In the Shadows of the with or Without Café

By Andrea K. Nolan

When middle-aged mother of three Francie Newburg goes to visit her doctor, she tells her she must lose weight. Francie begins a daily, early-morning walking regimen that sends her walking and watching through her little town of Shady View, Ohio. One day, on her morning walk, she becomes a hero when she rescues a man trapped in an abandoned building. Now a local celebrity, Francie is soon approached by the big guns in town.

The Society for the Beautification of Shady View likes to keep things tidy. They plant flowers where flowers are needed, and they keep an eye on outsiders. Francie joins the society, and it feels good to give back to her community. Even so, Francies observations soon lead to trouble for Lanie and Bill Blau, owners of the With or Without Caf.

Lanie and Bill like giving second chances. By hiring Paul Santone, a waiter with anger management issues and a criminal background, the restaurant becomes a target for the Society. When Lanie and Bill refuse to fire Paul, tension escalates, and the lives of everyone associated with the caf become endangered.

The Societys efforts to beautify the town may ruin lives, and Francies helpful nature may prove to be the source of serious troublebut its never too late for compassion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Feb 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458208040

Andrea K. Nolan

Andrea K. Nolan is a graduate of Xavier University, where she studied painting and art therapy. In 2009, she attended the Antioch Writers’ Workshop. She lives with her family in Cincinnati, Ohio; this is her debut novel.

Book preview

IN THE

SHADOWS

OF THE

With

OR

Without

CAFÉ

ANDREA K. NOLAN

abbottpresslogointeriorBW.ai

IN THE SHADOWS OF THE WITH OR WITHOUT CAFÉ

Copyright © 2013 Andrea K. Nolan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Abbott Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Abbott Press

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.abbottpress.com

Phone: [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0805-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0804-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901615

Abbott Press rev. date: 02/13/2013

CONTENTS

PART ONE

COYOTE GRAY

NUMBERS

NEW MORNINGS

FOLLOWING INSTINCT

JELLY’S LAP

MARRYING THE KETCHUP

BREAD PUDDING

ARTIFICIAL LIGHT

REFRACTED VISION

WATCHING BEHIND MULLIONED GLASS

SETTING UP

THAT ONE THING

THE PROFESSOR

DISTRACTED BY BLACK LINES

PART TWO

BUCK DISPLAY

GOSSIP AND NEWS

SPEECHLESS

TIGHTENING THE KNOTS

HOLDING UP AND BACK

LOOSE WORDS FROM TIGHTENED LIPS

BEFORE THERE WERE MEMORIES

IN THE

WAITING ROOM

A HISTORY OF THE HEATED MUG

NAMING NAMES

COVERING SHIFTS

CROSSING A THRESHOLD

CHARITY

WAITING IN SHADOWS

PART THREE

PREDATOR AND PREY

THE TREASURE BOX

PIECEWORK AND CHAIN-STITCHING

THE WITH OR WITHOUT CAFÉ

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Joe,

Anna and Danny

In the Shadows of the With or Without Café is a work of fiction. While Holy Cross Immaculata Church, the University of Cincinnati and the Good Samaritan Hospital exist, as do the mentioned surrounding streets, all other locations, businesses and characters are fictitious and are not intended to portray any actual place or person. Any similarities are coincidental.

PART ONE

COYOTE GRAY

black.jpg

NUMBERS

F RANCIE, WHEN WE FIRST RECEIVED your advice, we thought a little mouse must have left the anonymous message. Not to compare you to vermin, but we’re definitely not under that assumption anymore, are we? Because of your act of heroism, Shady View made it to the front page of the local section of The Cincinnati Enquirer. Your courage and insight has caught the attention of the entire tri-state. They now know our little secret: We are a great community! While we may not be as diverse as the city, or have as many cultural institutions, we believe that we have what it takes to make this a great place to raise families: beautiful homes on streets where we wave to our neighbors, debris-free parks full of open sky, a well maintained and tasteful business district where we can walk unashamed of what might be on display in the windows. Our police and fire departments, while small and sometimes needing the city’s back-up, are run by the best! Both chiefs are home-grown, straight from the suburbs of southwestern Ohio. We can feel secure in our safety, knowing they share our values and have a stake in our heritage.

And in this very important election year, we as a community are very aware of how necessary it is to keep it that way. You have demonstrated, Francie Newburg, as one of our citizens, that here in Shady View, Ohio, we have faith, we have courage, and yes, we do have beauty! If Ray Steadman were here tonight, I’m sure he would be joining us in thanking you. We are so proud you accepted the invitation to join our Society. Francie, please stand. I’d like to introduce Francie Newburg, the newest member of the Society for the Beautification of Shady View, a group of citizens determined to keep this a beautiful place to live!

