A sign on the northern outskirts advertised its twinning with Cadillac, Michigan, although it was whispered that this relationship might have come as an unwelcome surprise to the citizens of the latter city, like the discovery of a previously unsuspected sibling living wild and feeding on passing travelers, which perhaps explained why no similar claims of association were advertised in Michigan.
Or perhaps, Leila Patton thought, the twinning arrangement was agreed before anyone from Michigan had actually bothered to visit the Indiana kin, and only when that failure was rectified did the Michiganites realize the error of their ways, prompting Cadillac, Michigan, quietly to drop any mention of interconnection. All anyone in Cadillac, Indiana, knew for sure was that nobody from Cadillac, Michigan, had responded to a communication in many years, and it didn’t seem worth sending someone to find out why, northern Michigan being a long way to go just to be given the bum’s rush.
Cadillac, Michigan, Leila knew, was named after the French explorer Antoine de la Mothe, sieur de Cadillac, the founder of Detroit, but that was only since the latter part of the nineteenth century. Prior to this, Cadillac, Michigan, had been known as Clam Lake, which was a shitty name by any standard. On the other hand, no one in Cadillac, Indiana, knew how the town had come by its honorific. The best guess was that a Cadillac had once appeared on what was now Main Street, and some rube was so taken aback at this manifestation of progress that it was all he could talk about for the rest of his days. By the same token, Cadillac might just as easily have been christened Airplane, or Feminist, or Jew.
Okay, Leila conceded, maybe not the last two.
Leila Patton was twenty-four, going on fifty. If the youth of Cadillac naturally divided into two camps—those who hoped (or were resigned) to work, marry, settle, sire, and be buried in Cadillac; and those who intended to get the fuck out of town at the first opportunity—then Leila occupied the extreme wing of the second cohort. Her father had died when she was seventeen: an aneurysm on the floor of the sheet metal factory in which he’d performed shift work all his life, gone before the ambulance even managed to reach the gates. Leila’s mother was less fortunate. Her dying—leukemia—was long, slow, and ongoing. There wasn’t enough money to employ a home-care provider for her mother, so it was left to Leila to take on the burden herself, assisted by an assortment of friends and neighbors. Consequently, Leila had been forced to defer a scholarship admission to the Jacobs School of Music at IU Bloomington. She’d been assured that the scholarship would still be waiting for her when circumstances finally permitted her to commence her studies, but Leila was beginning to feel this possible future fading into nothingness. That was what life did: it slipped away, minute by minute, hour by hour, faster and faster, until at last it was gone. You could feel it drifting from you—that was the curse—and the harder you tried to hold on to it, the quicker it went.
Which was why Leila Patton had invisible rope burns on the palms of her hands.
The whole experience—death, disease, opportunities delayed or denied—hadn’t caused Leila to become any more enamored of her hometown, especially since she continued to hold down a waitressing job at Dobey’s Diner. This meant serving, on any given day, at least half the assholes in Cadillac, and the other half the following day. But Leila needed the money: the scholarship was generous, but not so generous that additional funds wouldn’t be required if she wasn’t to live solely on rice and beans. She was saving what she could, but her mother’s illness sucked up money like a vacuum, and the poor died harder than the rich.
So this was how she spent her time: cleaning, cajoling, cooking, sleeping, waitressing, and practicing on the piano at home; or, thanks to the indulgence of her former high school music teacher, on the superior instrument in the school’s music room. And praying: praying for a miracle; praying for her mother’s pain to end; praying that Jacobs would continue to be patient; praying that someday she’d see Cadillac receding in her rearview mirror before it disappeared altogether, never to be glimpsed again.
Oh, and simmering. Leila Patton did a lot of simmering because, in case it wasn’t already clear, she really fucking hated Cadillac, Indiana.
* * *
IT WAS COMING UP for 9:30 p.m. on this particular Saturday night, and Dobey’s was winding down. Leila was one of the last waitresses working, which was always the way on weekends. It didn’t bother her much; Leila didn’t have so many friends that weekends were any kind of social whirl. She also got on well with Carlos, the chef, and particularly with Dobey himself, who never took a day off and lived in one of the trailers behind the diner, where he occasionally entertained a local widow named Esther Bachmeier.
