The rush was winding down. Several customers sat at the counter, finishing their lunches. Alex knew them all, the makeup of their families, what they did for a living. One of them, an attorney named Herman Director, ate a liverwurst on white every day. Alex brought liverwurst in just for him, as it was rarely requested by anyone else. Like buttermilk, which Alex also kept on hand for a big mustachioed fellow named Ted Planzos, it was an item that was fading from America’s culinary radar screen.
Alex sat on the stool behind the register. He had been looking through the glass of the refrigerated dessert case at the pies and the cheesecake that remained, planning what he would take to the hospital on the way home. He ordered extra since he’d begun his routine, more than he would ever sell, so there would always be a surplus at the end of the day. The soldiers were big on cheesecake and key lime pie. They liked the rich and the sweet; not surprising, as most of them were not much more than kids.
“What do you owe me?” said Dimitri Mallios, a longtime attorney and longtime customer, stepping up to the register, sliding the guest check across the counter.
“I owe you seven and change,” said Alex, barely looking at the check. Turkey and swiss on kaiser, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, fries, small Diet Coke. Mallios came in twice a week, sat on the same stool if it was empty, and ate the same sandwich and sides every time. Juana would write the order on the pad as she saw him through the plate glass window, coming around the ledge bookended by twin shrubs. Blanca would start building the sandwich before he parked himself on the stool.
“Everything all right?” said Mallios, as Alex rang him, slid the bills into their respective beds, and made change.
“Business is steady,” said Alex with a shrug. “But the new people, they’re gonna raise my rent.”
“You had a good ride with Lenny Steinberg,” said Mallios, who had represented Alex and his father on the lease negotiations since the inception of the business. “We’ll deal with the increase when the time comes.”
“Okay, Dimitri.”
“You’re good, right?” Mallios was giving him the serious eye now, the question not about the store but about his mental health.
“ Entahxee,” said Alex, with a small wave of his hand. “Everything’s okay.”
Mallios nodded, left two on seven for Juana, and headed back to work.
Darlene walked the rubber mats down to the register, spatula in hand, humming softly. She wore a pale pink shift and sneakers whose backs she had cut off.
“How’d it go?” said Alex.
“The chicken breast sandwich went like a mug. People liked the horseradish sauce. That was John’s idea.”
“He’s full of ideas.”
“Where is he, anyway?”
“I told him to take the rest of the afternoon off. Who thought to add bacon?”
“Me. Bacon makes everything taste good.”
“Get your order together for tomorrow, and see what Blanca needs, too.”
“Blanca say, ‘Eighty-si, corn bee,’ ” said Darlene, with her idea of a Spanish accent.
“Put a corned beef on the order.”
Alex looked at Rafael, back by the dishwashing area, leaning on the counter, talking to an attractive, leggy woman in a short skirt and matching jacket. She had removed her eyeglasses, meaning he had gotten to her. Rafael was a handsome young man with soulful black eyes, fluid and athletic movements, and a wealth of charm. He took a shot at many of the female customers who came through the door, and though he was rarely successful, few of them took offense. They didn’t seem to mind that he was nineteen, or that he washed dishes for a living. Rafael had that kind of male glow. He was well aware of it. He loved coming to work.
“What’s Rafael doin?” said Alex, a mix of annoyance and admiration in his voice.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Kid’s a horndog.”
“He’s a young man,” said Darlene. “Remember?”
“She’s gotta be ten years older than him.”
“So? It never stopped you.”
“No need to go there.”
“That secretary, worked on Nineteenth Street, when you were Rafael’s age? Above the Korean place? You were just a kid, and what was she, thirty-two?”
“That was -”
“Fun. And don’t even try and act like it wasn’t.”
“Go ahead, Darlene,” said Alex, feeling a warmth in his face.
“You about ready for lunch, sugar?”
“Soon as these customers clear out,” said Alex.
The afternoon light came through the window, a spear of it warming his hand. Alex didn’t need to look at the Coca-Cola clock on the wall. He knew the time from the touch of the sun.
“You saw him,” said Sergeant Major O’Toole, looking at Raymond Monroe. “You were out there after First Formation.”
“When I saw y’all, his friends were around.”
“They left us after you went away. Private Collins told me he needed to talk to me alone.”
“What did he say?” said Kendall Robertson.
“He’s ready to do it,” said O’Toole.
They were seated in Kendall’s cramped office in building 2 of the main hospital. Kendall, an inpatient therapist for wounded soldiers and their families, had been visiting with Monroe when O’Toole knocked on her door. The three of them nearly filled the space. Around them, along with her desk, computer, and files, sat boxes of chocolates and plastic-wrapped flowers, stuffed animals holding miniature American flags, and other gifts of a similar feel-good, patriotic nature. Kendall delivered them on her rounds.
“What changed his mind?” said Kendall.
“I think just, you know, seeing the progress made by his friends,” said O’Toole. “They’re walking now. Shoot, some of them are running. He sees his buddies joking and smoking, and he’s thinking, I need to get on with my life and get some prosthetics.”
“Is he certain?” said Kendall.
“He’s as close as you can get to it,” said O’Toole.
“Voluntary amputation is a complex decision. It’s one thing to have it done out of necessity, postinjury. But to say, I want you to remove my legs…”
“It’s not that simple on the logistical side, either. He’s got to make his request formally to a group of doctors and officers. It’s almost like a hearing. I mean, it takes a while for the procedure to be approved. I’d hate to see Private Collins change his mind again while all the red tape is being sorted out.”
“I’ll get the ball rolling,” said Kendall, “if that’s what he wants. I’m due to see him today on my rounds.”
“Thank you, Miss Robertson.”
Kendall nodded. “Sergeant Major.”
O’Toole left the office. When the door closed, Monroe raised his eyebrows at Kendall, who smiled.
“Yeah, I know,” said Kendall. “When is it going to be an easy day around here?”
Monroe got out of his chair. Kendall stood and walked into his arms.
“You’re doin good, baby.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I guess I’m having lunch by myself today.”
“Looks like it. I want to get started on this Collins thing.”
He kissed her softly. They enjoyed a long embrace in the quiet of the room.
Alex Pappas had secured a visitor’s pass through the AW2 offices so he could get through the security gates of Walter Reed without undue hassle. Because he was making quick deliveries, he usually parked his Jeep on the grass near the Fisher Houses, estate-sized brick homes that functioned as hotels where parents, siblings, girl- and boyfriends, and spouses stayed near wounded soldiers during their treatment and recovery.
Alex retrieved his desserts, neatly arranged in a large fold-up box, and carried them around the back of Fisher House II, where wrought iron tables were set up on a patio, a quiet outdoor spot where soldiers and family could find some peace, smoke cigarettes, or talk on their cells. A rear door led to an extralarge state-of-the-art kitchen shared by the residents. Food was made available here at all hours, often in elaborate spreads.