THE MOONLITE CAFÉ

by

Lewis Turco

The first time he went into the Moonlight Cafe Jason thought it was twice as big as it really was. A quick glance down the length of the counter where he took a stool fooled him into thinking that the painting on the wall at the far end was real space, but when he stared at it hard he realized that it was a sleight-of-eye, though it was very well done, in perspective and everything. The painter had simply con­tinued the inside of the diner. It wasn't a mirror image but a portrait of the second half of a diner that wasn't there.

"That's some painting," he said to the waitress who was youngish but not young, pretty good looking with auburn hair, well built. She had on a tight T-shirt in army camouflage pattern. "Who did it?"

"Oh, one of the college kids that used to work here. He was an art major and Scotty let him do it after hours. I forget what they call it," she said, pushing a lock of hair out of her eye with one finger. "What'll it be?"

"A mural."

"What?" she asked.

"A mural...that's what they call that kind of painting."

"Oh, right," she said. "What can I get you?"

Jason ordered eggs over easy, bacon, an English muffin and home fries. She poured him some coffee. While he waited Jason looked at the mural. It began right at the end of the counter where he and three other men were sitting. The painted counter stretched out and there were people sitting at it, too — two or three. There was a waitress pouring coffee for one of them and a busboy was stacking dishes on shelves.

When his waitress came back with his order Jason asked, "How come this place is named "The Moonlite Cafe"? The heavy-set, mid­dle-aged man two stools down looked over at him before she could reply and said, "Because this is a second job for everybody who works here."

"Or else everybody who works here has a second job," the waitress chipped in. "I guess you must be new in town."

Jason nodded, feeling a little edgy. He decided to cover it with another question. "How come you spell 'lite' that way? Like the beer?"

The beefy man laughed. "They must grow them curious where you come from, right, Mae?" He winked at the waitress. "Well, son," he went on, turning toward Jason, 'lite' is spelled that way because the girls here never moon anybody full strength, they always do it lite." He guffawed. Mae and the other patrons laughed as well. Jason began to fidget. He hadn't wanted to draw attention to himself, and now here he was, the butt of jokes by these locals.

"Don't mind Hank," she said leaning over the counter to refill Ja­son's cup and show him a little of what lay behind the camouflage shirt. "What's your name?"

Jason told her and then wished he hadn't. He'd intended to use a little camouflage himself, an alias. He'd have to settle for a different last name now. "Jones," he added, "Jason Jones."

"Anybody ever call you 'J.J.'?" Mae asked.

"Never," he said, and it was the truth.

Hank had gotten up and gone over to the cash register where an older woman sat tending the till. He paid her, picked up a toothpick and remarked, "You know, Mae is really well-disguised today. You can hardly see her from the waist up."

The old lady grinned and closed her drawer. The other customers laughed again.

"See?" Mae said to Jason, "he ribs everybody. "You done with this plate, hon?"

Jason must have been hungry because he looked down and saw that he had finished everything. Mae swept the dishes off the counter and refilled his cup of coffee. "Where you from?" she asked.

"No place in particular," Jason said. He looked into the mirror and caught a nice glimpse of her backside and of his face over her shoulder. He didn't like what he saw: a man in his early thirties who already had worry lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. A shaggy head of brown hair, a two-day stubble of beard, and gray eyes that looked too hard and knowing for such a young person. "I move around some I guess." He took a sip of coffee, put the cup down and poured a little more sugar into it. "Anybody hiring around here?"

"Thinking of staying a while?" Mae asked, smiling and straight­ening her apron which was a little off-center.

"Maybe," he said. Somebody came in and sat down next to him at the counter.

"Hi, Mae," the newcomer said. "Coffee and a life preserver," he said.

Jason glanced up and started, but he thought he caught himself before he gave himself away. He turned the involuntary movement into a motion to smooth his hair. Still, he had slopped a bit of coffee into his saucer. The man was some kind of cop.

"Who have we here?" the policeman said, leveling his brown gaze at his neighbor.

"This is Jason Jones. He's new in town," Mae said. "Looking for a job."

"Oh?" the cop said. He was a deputy sheriff. "Not been around long?"

"Just pulled into town this morning," Jason replied. He didn't dare pick up his cup to take a sip.

"Where you headed?"

"Nowhere in particular. Here, I guess. I need to make some money before I move on."