OPENING REMARKS AT THE 2008 FALL KICK-OFF DINNER OF THE SOCIETY FOR THE BEAUTIFICATION OF SHADY VIEW, OHIO, GIVEN BY S.F.T.B.O.S.V.O. VICE PRESIDENT, MAUREEN CLAY.

Francie Newburg was fifty-four when she had her adventure. It began with a doctor visit she should have had when turning fifty. She had avoided going for years, telling anyone, but mostly her husband, Mike, that she felt fine, really. But Mike caught Francie on the steps of their home’s main staircase staring at the off-white walls too many times. Usually she would be in the process of filling hair-line cracks forming in the plaster. The last time he found her seated with the spackling knife and an open container of spackle at her feet. He picked up the tub and snapped the lid in place.

Francie, the house shifts. It’s old.

I know that. I just want to keep up with everything.

Maybe we should look for something smaller, or newer, easier to maintain.

No! Just get some more paint. Please.

The same?

The same. The same was named linen, and its lack of pigment soothed Francie.

Francie…

Yes? She looked away from the wall. Usually their conversation concerning paint ended at this point.

I’m going to go ahead and schedule you an appointment with Dr. Cohen. Maybe there is a medical reason for…

There is nothing wrong, Mike.

But Francie watched over the following weeks as Mike covered up her sprawling lines of spackle with a fresh coat of linen. She noticed the real estate section of the newspaper he left on the kitchen table, and shoved it to the bottom of the recycling bin. And she climbed in the passenger side of their Altima and let him drive her to the Central Rock Medical Arts Centre.

In Dr. Cohen’s waiting room, Mike signed Francie in and then sat in one of the teal vinyl-covered chairs lining the waiting room, scanning back issues of Prevention magazine. Francie attempted to do the same, but couldn’t sit still. Her pants felt tight and pulled against her thighs, while strangely her hands and feet tingled. So she paced, stepping over other waiting patients, and momentarily pausing as she inspected healthy living and wellness posters. She couldn’t help ignoring the content, focusing instead on the fonts and ink, and made silent suggestions.

After being called and made to stand on the scale outside the examining room as the nurse loudly noted her weight, Francie sat on the examining table answering questions, allowing her blood pressure to be taken. She didn’t feel she had the right to refuse giving any of the information, although it was hers to share or withhold.

The nurse left, and Francie avoided her paper-smocked reflection in the door-mounted mirror by counting and mentally realigning the floor tile. There was a sharp knock, quickly followed by the entrance of Dr. Cohen. Francie admired the woman’s small black flats, almost like, but not quite as flimsy as ballet slippers. She wondered if young women still wore those as she once had, instead of proper shoes. Wearing them was most likely the cause of her fallen arches, she decided, before looking up and greeting Dr. Cohen, who looked as young and thin as Sarah, Francie’s oldest. But that couldn’t be, Sarah had still been in graduate school when Francie last saw her internist.

Francie, we’ve really got to do something about these numbers.

She could have felt resentment. What did Dr. Cohen know about getting older? But she realized that was silly, seeing the concern in her doctor’s face, and nodded.

What do you suggest? she asked.

How much exercise are you getting?

I clean my house, Francie said, laughing. She knew she used up quite a bit of calories taking care of it. Some days it felt like she never stopped moving.

I was thinking of something more aerobic that that.

Francie began to explain that her house-work was quite strenuous, but kept quiet as a puddle of sweat started accumulating underneath her thighs. She would listen and agree with whatever Dr. Cohen had to say. She knew how busy the practice was and how many patients were still in the waiting room.

Maybe you could get started by taking a walk in the mornings. This is Michael’s last year in high school, right?

Yes, admitted Francie, who felt her chest tighten at the mention of her youngest child’s name.

Maybe you could take a walk after he leaves for school. I know you like to be there for him, and then when you feel more comfortable you can sign up for a class at the Y.

She makes it sound so easy, Francie thought, but agreed with a bright smile and a slight swing of her lower legs.

And Francie…

Yes? Francie wondered what else Dr. Cohen was going to suggest.

If you have trouble getting started, have this filled. Dr. Cohen slipped a square piece of paper under Francie’s hand. Francie felt the slight recoil of Dr. Cohen during the exchange. She felt guilty for causing this reaction, but Francie was sure that Dr. Cohen had felt damper hands before.

