkansas and bought the old sawmill at the edge of town last year.”

  “Sadie Walela,” she said and offered her hand.

  “Walela.” Virgil shook her hand, then repeated her name as if trying to get the pronunciation just right. “What kind a name's that?”

  “Cherokee. Means hummingbird in Cherokee.”

  “She's pretty as a hummingbird, too, isn't she?” Red winked at her and grinned.

  Virgil smiled and nodded. “We're on our morning break and thought we'd stop by on the outside chance you might be open.”

  Sadie looked at the teapot-shaped clock on the wall. If the old timepiece was right, it was barely past seven o'clock. “You must have started pretty early if it's already time for a break.”

  “Yes, ma'am. We like to start splitting logs around five-thirty before it gets too hot, so by now we're ready for chow. We've been eating down at the Home Café since Goldie closed, but they can't cook anything like Goldie. Can y
ou cook?”

  “Well of course I can cook. It runs in my blood.” She glanced at the menu. “I'm not sure about keeping those particular items on the menu, but we'll see.” She raised her finger for emphasis. “I'm a quick study and Goldie promised to go over everything with me.”

  The coffeepot squeaked as it finished its cycle, and Sadie pulled four cups from a nearby shelf, placed them on the counter, and started pouring. Carefully, she served the hot liquid to the three sawmill workers, then carried one cup to the end of the counter to Red, who had been quietly taking everything in.

  “Wado.” Red grinned as he spoke the Cherokee word of thanks. “May I have a saucer?”

  “Howa.” She answered without thinking, then stopped and turned toward him. “Hey, I thought you said you're a Creek.”

  He winked. “Multilingual.”

  Sadie rolled her eyes, then retrieved a saucer for him while the men at the counter swallowed their coffee so fast she wondered if it was even hot.

  Red placed the saucer under his cup and carefully spilled coffee into it. He set his cup on the counter, raised the saucer to his lips and slurped, then repeated the ritual.

  Before long, Virgil stopped talking and stood, signaling the end of the break for his workers. As he reached into his pocket and dropped several bills onto the counter, the door to the café burst open and a woman stormed inside.

  Gray hair escaped from the bun on top of her head and floated in the air around her pink wrinkled face. She wore a sweat-stained, long-sleeved blouse and a long skirt that fell to the top of her boots. With squinty eyes and tight lips, she raised her left hand and stuck out a bony finger. “I know who you are, young lady, and I'm not going to let you reopen this godforsaken den of sin. You hear me?”

  Perplexed by the woman's words, Sadie raised her chin and looked at her. “I'm sorry, I don't think we've met.”

  “Oh, get out of here, you old goat,” Virgil blared from behind Sadie.