The American Café Page 9

  “Nineteen sixty-seven?” asked Sadie. “She took over the café in sixty-seven?”

  Emma nodded. “She was barely out of school. Nineteen, I think. I couldn't imagine why she wanted to hang around here and work herself to death in a restaurant. But she loved it, and Mom and Dad were thrilled.”

  “That was the year I was born. Sixty-seven.”

  “Summer of love.”

  Sadie frowned. “What do you mean, summer of love?”

  “You know. Hippies. Flower children. Vietnam War protestors. They all got together in sixty-seven and called it the summer of love.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I was too old to take notice at the time. I was around twenty-seven or so and by then had been married for several years. I had my hands full taking care of a difficult husband and trying to raise three kids.” Emma glanced at Sadie. “My youngest arrived that year.”

  Sadie realized she had assumed Emma was alone in the world. “So, where is everybody? Why aren't they here with you? Do they know about Goldie? Why didn't they come to the funeral?” The questions tumbled out of Sadie's mouth before she could catch them.

  “Well,” said Emma. “I got rid of my husband twenty-four years ago after nineteen years of wedded misery. Just got fed up one day, packed my bags, and walked out. I've pretty much been on my own ever since. Anyway, he died almost ten years ago. I took early retirement last year from the county clerk's office.” She looked at Sadie and smiled. “Got tired of the bureaucracy.”

  “I can understand that. What about the kids?”

  “Oh, they're spread out from here to kingdom come. I hardly ever hear from them. Becky is the oldest. She's married to an oilman twice her age and lives in Saudi Arabia. I can't imagine why anyone would want to live there, can you?”

  Sadie smiled.

  “Jeff is the middle one. He lives in New York City and works for some insurance conglomerate. He's been married three times and travels all over the world. He drinks too much. I think he's got a girlfriend in every port.” She stopped for a moment as if choosing her words very carefully. “Rosalee is the youngest one. She's adopted. We took her in after her mother left her in the trash bin behind the café.” Emma raised her chin. “Her mother was an Indian woman. I saw her do it.”

  “Really? A Cherokee woman?” Sadie couldn't hide her surprise. “Did you try to stop her? Did you know her? It would be unusual for an Indian woman to abandon her baby. Family is so important to Indian people.”

  “Maybe she was an alcoholic, or on drugs.”

  “Maybe so, but even then, a family member would normally step in to take care of a baby.”

  “Well, I don't know nothing about that. But we treated that child like our very own all the years she was growing up. She doesn't really look Indian, so I think the father must have been white.”

  Sadie felt a surge of heat rising to her face. Abruptly, she stood.

  Emma looked surprised. “What's wrong?”

  Sadie walked to a nearby chair and slid into it. “It must have been hard for Rosalee growing up in a white family knowing she was half Indian, not knowing who her real mother and father were.”

  “Oh, no, honey.” Emma's voice took on a sound of alarm. “She doesn't know. We never told her she was adopted. And we would never tell her that her mother was Indian. We wanted her to be just like us.”

  “Hasn't she ever seen her birth certificate?”

  “It doesn't matter. We paid a lawyer to fix it. The original is sealed.” Emma pulled a tissue from her purse again and wiped her nose. “She won't ever know. She doesn't look too Indian.”

  “Did the tribe know about this?”

  “Nobody knows about it and nobody ever will. I don't know what possessed me to tell you. I guess I'm just overwhelmed today.”

  Sadie thought about her own struggle to be successful in a white world, her strained relationship with her white mother, and the good memories she had of her late Cherokee father. She didn't know which was worse, hiding the truth or trying to find it.

  “To make it worse, I have no idea where she is,” Emma continued. “She took up with a bad crowd, and the last time I heard from her she was in California.” She frowned and added, “Just because you got kids, honey, doesn't mean they're going to take care of you when you get old.”

  Sadie nodded. “I guess not.”

  “What about you, Sadie, don't you have a family? A woman your age surely has a husband and kids hanging around somewhere?”

