Page 48 of Poison Wood

I sit at a table in the back corner, facing out. I want to see what’s coming.

A young waitress with big blond bangs sets a menu on the table, and I let her know two more will be joining me. She returns with two more menus and a pitcher of water. She turns three glasses over and fills them.

“What else can I get you?”

“Iced tea.”

“Sweet?”

I shake my head. I’m going against the grain here. “Unsweet.” She smiles and is starting to walk off when I add, “Is Martha Lee here today?”

“Um, I’m kinda new here, but I think so. She the lady who cooks in back? Makes those Chantilly cakes people love?”

I remember those cakes. They were the best thing about Poison Wood. “That’s the one. Do you think I could go back there and say hi to her?”

The look on Bangs’s face makes me regret asking. I’m not sure why I did ask. Something about being in a polite Southern town brings out manners I didn’t even know I had.

“Um, I’m not sure about that,” the server says, scratching her head. “Customers don’t go in the kitchen.”

“No problem,” I say with my widest smile.

Her face brightens. “Oh, great. Okay then. I’ll be right back with that sweet tea.”

I don’t bother to correct her, and once she’s gone, I stand up and walk toward the back of the restaurant like I’m looking for the restrooms, which are conveniently located next to the kitchen.

I round the corner into the kitchen as if I’m supposed to be there, and I have to give it to the Mockingbird Café. Their kitchen is spotless, from the stainless steel countertops to the freshly mopped floors.

One of the cooks looks away from a boiling pot of something that smells delicious. “You lost?” he says.

“No. Just surprising an old friend.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Hope it’s not someone with a knife in their hand.”

He’s got a point. “Martha Lee,” I say.

A woman off to herself, holding a bowl in one hand and a large spatula in the other, looks up and turns to me. When we make eye contact, I think for sure she is going to bolt. I seem to be having thateffect on people lately. But Martha actually does the opposite—she freezes. She looks as if she’s seen a ghost.

“Hi, Martha.”

She places the bowl and spatula on the countertop. Her eyes stay on mine, and I approach as if she were a skittish kitten.

The other cooks have stopped to watch.

“You good, Ms. Martha?” one says.

She nods. “I’m good, Harold.”

Her voice is that of a lifelong smoker, and the lines grooved across her face show she’s a woman with a story to tell.

I stop in front of her.

“Hello, Carita,” she says. “I wondered when one of you would find me after what we all just watched. You set the record.”

“Tandy Higginbottom said I may want to visit with you.”

“Did she now?” Martha says, and I can tell by the look on her face Ms. Tandy is going to be getting a call about this.

“Do you have a minute?” I say.