"A drifter, eh?" the cop said.

"A farm worker. I go where there's work to be done."

"You know how hard things are these days," Mae said to the deputy. “J.J., this is Tom Prog. He's one of Boone County's finest." She tossed her mane and grinned at the cop.

"How do?" the cop said offering a large red hand. Jason took it the right way and squeezed back. Neither had the advantage. The cop looked a bit annoyed, but he took his fist back and sank his doughnut before he bit into it.

Jason thought about leaving town, but he was broke and he doubted that the deputy knew or suspected anything. It was late spring in Boone County and Jason thought he might be able to find something that would earn him a few bucks before he had to leave. He asked the cop and Mae for a suggestion or two.

"The McCaffrey place is looking for some help," Prog said. "Out on County Route Five. Got a car?" Jason shook his head. "Come on, I'll give you a lift."

"Don't want to take you out of your way," Jason said. "I can hitch."

The cop shook his head. "Hitching's illegal. It's not out of my way. Let's go."

As they were getting up Mae said, "Where you staying?"

Jason nodded out the window. "I thought I'd get a room at that boarding house across the street."

"They've got space. See you," she said. "Good luck."

Jason took a minute to line up a room at the boarding house, and then he and Prog were silent most of the way out to the McCaffrey farm, but as Jason was getting out of the cruiser and thanking his driver for the ride, Prog said, "Think nothing of it. You know," lifting his cap off his head by the visor and passing his other hand over a balding head, "you look a little familiar. You been around here be­fore?"

Jason thought fast. "Yeah," he lied. "I passed through town last summer about this time. Maybe you saw me then."

"That must be it." The deputy put his hat back on and put the car into reverse. "Luck," he said.

"Yeah, you too. And thanks again." He straightened up and watched the sheriff drive off up the dirt road. When he turned around he saw a middle-aged man dressed in overalls standing on the front porch looking at him.

"Help you with something, mister?" the farmer asked.

Jason walked toward him. "The deputy said you might need some help here," he said. "I'm looking for work."

"You from around here?"

Jason shook his head.

"Well, if Tom Prog brought you here I guess you must be all right. I need a hand, that's true. When can you start work?"

"Right now."

"Good. Had breakfast?"

"Yes." Jason reached into his back pocket, pulled out a baseball cap that said Cubs, and put it on.

"Come on in and meet the missus anyway," the farmer said, ex­tending his hand, which Jason took. "I'm George McCaffrey. What do people call you?"

"J. J., short for Jason Jones." They went into the hall and walked down it to the kitchen. Mrs. McCaffrey, Frieda, was just fin­ishing up the breakfast dishes.

"This is J. J.," McCaffrey said to her as she swept the young man with her glance. "Don't worry, he's already had his breakfast." Then, to Jason, "If you can get here by 5:30 we'll feed you breakfast. Work starts at 6:00 for you. You can get a lift with Joe Morris, our other permanent hand who comes in from town at the same time. Where you staying?"

"Across from the Moonlite Cafe," Jason said touching his cap and nodding politely to the woman.

"Oh, yes, Beston's boarding house. How are the rooms?"

"Small but clean." He spent the rest of the day being introduced to his chores and to the field work by Joe Morris, who turned out to be short but built like a wrestler. In the evening Joe gave him a ride back into Booneville. They made arrangements to meet the next morning, and he had supper at The Moonlite Cafe. Mae wasn't on duty, so he just sat at the counter and studied the mural.

In the morning he had thought there were three painted cus­tomers, a waitress, and a busboy on the wall, but now he seemed to discern a fourth figure at the far end of the counter. He got up and walked down to get a closer look. There was a nice friendly buzz of conversation spilling out of the booths, and one or two of the towns­people nodded to him as they looked him over.

"You like our painting?" the waitress said. She was a middle-aged matronly sort, with bleached hair done up in a bun.

"Yeah," Jason replied, "it makes the place seem bigger."

"It used to be bigger at one time, but there was a fire and the back half was torn down. A fella died in it." She had walked up close to the painting and was peering into it closely herself. "That's sup­posed to be him there," she said, pointing to the nearest figure at the counter.

Jason bent forward. "Does it look like him?"

"Can't say. Before my time, but some of the old folks say it's close."

"I guess the painter had a photo, then."

She shrugged. "Could be," and she went back to work, pouring coffee as she walked down the line.

