Lois Anne pushes a strand of hair out of her face with her pen then asks, "What can I get for you?" She listens and offers suggestions while writing down the order for table 3 then walks behind the diner counter. She tears off the order from her notepad and hands it to Mike through the staging window.
Carlos joins her at the counter and begins pouring orange juice. He looks up and grins at Lois Anne then nods over his shoulder at the front door, "Better get our asses in gear. Looks like the little league game let out." A noisy group of kids in black and white jerseys crowds through the door and fills in a handful of tables.
Lois Anne cocks a wry smile at Carlos then leans forward over the counter near the toaster. She takes a deep breath and slips her hand into her pocket. Inside the pocket her fingers wrap around a piece of paper. Lois Anne thinks about her baby girl's laugh and wonders how she's doing in school. Over the paper in her pocket Lois Anne rubs her finger across the crayon markings she knows makes a sun and the words, "I love mommy."
"Can I get a refill?" Comes from behind Lois Anne. She raises her head and blows a strand of hair out of her face then calls back, "On my way, hon."
George Willow sits in his wheelchair looking down at his hands in his lap. The people in the room with him mill about speaking in low volume; every so often stealing glances at George.
In his lap, George fingers a small green plastic army figure as he's done countless times before. He remembers years ago when his wife welcomed him home with a big laugh and this army figure she'd stolen from her cousin's collection.
George's son walks up to him and asks, "Time to see mom, dad?" George looks up to his son then through the door into the next room and nods.
Stopping in front of the casket, George's son lets go of the wheelchair, squeezes his dad's shoulder, then walks back to the guests, slowly shutting the door between the rooms. The sounds of conversations become a dull murmur.
Mr. Willow takes a few quick gasps and lets his eyes fall gently on the face of his wife then reaches out and lifts her hand. Into her palm he leaves the plastic figure. As much as his wife's face and laugh he knows its shape and grooves. Gathering as much of his strength as he can, George struggles from his wheelchair to stand over the casket then gently closes its lid.
Tony Fiorentino grips the wheel of his pickup. The light falling from a nearby streetlamp illuminates his left arm. Tony catches his breath and looks up through his windshield to the moon hanging in the sky just above his house.
Tony watches a figure pace across the curtains of his living room window. His wife fuming. Waiting for him to return from the gas station. Practicing the torrent of words she will sweep over him and letting it feed her anger. A woman who, until recently, had never raised her arm in violence; a woman who, since then, has discovered every opportunity to slam her fist into his face, kidney, back... a sick grin spreading across her face while relishing the thud of a landed blow.
Tony leans his head against the wheel and closes his eyes, tightly, against frustrated tears until he starts to feel silly.
Standing in the weeds Tony closes the door to his pickup then moves to the sidewalk. The figure silhouetted in the living room window stops then moves in the direction of the front door.
Only a handful of stars burn brightly enough to contest against the lights of the city. He stares at the moon and breathes deeply; letting familiar emotions calm his nerves.
Tony takes his house key from out of his front pocket and walks across the lawn.
What do you use as an anchor?