Page 13 of True North

What is Ma up to?

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I run a hand over the wood grain of the truck’s dash. It may be old, but it’s a classic. Plus, it’s the one thing the old man gave me I don’t resent or hate. I let her idle, waiting in my clean clothes as Ma makes her way down the front steps. She locks it and hurries to the truck.

“What’s the rush?” I ask.

“Oh.” She sits in the passenger seat and fixes her hair, holding a small mirror up that she fished out from her oversized handbag. Even for almost fifty, she’s still beautiful. The deep blue eyes she gave me are lit up with excitement as she pats her brown hair with streaks of grey.

“Finished powderin’ your nose, Your Highness?”

She beams but nods and pulls her seat belt over her chest. “Yes, let’s go.”

“What’s got you all worked up?” I ask, backing the truck out of the driveway and shifting it into drive.

“Nothin’.”

I raise an eyebrow as I glance at her.

“Never mind.” She pats her bag and forces her face to a somber facade.

“If you say so.”

She stares out the window. I drive us into town and park by the convenience store. Easier to cart the groceries that way. I kill the engine.

“You want me to come with you, carry the potatoes, etc.?”

“Um, no, I should be fine.” She is out of the truck before I can crack my door open.

“Enjoy the diner!” she calls from a little way down the street.

What? Did she burn the roast altogether or something? I swipe my hat from the center of the bench seat and head up Main Street.

Folks say hi as I close in on Darla’s. The doorbell chimes, and I look around my regular haunt, checking if my usual booth is free. It is. I pad toward it and drop into the seat, facing away from the counter. No need for people to see me. Or me them. I pluck the hat from my head and place it on the seat beside me.

The place is busy. Chatter, cutlery clinking, coffee pouring fills the air in the muddled mix of food establishment sounds that relaxes me. Ma was right, this is one of my favorite places. The waitresses move around in their peach dresses and white aprons. The joint feels like something from a drive-in picture.

“Your booth is up,” Cynthia calls to another waitress.

Is it bad I’m here so often that I recognize each of their voices?

Peach falls in beside me.

“Coffee, hon?” she says, coming to a stop beside me.

The voice is new, but not unfamiliar.

I should make a good impression on the new girl since I practically live here. I sigh and mutter, “Why else would I be here?”

Deciding that’s not the first impression I want to make, I add, “Yeah, please.” I look up. “And my regu?—”

My gaze meets one I haven’t seen for over a decade.

Shock fills her face.

The coffee pot in her hand slips. Glass and hot dark brown liquid explode all over the red and gray tiled floor.

I choke on air.

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