Jason ate his food and went over to the boarding house. He sat in what passed for a lobby and looked at the headlines of the local paper, but he saw nothing that would pose a problem for him, so he folded it and went up to bed. He was dog-tired after a full day's work in the fields and the barn, the first real work he'd had in a long time. His hands were red and raw. He decided that he'd have to wear his work gloves the next day. Too bad he hadn't brought them out to McCaffrey's.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully, and on Saturday Jason slept in until 8:00 a.m. When he woke up he saw it was raining, but he had no rain gear, so he just ran across the street to The Moonlite Cafe.

"Must be raining pretty hard," Mae said to him as she poured him coffee. "You're close to soaked."

Jason nodded. While he was eating Prog came in and sat down next to him. "How's it going out at McCaffrey's place, J. J.?" the deputy asked.

Jason told himself to relax before he answered, so he took a sip of coffee and put the cup down deliberately. "Not too bad. Mr. Mc­Caffrey seems to like my work."

"How do you know?" Then, to Mae, "Coffee and sinker, please."

"Well, he started me out on minimum, but he's giving me a fifty cent raise next week."

"All right!" the cop laughed and slapped him on the back.

"I wish somebody around here would give me a raise," Mae said.

Prog snorted. "Hell," he said. "You work two jobs, you get all those tips besides your paycheck, and you get all your meals free." He shook his head. "Wish I could say as much."

Mae was getting mad. "Oh, sure, I get lots of tips from you big-hearted folks." She tossed her head back out of her eyes and stood with her hands on her hips, squared off. "The meals come out of my paycheck, and why should I have to hold down two jobs?" She glared at Prog. "You don't."

"I can't," he said squinting at her. "My job is twenty-four hours."

"A week!" Mae said.

"A day!" Prog said. They paused and, after a moment, began to laugh.

Jason stared at them. He felt somebody nudge him and looked to see Hank sitting there. "Don't worry," he said. "They do this regu­lar." Jason took a deep breath.

He wondered how long he'd be able to stay in Booneville before his past caught up with him. He hoped it would last the summer, for he was tired of running. That's the way it always was, stop and run, stop and run. Trouble showed up and you moved away from it. He sat quietly thinking of these things, and when he focused on the moment at last he realized that he'd been staring at the mural. There was something different about it.

He looked hard. Yes, there was definitely a fourth figure in the picture, sitting at the counter, way down at the far end. He seemed to be partly in shadow, but there was something familiar about the slump of the back as it bent toward the plate before it — Jason hadn't noticed before that there was a meal on the counter.

When Prog had left Jason said to Mae during a lull, "You doing anything tonight?"

"You asking me out?" Jason nodded. "How do you know I ain't married or got a boyfriend?"

Jason pointed to her left hand. "No rings," he said.

"Heck," she straightened out. "The men in this town don't buy nobody no rings." She smiled at him and licked her lips, then she bent toward him again and said, "I get out at eight, J. J."

"See you then," he said. "My pay is just burning a hole in my jeans."

"Well, I can help you spend it," Mae said and waved as he went out the door.

They went to the weekly dance at the firemen's barn. Everybody was there, most dancing but quite a few drinking as well. The ages of the revelers ranged from teen-agers to some very old people. Two elderly women sat in one corner knitting while their husbands sold hot dogs and dispensed soda from a long table.

"This seems like a real town do," Jason said as he and Mae moved carefully across the floor trying to avoid bumping into people. She was light in his arms though she was built strong. Jason enjoyed feeling her muscles moving as he held her close to him.

"Oh, yeah," she said and moved in even closer. Something elec­tric began to pass between them. She rested her head on his shoulder until Jason felt somebody tapping him hard.

"I'm cuttin' in, stranger," a big man in a leather jacket said. The evening was too warm for a leather jacket.

Jason stopped dancing, but Mae pulled him back and started again. "Oh, no, you ain't." She said. "My dance card is filled up tonight, Bill."

Jason looked at her and at the big guy and kept on dancing. "I said, I'm cuttin' in, buddy," and Jason felt himself pulled hard by one arm. He let go of Mae and swung. He connected, and Bill went down hard. Jason felt the old war taking place inside him. He wanted to disappear, to fade away from the trouble he saw coming, but he could also feel the anger rising uncontrollably in his chest.