  Sadie smiled, relieved the conversation was shifting away from Emma's wayward child. “No, nothing like that. I've got an aunt and uncle in Eucha. That's about it.” Sadie thought about her failed, short-lived marriage, a rebellious act to get away from her mother. “Unlucky when it comes to finding a husband, I guess. I'd love to have a house full of kids, but you can't do that without a husband.”

  Emma raised one eyebrow. “Oh yes you can, my dear. I've seen it happen with my very own eyes.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Well, when it's meant to be, honey, it'll be.” Emma stood, then stopped and turned toward Sadie. “If you'll have me, I'd like to stay on at the café, just for a while until I can decide what to do.”

  Sadie's eyes lit up. “Are you sure?”

  “I'm sure, honey. We'll make our own family.”

  13

  Doc Brown followed Lance Smith through the door that led to the holding cells. The public defender in Tahlequah had asked him to visit Pearl Mobley and conclude, based on his expert opinion, whether or not she was mentally competent. The report would help determine whether Pearl's confession to the murder of Goldie Ray would stand up in court. In the meantime, she would have to stay in Liberty because the Cherokee County Jail remained full.

  They approached Pearl's cell and Lance retrieved two folding chairs from against the wall. “Do you want to go in, or do you just want to observe from here?”

  Doc Brown set his briefcase on the floor, looked at Pearl, then at the empty surroundings. “This is fine. If you want to stay as a witness, you're more than welcome.”

  Lance nodded as he set up the chairs. “Okay.”

  “How're you doing today, Pearl?” asked the doctor.

  Pearl stuck out her chin. “If I say okay will you let me out of this stinking pigpen?”

  “I just need to ask you a few questions, Pearl. Are you willing to help me?”

  “Sure, what do you want to know? I already told the man in charge that I'd be glad to shoot her and I'm glad she's dead. I can go back to that hospital now.”

  “Okay, Pearl,” said the doctor. “What's your full name?”

  “My name's Pearl Elizabeth Mobley.”

  “Do you know what today's date is, Pearl?”

  “Oh, I don't know. Around the middle of July, I reckon. You ought to know what day it is if you're a doctor.”

  “Okay,” he said. “How old are you, Pearl?”

  “About sixty-six or so, I guess. You're trying to get at my Social Security check, aren't you?”

  “No, Pearl, nothing like that. What is your date of birth?”

  Pearl looked around the cell as if trying to decide on an answer. “August fourteenth, I think. I'm not rightly sure which year it was.”

  “Do you know who the president of the United States is, Pearl?”

  Pearl spit on the floor. “Duh,” she said, and a moment later finished the word with a wide-eyed “bya.”

  Lance couldn't quite contain his amusement at the answer. The doctor looked at Lance and frowned. “What's so funny?”

  “I guess she doesn't like our illustrious president,” laughed Lance. “At least she knows her politics.”

  The doctor turned back to Pearl. “Is that what you mean, Pearl?”

  “He's a spoiled brat,” she stated. “You remember that old goat that kept saying ‘I'm not a crook, I'm not a crook' and holding his hands up in the air?” Pearl held her hands in the air, making the victory sign with her fingers. “The
y're all crooks.”

  The two men both broke out in laughter at her antics. The doctor finally shook his head and stood. “Okay, Pearl, you win.”

  Lance and Doc Brown left the holding-cell area and walked back into the outer office. Lance was still chuckling when he sat down at his desk. “If you want to get to the heart of the matter,” he grinned, “all you got to do is bring up politics.”

  The doctor nodded. “Seriously, Lance, I don't think she's crazy at all. I think she's sly as a fox. She wants us to think she's crazy so she'll get off.” He opened his briefcase and stowed the notepad he had been using. “I guess we'll see how it plays out.”

  As the doctor headed out the door he almost collided with John Mobley. Lance stood and greeted the man.

  “You here to see your mom, John?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I'll have to search you first,” said Lance.

  John emptied his pockets onto the nearby desk and held his arms out while Lance patted his sides.

