was on the way out. But I was in no hurry. I needed a solid block of sleep and then a solid plan before I went anywhere. First, though, I needed to check out the locally famous pecan pie.
The town didn’t look much different from the one where I had stopped for breakfast: tiny, tired, and nearly deserted. Norman Rockwell might have painted it once, but even he wouldn’t look at it now. Thomas Hart Benton, never. The sign at the city limits said NEW SALEM, pop. 312, and I suspected the number included cats and dogs. Even counting pets, it was probably an exaggeration. But there was, as promised, a diner on Main Street, between a grain elevator and a boarded-up creamery. The sign over the door simply said CAFE. I guessed they didn’t have to worry about being confused with the competition.
Down by the grain elevator stood a couple of dirty pickups and one ton-and-a-half stakebed parked nose-in to the curb. By the café, there was only a rusted and battered old Trans Am that looked as if it had been painted with a brush, bright blue with crooked white racing stripes. The rear lid was popped up, and a hay bale took up all of the trunk space, and then some. I thought it looked hilarious. The rest of the street was deserted. I parked ten yards away from the Trans Am and went into the café.
The door’s old-fashioned jingle-bell ringer woke up the two or three resident flies and sent them spiraling up to do battle with a lazy ceiling fan. There were high-backed booths along one wall and tables in the rest of the place, with a counter up at the end. In one of the booths, a couple of well-fed rural types in Big Smith overalls and DeKalb baseball caps were hunched over heavy china plates, mopping up gravy with small loaves of bread. When I walked in, they gave me a look that openly asked if I came from another planet. I gave them one back that said I certainly hoped so. They didn’t look away and I didn’t waste my time trying to stare them down.
The rest of the place was empty, so I went to the back and sat on a stool, hoping a Munchkin named Rosie might be lurking behind the counter. She wasn’t, so I grabbed a menu from behind a paper napkin holder. The regular house special was something called the Whole Cow Steakburger, while the special of the day was a hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and sage dressing and savory cranberry sauce. Both of them came with gravy. Apple, cherry, and blueberry pie were also listed, but no pecan. If I were really feeling daring, I could try something called Aunt Mary’s Chocolate Bombe. A misspelling, no doubt.
After I had read both sides of the plastic-coated menu and put it back down, a double-action door with a porthole in it swung toward me. A coffee pot emerged from the secret room behind, followed by a shapely arm and a thirty-something blonde. She was maybe five foot six, not really heavy, but with a solid look, like a somewhat softer version of one of those Amazons from the cover of a body building magazine. She had watery blue eyes, flat cheek planes and the strong jaw and mobile mouth of a Norwegian or Finn.
Fifteen years earlier or so, she must have driven the local 4-H boys wild. Now she still bulged and receded in all the right places, but she was on the threshold of losing it. In another ten years, she could go to either purely voluptuous or just plain fat, depending. Her expression told me she didn’t really care. But like my uncle Fred, she had a glint in her eyes that implied too much energy for a place like this.
“Coffee?” she said, flipping a mug from under the counter.
“Sure.”
“Hey, Laurie,” came a noise from the booth, “you got other people want coffee, too, you know. Real customers, not some half-assed tourists.” The voice was gravelly and lazy, like that of a long-term drunk, and there was no humor in it.
“Any that ever tip?” she said, without looking over.
“We decide to tip you, babe, you’ll walk funny for a week.” The other
The town didn’t look much different from the one where I had stopped for breakfast: tiny, tired, and nearly deserted. Norman Rockwell might have painted it once, but even he wouldn’t look at it now. Thomas Hart Benton, never. The sign at the city limits said NEW SALEM, pop. 312, and I suspected the number included cats and dogs. Even counting pets, it was probably an exaggeration. But there was, as promised, a diner on Main Street, between a grain elevator and a boarded-up creamery. The sign over the door simply said CAFE. I guessed they didn’t have to worry about being confused with the competition.
Down by the grain elevator stood a couple of dirty pickups and one ton-and-a-half stakebed parked nose-in to the curb. By the café, there was only a rusted and battered old Trans Am that looked as if it had been painted with a brush, bright blue with crooked white racing stripes. The rear lid was popped up, and a hay bale took up all of the trunk space, and then some. I thought it looked hilarious. The rest of the street was deserted. I parked ten yards away from the Trans Am and went into the café.
The door’s old-fashioned jingle-bell ringer woke up the two or three resident flies and sent them spiraling up to do battle with a lazy ceiling fan. There were high-backed booths along one wall and tables in the rest of the place, with a counter up at the end. In one of the booths, a couple of well-fed rural types in Big Smith overalls and DeKalb baseball caps were hunched over heavy china plates, mopping up gravy with small loaves of bread. When I walked in, they gave me a look that openly asked if I came from another planet. I gave them one back that said I certainly hoped so. They didn’t look away and I didn’t waste my time trying to stare them down.
The rest of the place was empty, so I went to the back and sat on a stool, hoping a Munchkin named Rosie might be lurking behind the counter. She wasn’t, so I grabbed a menu from behind a paper napkin holder. The regular house special was something called the Whole Cow Steakburger, while the special of the day was a hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and sage dressing and savory cranberry sauce. Both of them came with gravy. Apple, cherry, and blueberry pie were also listed, but no pecan. If I were really feeling daring, I could try something called Aunt Mary’s Chocolate Bombe. A misspelling, no doubt.
After I had read both sides of the plastic-coated menu and put it back down, a double-action door with a porthole in it swung toward me. A coffee pot emerged from the secret room behind, followed by a shapely arm and a thirty-something blonde. She was maybe five foot six, not really heavy, but with a solid look, like a somewhat softer version of one of those Amazons from the cover of a body building magazine. She had watery blue eyes, flat cheek planes and the strong jaw and mobile mouth of a Norwegian or Finn.
Fifteen years earlier or so, she must have driven the local 4-H boys wild. Now she still bulged and receded in all the right places, but she was on the threshold of losing it. In another ten years, she could go to either purely voluptuous or just plain fat, depending. Her expression told me she didn’t really care. But like my uncle Fred, she had a glint in her eyes that implied too much energy for a place like this.
“Coffee?” she said, flipping a mug from under the counter.
“Sure.”
“Hey, Laurie,” came a noise from the booth, “you got other people want coffee, too, you know. Real customers, not some half-assed tourists.” The voice was gravelly and lazy, like that of a long-term drunk, and there was no humor in it.
“Any that ever tip?” she said, without looking over.
“We decide to tip you, babe, you’ll walk funny for a week.” The other
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