It's the Midnight Hour (don't expect the sound of Billy Idol or Wilson Pickett, or even the Material Bore herself to pop out, there are no sound accompaniments yet), and the Palmetto's rather quiet on this Saturday night. Rochelle's arrived somewhat late, but she's just getting settled in. Iago's at the far end, bantering with Louise, the night shift manager, who sits Buddhaesque on her stool behind the cash register. To Louise, I'm merely a familiar face, nothing more; she appears to be a very forbidding person. She's very light skinned, with darker irregularly shaped patches of skin here and there, and weighs upwards of four hundred pounds. The way she's breathing, I think that the congestive heart failure, if it's not already here, is clearly waiting in the wings.
Hey, folks, I'm calling 'em as I see 'em.
Rochelle waves at me, as she puts on her apron. Tonight, I'm having a plate of French toast, made from slices of sourdough, instead of challah, which Carmelo seems to favor. I prefer the texture of sourdough. Besides, the idea of a Dominican doing anything with challah is, to me, equal to the idea of, say, the patriarch of a poor bedou family laying out cubes of salami, pepperoni, capiccola, and provolone, along with a dry table Chianti for houseguests. In other words, uh...well...NO. Not probable. On the side, I'm having corned beef hash. A guilty pleasure, if ever there was one.
"Hi, sweetie."
I wave my fork at Rochelle. Listen, Mom told me not to talk with my mouth full, you know?
"I love it when a man enjoys his food." Rochelle heads back towards the kitchen.
The door swings open, and here's Brenda, just back from a run to Philly International with a whole family of loud, obnoxious people, and a ton of luggage. "Whassup?"
"Nothin'."
"Quiet in here tonight."
"Yep."
"Looks good. What kinda bread is that?"
"Sourdough."
"Nice. Did you have to order that special?"
"Yeah. What's the matter, you don't like the-"
"-the Jewish sweet holiday bread, yeah yeah. No, I don't. I'm gonna have that. Where'd Rochelle go?"
"Well, you know she moves fast."
The door swings open...and, wouldn't you know? Here's the girl who was here the other night, asking for Rochelle. I instinctively pull out my cell, ready to call Dawn, since she insisted on being in on this mystery, but I hold off.
"Hi."
"Hello," I reply.
"Is Rochelle here tonight?"
"Yes, she is, she'll be back in a minute. Cop a squat."
She smiles. It's Rochelle's smile. "Thanks," she giggles. "I'll stand, though." I notice that her knees are locked together, in a manner that would suggest she needs to relieve herself urgently; my father, however, would've corrected this observation, and claimed they were knocking. Perhaps.
"You okay?" Brenda asks of the stranger. She seems more amused by this than anything else.
"I'm fine. I think."
"You think."
The girl smiles. The color, meanwhile, is slowly draining from her face.
It will be another minute or two before Rochelle comes from the kitchen. Those minutes appear to be interminable for this guest, who fends off efforts at conversation by Brenda, who seems to be more and more entertained by this person's discomfort. Finally, Rochelle comes out, and by rote, instructs the guest to take a seat anyplace, and she'll wait on her shortly.
The girl remains planted in the floor, next to Brenda's stool. She's shaking.
Rochelle turns around, and faces the girl. Their eyes lock.
"Rochelle?" The girl's voice is soft, and quaking with what appears to be fear.
Rochelle stares, for a second uncomprehendingly. Then, there's a change. Her eyes widen. From the bowels of her being, there's a roar. Rochelle's voice growls in emotion, as she bolts around the counter to touch this visitor out of the blue. I could see her eyes inquiring of this visitor the nature of her presence; the visitor's head nods, with the eyes registering both joy and relief. Rochelle crys out, at the top of her lungs, "oh my God! Oh my God!" Iago races over, as well as Louise, who's out of breath when she arrives.
The two hug very, very tightly, and I could see that all four eyes are tightly shut, while tears flow from all.
"Wow," Brenda says. "This is something."
The two separate. Rochelle holds the girl by her arms, and looks in her eyes.
"My name's Myla," the girl says, her voice shaking. "I've been dreaming of this day for so long..."
Rochelle's tears and emotions are uncontrollable. "I've been thinking of you every day, every day, for eighteen years. Every day. There ain't a day when I don't think of you!"
"I think of you too."
Rochelle breaks out in laughter. "This is the happiest day of my life! The happiest day of my life! Thank you Jesus!"
Louise looks at me, totally clueless. Iago goes back to greet customers that have just come in. "So, tell us, Rochelle," I say, loud enough to shift the focus on to myself.
"I gave this girl up for adoption when I was fifteen, last I saw her she was two days old, and I never forgave myself, didn't matter if she was gonna have a better life."
"Yeah, we noticed that she looks just like you," Brenda says. "Spittin' image..."
"So's Nakeisha, too," I say, referring to Rochelle's little girl at home.
"Tell me about you," Rochelle says, sitting on a stool.
"I grew up in Absecon. My parents know I went searching for you, and it took a long time. They're cool with it."
"Now, that's strange, you hardly ever hear that," Brenda says.
"They couldn't have picked better people to put me with, but I had to do this, I had to find you."
Rochelle's chest is heaving, and she's crying uncontrollably. "I'm glad you're here," she says, and she reaches over, and hugs Myla.
"Looks like Iago's got everything tonight," I say. "Rochelle's not thinking of any of this right now."
"Well, he'd better get here quick," Brenda mutters. "I'm about to put salt and pepper on this menu and get started on it."
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