  “Thanks, buddy,” said Lance. “You're clean. Follow me.”

  John scooped the items from his pockets and followed Lance to his mother's cell. Lance offered him a folding chair and left so they could talk in private. When he returned to the outer office, he found Sadie waiting with Pearl's supper.

  “Hello there,” he said. “How's Mrs. Singer doing after the funeral?”

  “Remarkably well,” said Sadie. “I took her by Goldie's house. She's going to move in for a while.”

  “Oh, really? I thought she lived in Missouri.”

  “She does. But she's already let the lease on her apartment go, so she wants to stay on and help with the café. She wasn't very friendly at first but she seems to have warmed up to me now. Sometimes I don't think she actually hears what she says. She's very derogatory toward Indians in general.”

  Lance nodded his head.

  “Do you want me to take this back to Pearl?” asked Sadie, motioning toward the plate.

  “She's got a visitor right now, her son. I'll take it to her when he leaves.”

  “Oh, okay.” Sadie stepped forward and placed the plate on the corner of a nearby desk.

  “How in the world did you end up buying a café in Liberty, Sadie?”

  Sadie smiled and sat on one of the faded chairs. “It's been a dream of mine since I was a kid,” she said. “I only went into banking because I thought that's what I was supposed to do after I got my degree in business administration. But after the robbery and all the mess with that…well, I did a lot of soul-searching.” She drew a circle on top of his desk with her thumbnail. “I did a lot of praying, Lance, and then there it was, an ad in the paper for the Liberty Diner.” She looked at Lance and smiled. “It's like it was meant to be.”

  Lance leaned against the desk with arms folded and ankles crossed and continued to listen.

  “I drove down here and met Goldie. She said she needed to sell the café because of her health. Her financials looked good. She wasn't getting rich, but she was making money. So I made her an offer and she took it. And here I am in the middle of another mess…with Goldie being killed and all.” Silence fell over the office. She stood and lifted the corner of the towel covering the plate she had brought. “Pearl's food is going to be cold.”

  “I thought the bank asked you to come back to work for them,” Lance said.

  Sadie returned to her chair. “They did. And I agreed to help whenever they need someone to fill in for vacations and such, but I'm tired of the banking business. I want to do something for me for a change.” She squirmed in her seat. “I've been in the branch they opened here in Liberty, and it's pretty nice.”

  John Mobley suddenly burst through the door from the holding cell. He stomped out the front door without saying a word, pushing past George Stump, who was climbing the steps to the doorway.

  “Somebody's house on fire?” George asked in a facetious tone. He walked into the office and closed the door behind him before he noticed Sadie. “Oh, sorry, Lance. I didn't know you were conducting business.”

  Lance ignored Stump's comments and looked at his watch. “I guess we can take Pearl's supper to her now.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Stump. “How's the prisoner doing?” His nasal tone had returned.

  Lance's dislike for George was growing harder to hide with every passing day. He was beginning to think this job wasn't going to last very long. “Here, why don't you take her this food,” Lance motioned toward the plate, “then you can find out for yourself.”

  Stump raised his nose in the air, daring Lance to call him Deputy Dawg in front of Sadie. “Sure,” he said. He went to his desk and took his time shuffling through a stack of papers. He sat down for a moment and made some notes on the back of an envelope as if waiting to catch part of Lance and Sadie's conversation.

  The two sat in silence.

  Then with a smirk Stump pulled a huge set of keys from his desk drawer, picked up the plate, and walked through the door that led to the cells. He had been gone for only a moment when he quickly ducked his head back through the doorway with a look of distress and yelled, “Hurry up, Smith. She's swinging!”

  Lance was on his feet, halfway across the room and yelling orders before Sadie's brain could comprehend what George had said. “Sadie, stay here. Call the doctor. Tell him it's an emergency.” Then he disappeared behind George.