While Mike drove her back home, Francie was quiet. He asked her in a worried tone what Dr. Cohen had said. Francie had already hidden the prescription for Klonopin in her shoulder-bag. There was no need to mention that as she never planned on getting it filled, so she just explained how her numbers were a tad high, and Dr. Cohen wanted her to get a little more exercise.

Honestly, it’s no big deal, she said. She wished Mike and Dr. Cohen could understand how hard it was going to be for her to get away from the house—but not for medical reasons. They couldn’t know how much the house had come to depend on her. Unlike her old art supplies, now stored in plastic containers inside a cabinet near her drawing table, the house needed her care. It needed to be dusted and vacuumed daily. It needed her to wipe away the smudges and smears that mysteriously appeared in the middle of the afternoon, even while she was alone, disturbing nothing. It needed her to keep the drains and sinks clean and clear to discourage ants and mice from invading and reproducing behind the walls and baseboards. It needed her to remind Mike to remove any ivy attempting to climb and imbed its brick skin, and call the roofers after a summer storm. It needed her to stay nearby to create the home the children were happy to return to.

The weekend after her appointment, Mike drove Francie to a nearby mall to purchase walking shoes, thick white socks, and some matching sportswear to give her no excuse for not following up on Dr. Cohen’s advice. He wasn’t aware of the prescription hidden away in her purse. After looking up the drug on the Internet and seeing its uses and possible side effects, Francie found her incentive to take a daily walk. As she wasn’t about to leave the signed paper sitting about for anyone, but especially Mike, to see, she moved her purse to a prominent spot on the kitchen counter, a silent reminder as to why she was going to walk out and away from her house each morning.

There was only one set of numbers of which Paul Santone kept track. When he ran he didn’t look at his watch, follow his heart rate, or respond to the beat of music coming into his head by way of ear buds. He had been running long enough to judge his pace and know how much time he had before turning around and heading back to the Display Room for his second shift of the day. His heart kept a steady beat, while the flap of his hair and the whistle of the air as it flowed through his nostrils fluctuated with his pace. It was all he wanted to hear when he ran. He was outside, off the clock, and he didn’t have to pay attention to anyone’s whining or pissed-off demands. Instead, he could visualize the black numbers floating on the screen of his laptop when he last viewed an update of his bank account.

The breeze coming off the river was cool on his damp tee shirt, and the trees were still bare, so he shouldn’t have felt hot, yet he was. During the lunch shift, Kevin, the front manager tore into his ass. Paul was busing a deserted table when a tray slipped from his hand. He was sure that if the remains of the pasta special hadn’t splashed onto the shoe and ankle of one of the owner’s friends—and the guy had so many, every few days someone came in hinting he knew the great Max Lindenhaus, House to his friends—Kevin wouldn’t have said a damn thing. Plates and glasses got broken all the time. Hell, there wasn’t one weekend shift that didn’t require one of the ice-bins to be drained while searching for shards of broken glass.

But no, it had to happen while Kevin was kissing the ass of some old fart and his skanky blonde a few tables away, when Paul realized he had unevenly stacked a tray. As he tried to correct the situation with his left hand, the plastic rim slick with tomato sauce slipped from his right. How the hell was he supposed to handle that? Catch it with his foot? Sauce flew from one of the bisque-colored plates, landing under the table of a very good friend of Mr. Max Lindenhaus.

You idiot.

Kevin turned away from the couple to glare at Paul, keeping one hand on the back of the blonde’s chair. Instead of looking at his manager’s face, Paul focused on Kevin’s fingers as they pressed lightly into the woman’s shoulder. He waited for Kevin to say more.

It was an accident. I’m sure, the old guy said. But still, I don’t expect to pay for our ruined meal, or of course the dry cleaning bill.

Of course not. The Display Room will handle that.

You mean it’s on House? The man brayed as if no one had ever made that joke, and slowly bent to wipe the top of his brown penny loafers after patting at his face with a napkin. Paul couldn’t see any sauce on the slacks, but knew to keep his mouth shut. Kevin and the blonde joined in with polite laughter.

Oh that’s clever, sir. No, Paul is responsible. We’ll take it out of his paycheck. Paul, go get another napkin, and then clean off this mess.

Yes, sir.

Later, while removing the white polo shirt with the restaurant’s printed logo on the chest, the Fuck you! Paul held back during the exchange, came out forcefully. Between Kevin and the friends of House, it was getting very difficult to add to his savings account. He laced up his Nikes. His breathing slowed and he whispered, Thank you, toward his feet. If it weren’t for them and the distances they carried him over, well, he couldn’t imagine how he’d get through the year.

