But, no: best to let that one go, for fear Leila might speak her name aloud.
Eventually the girls would move on, or older women would arrive in cars or vans to take them someplace else. There was no hint of impropriety to what Dobey did, and the people of Cadillac – in a display of humanity that Leila tried hard to ignore in order to safeguard her prejudices – either turned a blind eye, or helped where they could by ensuring Dobey retained a regular supply of suitable female clothing, toiletries, and sanitary goods.
Esther Bachmeier was also involved. She was a volunteer with Planned Parenthood over in New Albany, which made a big difference in helping some of the women. Esther was big, brash, and tolerated no nonsense from anyone. Some in Cadillac didn’t appreciate Esther’s manner, but they’d never seen her consoling a sixteen-year-old girl who’d contracted a venereal disease from her stepfather. Dobey loved Esther quietly in his way, and she loved him fiercely in hers.
Sometimes, usually after he’d had a beer or three, Dobey would speak wistfully to Leila about perhaps visiting New York or Washington, D.C., before he headed off to bed and forgot the lure of big cities. Dobey had once been to Chicago. He claimed to have found it an interesting experience, although he said it was expensive, and the beer tasted wrong. In response, Leila asked Dobey why he’d stayed in Cadillac for most of his life, given that he didn’t seem to care much more for the town than she did.
‘Oh,’ said Dobey, ‘I see folks jumping here and there, thinking they’re going to be happier in Fort Wayne or South Bend—’
(This, in Leila’s view, said a lot about the mind-set inculcated by Cadillac: even when Dobey conjured up images of escape, they didn’t extend farther than the state of Indiana itself. What she couldn’t understand, and what Dobey was either unwilling or unable to explain, was how a man who provided a place of refuge for those in need, and was concerned enough about the wider world to subscribe to The New York Times and enough print magazines to fell a forest, could only contemplate physically venturing beyond the state line when he’d been drinking, and always decided to remain where he was once he’d sobered up.
But then, Leila Patton was still very young.)
‘—except they don’t realize what they’re trying to get away from is themselves. Me, I’m as happy here as I would be anywhere else. I got my business, and my books, and Esther. When I die, a few souls will gather to send me to my rest, and they’ll say my food was good and I always gave the correct change. You, you’re different. You have talent, and if you stay here it’ll shrivel up and die. But remember: when you leave at last, drop your bitterness off at the town limits. You don’t have to take it with you wherever you go.’
Leila didn’t think Dobey spoke this way with any of the other waitstaff, and certainly not with Corbie Brady, who was the other waitress closing on this particular night. Corbie smoked too much, ate junk, slept exclusively with jerks, and possessed the kind of low cunning that passed for intelligence in certain circles. She and Leila tolerated each other’s company, but only barely.
Corbie was currently engaged in monitoring one of the customers with what, for her, counted almost as fascination. This man had arrived alone, taken a booth by a window with the wall at his back, and ordered coffee and a slice of Dobey’s Famous Apple Bread Pudding. He was wearing a gray tweed jacket with a faint check, over a blue velvet waistcoat, white open-necked shirt, and dark corduroy trousers. His brown brogues were freshly shined. A navy blue overcoat lay folded beside him, but he had retained his scarf, a thin affair in red silk knotted loosely at the neck, and clearly chosen more for the sake of appearance than functionality. Leila, who was among the taller girls in her age group, had still been forced to look up at him as he entered, so she figured him for a six-footer at least. He appeared to be in his late fifties, with his dyed-dark hair parted on the left to hang loosely over his forehead. His cheekbones were high, his brown eyes lodged deeply into his skull and partly concealed by the faintest of tints to his spectacles, through which he was reading what Corbie had identified, shockingly, as a volume of poetry. ‘Bohemian’ was the word Leila felt best described him: he was sufficiently exotic that had he passed through these environs a century earlier, it was entirely possible the town might now be named after him.
Dobey, Leila thought, was also watching him closely, and gave the impression he was not entirely edified by the sight.
‘Go spread the word that we’ll be closing up in a few minutes,’ he told the waitresses. Leila glanced at the clock. It was still only twenty to the hour, and Dobey was generally punctilious about such matters.
‘You sure?’ Leila asked.
‘You running the place now?’
There was no humor to the question. Dobey rarely spoke to anyone harshly, but when he did it was best to listen, and do whatever he asked.
Leila had two deuces in her section, both older couples known to her, and already preparing to leave, while Corbie had only the stranger. Leila watched Corbie bring the check to his table. The man’s slim fingers reached for it like a spider’s forelegs testing the air, hovering above the paper but not touching. Neither did he look up from his book.
‘I don’t mean to disturb you,’ said Corbie, ‘but we’re closing early tonight.’
The man raised the forefinger of his left hand, an injunction to patience and silence, until he finished the poem he was reading, marked the page with a red bookmark not dissimilar to the color and fabric of his scarf, and shut the book.
‘And why is that?’ he asked.
‘We’re pretty quiet.’
He glanced around him, as though registering his surroundings for the first time.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t intend to keep you.’
He looked past Corbie to where Dobey stood, counting the cash in the register. Dobey glanced over, as though sensing the other’s regard, but did not hold his gaze for long.
‘Oh, you’re not keeping us,’ said Corbie. ‘We still have to clean up. What are you reading?’
‘Robert Browning.’
‘I don’t think I know him.’
‘Do you read a lot of poetry?’
‘Not so much.’
‘Well, there you are.’
He smiled – not an unpleasant smile, but Leila didn’t think it held much warmth. It was like watching a refrigerator try to emote.
‘I like your accent,’ said Corbie. ‘Are you British?’
‘English.’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Character. The bread pudding really was very good.’
He reached into his jacket, produced a brown leather wallet, and laid a ten and a five on top of the check.
‘That’s too much. The bill don’t come to more than seven.’
‘Keep it. I enjoyed the peace and quiet. It was a welcome respite.’
Corbie didn’t know what ‘respite’ meant, but surmised that it was probably something good, given the other nice words with which it was keeping company.
‘Well, thank you. You staying in town tonight?’
Leila thought the question sounded more flirtatious than intended, although with Corbie one could never be sure.
‘That depends. I have some business to conclude, but I think it will be brief, and a minute’s success pays for the failure of years.’
Corbie’s own smile, which she had worn throughout this conversation, did its best to hold steady against the forces of incomprehension.
‘Well, drive safely.’ Corbie turned away, then paused and looked back at him. An idea had suddenly struck her. ‘Say, are you an actor?’
‘Miss, we are all actors.’
Corbie thought about this.
‘I’m not,’ she said.
‘Then,’ said the stranger, his tone never varying from amused condescension, ‘you’re fucked.’
Corbie gaped as he stood, put on his coat, nodded goodnight to Leila and Dobey, and stepped out into the night. Leila couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Jesus, Corbie,’ she said.