  Sadie jumped to her feet and in the flicker of a moment, before the door closed behind the two men, she could see Pearl's limp body hanging from the ceiling. In that instant, she recognized the red-and-white checkered dish towel Pearl had kept from yesterday's supper. The sturdy cloth made up the middle section of a braided rope the prisoner had made from her bedding. Pearl had hanged herself.

  After summoning help, Sadie ran outside onto the sidewalk and vomited into the street. Then she sat down on the steps of the police station and held her head in her hands. “What am I doing in this crazy place?”

  14

  The graveside service for Pearl Elizabeth Mobley lasted less than twenty minutes. The Indian preacher from the Liberty House of God Church read a short passage from his Bible and offered a prayer, half in Cherokee and half in English, before the small group dispersed.

  Sadie sat with Emma, watching at a distance from inside her Explorer. Although Emma had suggested they attend, at the last minute she'd decided she was “unwilling to stand near the coffin of her sister's murderer.” The wound, she said, was simply too fresh.

  “I thought I'd be glad she was dead,” said Emma. “You know the Bible says ‘an eye-for-an-eye’…”

  Sadie listened to Emma talk, unconvinced that Emma really understood the true context of that Scripture and doubtful that Emma could actually stomach that philosophy in real life. She had hoped Pearl's suicide would perhaps bring some sort of closure and help lessen her new friend's pain. But so far, it hadn't.

  Sadie could see Red and Lance standing near the cemetery gate but she didn't recognize anyone else. She shifted her gaze to the other side of the road. A mixed herd of Charolais and Hereford cattle ambled across a large pasture, with several steers grazing by the fence among a flock of white egrets. Her mind wandered as she watched the long-legged, long-billed, white birds feeding on insects on and near the livestock.

  Emma disturbed the silence. “Are those herons?”

  “Egrets. Similar to herons, I guess.”

  “The Old Testament forbade humans to eat herons,” said Emma. “They're awfully skinny birds for anyone to consider for dinner.” Then she sighed. “I should have come sooner. I waited too long to work things out with Goldie. If only I could turn back time…If she'd just found a nice white boy to marry, everything would be different.” Emma turned her face away from Sadie, and the silence in the vehicle returned.

  Behind the small herd, Sadie noticed an Indian man emerge from a ravine carrying a minnow bucket and a fishing pole. He crossed the pasture toward a dilapidated truck resting on the shoulder of the road. A small boy r
an from the same narrow valley to catch up with the man, holding his hands straight out in front of him. As the two got closer, Sadie realized the youngster had a crawdad in his right hand. The gleeful look on his face propelled her mind back to her first crawdad catch.

  As a young child she had stood motionless in a cold stream, the water barely below her knees. Her grandmother slowly reached into the water and began lifting flat rocks. The crawdads either zoomed away when the old woman removed their shelter, or lay deathly still, camouflaged against the flint rocks on the bottom of the stream. Aiming carefully at the midsection of the crawdad, steering clear of the pinchers, she had grabbed her first crawdad. The surprise and elation of her first catch still remained with her today as she recognized that same joy reflected in the young boy's face.

  “What in the world has that boy got in his hand?” asked Emma.

  “Tsisdvna,” replied Sadie. She grinned and looked at Emma. “Crawdad.”

  “What's he going to do with it?”

  “Probably take it home for his momma to cook, so he can eat it. I hope he has more than one,” Sadie laughed.

  “That's gross.” Emma's voice registered alarm.

  “You grew up in Oklahoma and never ate crawdads?” Sadie sounded surprised.

  “Good gracious, no.”

  “Lots of Indian people eat crawdads,” explained Sadie. “This is the best time of the year to catch them. You just clean them, take off the pinchers and the shells if you want to, roll them in flour, and fry them just like anything else.”

  “Some people will eat anything.” Emma sounded disgusted. “I think I'll pass.”

  “It's a traditional Cherokee food, and no different than eating any other crustacean.”

  Emma wrinkled her nose.

  Sadie elaborated. “You know, like lobster or shrimp, except crawdads live in fresh water. Lots of Cajuns eat boiled crawfish. It's the same thing.”