Ready for work the next morning I sit on the sofa in alarmless quiet and open my Bible. “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances,” it says.
I’ve sure lately fallen down in that area.
“Thank you, God,” I pray, my hands folded and my eyes closed. “Thank you for Tim. For my job (help me not lose it). Our neighbors. Take care of the Painters, please.”
Darkness envelops me on the driveway. Inside the Falcon I shiver. I depress the lock button by reaching behind me to the end of the long driver’s-side door. Beneath me the broad seat is covered by a vinyl protector, its color nearly matching the car’s shade: Tahoe Turquoise. Tim probably learned that precise varietal name from his car repair friend back in New York.
I miss the ribbon of orangey-pink sunrise and how a few weeks ago it strengthened Charleston’s horizon along my way. Now November’s shroud is pierced only by the halogen headlights, a pair of Tim’s most modern acquisitions for his trusty vehicle.
At least we rarely have to deal with rain.
Far to the west most people are blissful in their last hours of sleep, except possibly for my dad. He’s been known to rise at 3:00 a.m. and exercise or pray. Then he drives across Tacoma in the latest small extra vehicle he’s purchased; if I remember right this one’s a Toyota pickup. Yellow, I think. The Datsun before it was green. Likely his wiper blades swipe a cheery rhythm.
Dad will step inside Roosevelt Heights Christian Church’s side door, flick a light switch, and make his way into the chilly, cramped office. Stalwartly lining the walls, his musty companions will include King James, a Cotton Patch New Testament, and Robert H. Schuller beaming positively.
I picture Mom still sound asleep at home, her clock radio not close to coming on yet. She’ll rise the very last moment she has to and gather her materials for school. My youngest brother, Richard, might catch a ride with her as far as his junior high. Our brother Dan will be on his way to classes by bus or car, unfazed by late practice last night for his leading role in a comedy—or was it a musical?
I turn left at the signal and cross four lanes of muttering traffic. Light lifts the farthest edge of eastern sky as I park behind Krispy Kreme. Head down, I go inside.
Behind the counter stands a new woman. Wispy-haired and watery-eyed, she glances at me with a vague smile.
“This is Velma,” says Alice. “She trained during afternoon shifts last week.”
I smooth my smock. “Hello.”
“I’m showing her the morning ropes,” Alice goes on, “before I head back to work on that big order. She’ll help you keep up.”
I fill my first cups of coffee smiling, grateful that Velma wasn’t brought in to replace me. Of course I recognize a few minutes later that she may indeed have been hired for that purpose.
In any case, it’s show time.
Taking on the register, I greet dozens of shipyard men whose faces are becoming familiar. Their names are harder to access, despite being sewn into ovals on their coveralls. Though a few of them never look directly at me when they order, I’ve learned to smile at one short man who jokes expansively with the others, gesturing broadly as he specifies which doughnuts he needs. Another man, tall and awkward, I like just as well because he is that way.
By slow-down hour for us, Alice has gone back to join Pat, one of the owner’s sons, at the conveyor. They’ll put up hundreds of boxes of glazed before switching to another room where with the aid of machines they’ll pump filling into fancy, puff-shaped doughnuts.
Velma asks, “Where are more napkins?”
“There,” I say. “Beneath the counter, on the left.”
She twists her neck, searching, while holding a nearly empty pot.
“Time to refill coffee,” I remind her. Empathy flutters in my stomach at her lost glances, but I keep moving, grabbing Mr. Bentier’s order and extricating myself from him quickly, taking a powdered sugar cake and fresh cup to a woman whose usual order I remember as she walks in.
More customers enter. “I better buzz for help,” Velma says.
“Wait,” I say. Too late. Velma has pushed the square black button far under the register that signals the back room of an urgent need out front.
“Help this woman over here,” I say, nudging Velma beyond the counter to remove her from my path. Then I scoop up coffee pot in one hand, three doughnuts in the other. I crook a pinky around a mug. I’ve just settled the new customers when Alice appears. “We’re all right,” I say. “Sorry to bother you.”
Alice raises an eyebrow. I brush past her to aid Velma in counting change. Alice nods and pushes back through double doors with plastic windows, into the rooms where machinery hums.