It took Bill a minute to get up, but by then Jason and Mae were well away in the middle of the room. They were the only ones still dancing. Everybody else was either standing looking at Bill or begin­ning to move off the floor.

Bill came walking through the crowd deliberately. Mae said, "We better leave, J. J., he's mean." She began tugging him toward the door, but he held on to her and kept dancing even though there was no music now — the band was watching too.

"You haven't seen mean," Jason said. Then he turned toward the stage and said, "Hey, this is a dance, boys. Play." And the music be­gan again. Bill caught up with them.

And he hit the floor again, this time with a broken nose and a split lip. Jason stood over him looking down, his fists on his hips. He could hardly see, there was so much blood washing through his vision. "You get up again, mister, and that'll be the last time for a while." Bill made a grab for Jason's leg and a heel came down on his hand. It sounded like a large bug being squashed. Bill screamed.

"Come on, J. J., let's get out of here now." Mae pulled him as hard as she could, but she couldn't get Jason to move at a pace faster than a casual stroll. He put his arm around her.

As they were walking down the street toward the center of town they heard the sound of a siren behind them. "Is that the sheriff or an ambulance?" Jason asked.

"That's Prog," she said. "I expect he'll want to talk to you pretty soon. Don't worry, though, everybody saw it was Bill started it."

"I thought you didn't have a boyfriend?"

"I don't. Bill used to be my boyfriend. You got a real enemy in this town now."

"Well, it's going to take a while for that hand to heal. I broke it."

"On purpose?"

Jason stopped and looked at her, then went on walking. "Sure, on purpose. He's lucky it was just his nose and his hand."

She stood in front of him, searching his eyes. "You're right. I guess I haven't seen mean before."

Jason wanted to disappear again, but he returned her gaze. "I don't like trouble," he said, "but it always catches up with me. I hoped I'd have a little while this time." He cleared his throat. "It's why I have to keep moving along."

"Let's go get a cup of coffee at The Moonlite," she said. "My treat."

They were sitting at the counter when Prog showed up. He sat down next to Jason and spun on the stool to look squarely at Jason. "Well," he said. "You're kinda handy with your fists, I guess." He was squinting.

"It wasn't his fault at all, Tom," Mae said. She was sitting on the other side of Jason and peered around him at the deputy. "Bill started it."

"Well, no, I guess actually you started it by going out with J.J. You knew Bill would be there. I guess you knew what he'd do." He hitched his belt and his gear jingled.

"What am I supposed to do? I gotta live in this town too, and I can go out with who I want!"

Jason was looking the other way, to his right, down toward the mural. It was kind of dark at that end of the Moonlite Cafe, but, oddly, the fourth figure seemed clearer than ever. Then, suddenly, Jason started — there was no meal in front of the man in the mural, it was only a cup of coffee. Then his mind wandered for a minute. He guessed he'd have to be moving on again now.

"You know," Prog was saying. "I thought you looked familiar." He put something on the counter. "So after the fight tonight I did a little checking."

Jason realized with a start that Prog was talking to him. He looked down. There, on the counter, his face lay staring back up at him.

"Oh, my god!" Mae said. "It's a 'Wanted' poster.

He had two choices, Jason thought. Either get Prog now or let himself be taken in. Lash out and run again, or stay and be done with it at last. While he considered his choices the cafe seemed to darken. Mae's and Prog's voices seemed to be coming to him over a distance. He looked down the counter and saw Prog reaching for his cuffs. He saw Mae stand up and walk around until she was in back of the deputy, looking over his shoulder. He started to get up.

Jason saw himself reach over and get a grip on Prog's wrist. He stood up and began a move to twist the deputy's arm and break it, but Mae had moved around back of him. He saw her pick up a sugar dis­penser and bring it down on his head. It hardly bothered J. J., but it gave Prog enough of an opening so that he was able to pull his gun and squeeze off a round.

Jason saw himself fall to the floor bleeding from a hole in his chest. He spasmed a little, and then lay still, staring up at Prog and Mae who stood over him, Mae with tears in her eyes and a hand covering her mouth, the deputy trembling and pale. "Call an ambu­lance," he heard Prog say.

Jason picked up the cup in front of him and took a sip. He looked at the busboy stacking dishes and the other waitress serving the customer to his left. It was time to stop running, he felt.

He'd just stay here and drink his coffee.