"One of these mornings I'm going to come pick you up myself. And I don't want to hear one word of argument. You hear me?" Delia smiled. "Yes, ma'am."
"Go put your apron on. The ranchers will be here by 6:30." Roz's Roadside was the kind of place they don't build anymore. Red vinyl booths patched with silver tape, a long Formica counter, a row of stools with chrome rails. The coffee pot was always on.
The jukebox in the corner hadn't worked since Reagan was president, but nobody had the heart to throw it out. There was a wall by the register covered in photographs. Hundreds of them. Some were yellowed. Some were new.
Farmers, truckers, regulars. Babies that had grown into grandparents at those same booths. Every one of them told a story. And Roz remembered every single one. Delia loved that wall.
On bad days, when she was counting dimes and trying not to cry, she would look at that wall and remind herself. "People come through. People pass through. And every one of them leaves a mark if you let them." That morning she filled the salt shakers, wiped down the booths, brewed the first pot of coffee.
By 6:30 the breakfast rush was on. Cattle ranchers in muddy boots, truck drivers hauling grain to Chicago. Old widowers who came for the biscuits and gravy and the company. Delia knew most of them by name. "Morning, Hank."
"Morning, Darlin'. Usual, usual." She poured coffee and took orders and carried plates and smiled. Her feet ached by 8:00. Her back ached by 10:00.
But she smiled because a waitress who doesn't smile is a waitress who doesn't eat. And Ezra needed his medication. It was just after 2:00 in the afternoon when she heard it. At first she thought it was a storm rolling in off the prairie. That low rolling rumble you hear before the sky opens up.
But the sky outside was blue. Roz looked up from the grill, set her spatula down, walked slow to the window. "Lord have mercy," the old woman said. Delia came up beside her. Wiped her hands on her apron.
Out on Highway 20 coming from the west was a line of motorcycles, maybe 30 of them. Big chrome Harleys most of them. Riding two by two like soldiers in a parade. The sound was like nothing Delia had ever heard. Deep, ancient.
A sound you felt in your chest before you heard it in your ears. And leading them out front was a single rider on an old black shovelhead. Gray beard, gray hair pulled back under a skullcap. Something in the way he sat on that bike made every man behind him look like he knew exactly where he was going. "Roz," Delia said, "are those Hells Angels?"
Here, Roz didn't answer for a long moment. She just watched them through the window, watched the lead rider signal, watched the whole column pull slow into the gravel lot like water filling a bathtub. "Delia," Roz finally said, "I want you to listen to me." "Yes, ma'am." "You don't say nothing smart.
You don't stare. You pour coffee, take orders, and you treat those men like you'd treat anyone else. You understand me?" "Yes, ma'am." "Most of them are cleaner than the politicians in Des Moines.
But there's always a new boy or two who thinks the patch makes him God almighty. And those ones?" Roz shook her head. "Those ones we watch." Delia nodded.
Her stomach had gone tight. She picked up the coffee pot. She told herself her hand wasn't shaking. It was. The lead rider came in first.
He was tall, not thick the way some older men get thick, but wide through the shoulders like he had been built for work. His beard was more white than gray. His eyes were the color of a lake in winter, pale blue and quiet. He took off his skull cap, held it in both hands, and he nodded just once at Ross behind the counter. "Ma'am, 30 of us if you've got the room."
His voice was low, slow, the kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be heard. "We've got the room." Ross said. "Much obliged." He turned and waved his men in.
They came one by one, most of them old, 60s, 70s, a few in their 50s, beards, leather, patches from all over. Delia caught names as they passed. Doc, Old Bill, Whiskey, Hammer. They were polite, every one of them, taking off their hats, nodding at her, saying ma'am when she set down their water. And then there was the young one.
He couldn't have been more than 25. He wore his cut like he was proud of it. His patches were new, his boots were new. Everything about him said, "I'm here and I want you to know it." The older bikers called him Tucker.
And Delia noticed something. They didn't look at him the way they looked at each other. They looked at him the way a tired father looks at a son he's about to have to correct. The big man with a gray beard, the one who had come in first, took a booth by the window. He sat with his back to the wall.
Delia noticed that, too. Every man in that room sat with his back to a wall if he could manage it. Tucker plopped down at the counter, spun the stool, snapped his fingers at her. "Coffee, sweetheart, black." Delia's jaw set, but she said nothing.
She brought the coffee. He took a sip, made a face. "This fresh?" "Brewed an hour ago." "Tastes like it's been brewed a week."
She said nothing. She picked up the pot and walked away. She poured for the other men. The big one by the window, the one the others called Preacher, looked up at her when she refilled his cup. "Thank you, ma'am."
Just that. Thank you, ma'am. But something in the way he said it made her throat close up. She couldn't say why. Maybe because it had been a long time since a stranger had said something to her that wasn't an order.
Maybe because his eyes were so tired. Tired the way Ezra's eyes were tired. The eyes of a man who had seen things he couldn't put down. She nodded. Moved on.
It happened 20 minutes later. Tucker stood up to go to the bathroom. He turned too fast. His elbow caught his coffee cup. The whole thing went over the counter, across the floor, and splattered up the wall.
Delia was 10 ft away. She grabbed a rag, came over fast, started wiping. "Let me get this cleaned up, sir." "Sweetheart, what kind of counter you running here?" She looked up.
"Sir." "I can't set a cup down without it falling over." "You ever heard of a napkin?" She blinked. The cup had been on a napkin.