Dobey was a short, portly man in his sixties, with a full head of very fine hair that was prone, on those occasions when the weather forced the wearing of a hat, to standing on end upon the hat’s removal. Dobey had been born in Elkhart, but moved to Cadillac in his early teens when his mother hooked up with a mechanic named Lennart who was part owner of what was then the town’s sole garage. Dobey started out working for Lennart’s brother, the proprietor of what was then one of eight restaurants in Cadillac, although now only four remained. By the time Lennart’s brother decided to retire from the dining business, Dobey had long been his anointed heir.
Dobey was the only man in Cadillac to have The New York Times delivered to his door each morning, and he also subscribed to both The New Republic and the National Review, as well as The New Yorker, from which he would clip cartoons to stick on the plexiglass surrounding the register. Dobey owned, in addition to the big trailer in which he lived, three smaller trailers that housed his library and associated books, Dobey being an accomplished seller of old and rare volumes. These trailers also contained camp beds on which, over the years, various waifs and strays had been permitted to sleep in return for performing light household duties. Some stayed only a couple of nights, others a week or two, but few remained for longer than that. Most were very young women, and all were worn down and scared. Leila had made friends with a couple of them, but it didn’t pay to pry, so she rarely learned much about their lives. There were exceptions, though: the girl named Alyce, who showed Leila the burn marks on her belly and breasts where her father liked to stub out his cigarettes; Hanna, whose husband enjoyed punishing her more extreme transgressions, real or imagined, by removing one of her teeth for each offense; and then there was—
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 min
d-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.
Currently Corbie was 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 good night to Leila and Dobey, and stepped out into the night. Leila couldn’t help but laugh.
“Jesus, Corbie,” she said.
“I know. What a shitheel.”
Which just set Leila to laughing harder because Corbie, for all her flaws, hardly ever swore. She still went to First Missionary every Sunday, even if the gossip around town held that Corbie Brady was more often on her knees outside church than in it, her mouth filled with more than prayers.
Leila looked around to see Dobey’s reaction, but he was heading into his office following the stranger’s departure.
“That’s funny,” said Leila.
“What is?” said Corbie.
“You told him to drive safely, but I don’t hear a car.”
Leila walked to the window and stared out at the front lot. It was empty, and Corbie confirmed that the only vehicles in back belonged to the staff. The diner stood right on the edge of Cadillac, with no sidewalk beyond the limits. A couple of streetlights burned on the town side, but Leila could detect no trace beneath them of the man who had just left. She went to the door and locked it just as Dobey reappeared.
“I’ll take care of closing up,” he said. “You girls go on home now.”
This was also unusual. Saturday nights for Dobey meant a couple of beers with the staff, and maybe a plate of hamburgers cooked by Dobey himself.
He signaled to Carlos.
“Carlos, you make sure the girls get to where they’re going. Follow on behind, you understand?”
Leila and Corbie both lived on the west side of town, while Carlos resided on the east. This was taking the chef out of his way for no good reason that anyone could see. Cadillac might have been many
things, but dangerous wasn’t one of them. Nobody had been murdered in its environs for more than a decade, while the greatest risk to life was being hit by someone driving drunk, a form of mortality with which Cadillac, like many small towns, was uncomfortably familiar.
Leila stepped close to Dobey.
“Is everything okay?” she asked quietly.
“Everything’s fine. Indulge me, that’s all.”
“Did you know that man?”
Dobey considered the question.
“I never set eyes on him before.”
“Well, you sure made up for lost time tonight. You were watching him like he was planning to steal the silverware.”
“I took a dislike to him, that’s all. No sense to it.”
“Should we call the police?”
“And tell them what? That someone came in here and read poetry? Last I heard, that wasn’t against the law. I’m just unsettled. It comes with age. Go on now, git. You’re done, and I’m too poor to pay overtime.”
With nothing more to be said, Leila collected her coat and bag from the staff closet, and joined Carlos and Corbie at the back door.
“You think he was one of them queers?” Corbie asked her.
“Who?”
“The British guy. He dressed like a queer, and you know, there was the poetry.”
“God, Corbie, you’re so—”
Dobey came over to lock up behind them before anything more could be said, and Leila heard the bolts being shot home once the door was closed. By the time she drove out of the lot, following the lights of Corbie’s Dodge, and with Carlos driving in her rearview, Dobey’s was already dark. They arrived first at Corbie’s house, and Leila and Carlos waited until she was safely inside before continuing a mile farther to the Patton place. Leila stopped her car, climbed out, and headed over to Carlos.
“I’m worried about Dobey.”
Carlos had been on his feet for ten hours, and was picking up the early shift next morning. He was thinking only of his bed, but he liked Leila, and he liked Dobey even more.