As Paul ran on the sidewalks overlooking the Ohio River, his anger converted into the energy needed to take on the steep hill. All he had to do was sprint up the stairs that led from St. Gregory Street to Immaculata—parish church of House himself. House only came to the restaurant after Mass on Sundays, a day Paul wasn’t usually scheduled to work. Otherwise House wasn’t in Mt. Adams much. He only came to the neighborhood for show, not business. He made his money elsewhere. The Display Room could easily pick up any dry cleaning bill. The restaurant could even go under and it wouldn’t matter. Any expense, any loss were all just tax write-offs for someone like Max Lindenhaus. Paul knew about that.

Roots from an ornamental pear raised a section of sidewalk on Celestial. But the uneven surface proved no impediment. His left foot lifted higher than normal without Paul consciously making the adjustment. He didn’t need to look down when he ran through Mt. Adams. His feet remembered where the cracks and uneven cement were. He kept his eyes level, enjoying the uneven skyline created by the old row houses that still lined the hillside along with newer condos crowded in like the mouth of an eight-year old. Where small gaps still existed, slices of Kentucky’s side of the riverbank could be seen, but not the river itself. For that he would have to go even higher. South of the Ohio seemed like a different country. While separated by only the width of the river, accents and vocabulary changed, and to Paul’s ear seemed slower and less educated. Any state that could contain a creation museum was a state he had no interest in.

Before he came to St. Gregory, he approached the Ragged Loft. In the alleyway between the bistro and the jewelry store, Last Night’s Illumination, three cooks leaned against a brick wall. Paul took in the scent of tobacco mixed with sweat, apples, onions and pork before actually seeing the three sets of white aprons over black and white-checked pants. At least his uniform wasn’t so butt-ugly, and he was able to move from the dining room through the kitchen to the dish-room during a shift. Cooks had to stand on hard tile, inhaling smoke and getting blisters from the hot pans. He gave them a nod as he passed, but held up his right hand with his middle finger raised when he heard laughter at his back.

He had no idea if it was ridicule directed at him or response to something spoken of before his arrival. Shit, it didn’t matter; when he ran he only needed to pay attention to what was going on in his body and his head. No need to get worked up over being called an idiot in a public place. Instead, he could utter to himself, his own words: Yes sir! Fuck you! Thanks! The three short responses now looped in his brain as his feet continued their knowing pace. The spikes of a metal railing gave Paul the punctuation to his litany. He was approaching about the thirtieth segment of fencing, only beginning his Thanks, when his rhythm was interrupted.

Um, sir?

Paul turned to look at the woman he had just passed. He jogged back and stopped for the first time since he began running twenty minutes earlier.

Yeah? He smiled at the sir. She was probably older, but not by much.

"Do you know where the stairs are?’

She was wearing a long thin dress. Paul didn’t know what kind of fabric it was made from, only that it went almost to her ankles and clung to her legs. On top of it she was covered in some kind of wooly coat that ended at her knees. The whole effect was poodle-like, but Paul could tell when inhaling that the fur was synthetic. She gave off no natural odor at all. Tangled in her hands was a coil of beads. A silver crucifix picked up and reflected back to Paul the late winter sunlight. Oh God, he thought, one of those.

The stairs? Paul played dumb. He knew exactly what stairs she meant. It was where he was headed, but he wanted to milk it. Make her explain the ridiculous thing she intended.

Do you know where the stairs to Immaculata are?

It’s not Good Friday.

Oh, I know that. I just wanted to walk them—in advance.

Practice saying the Rosary on the stairs? Paul nodded toward her hands. Trying to get it down, beat the crowds?

The girl blushed, but nodded. Paul felt cheerful for the first time that day. With a slight shake of his sweat-coated hair, he indicated she should follow. And without saying a word, he slowly jogged to the base of the hill that led to the top of Mt. Adams, high above the Ohio River.

While whatever the girl sought was inside the religious building, Paul was drawn to the view. He normally sprinted up the eighty-five stairs without pause, quickly turning from the church. From there, leaning out over the city he could finally see how the bridges loosely tacked the states of Ohio and Kentucky. He could watch the barges as they carried their loads of consumer products and environmental waste from the east. But mostly he could follow the flow of the water as it headed west to the Mississippi, closer to his goal.

He stopped in front of the cement staircase, waiting for the girl to catch up. Later, he would never remember what prompted him to do it that first time. Maybe it was only to alter the expression she wore. Her look of innocence and piety irritated him somehow. When he saw her bow her head and begin her ritual, he couldn’t help but ask, Are you sure you wouldn’t rather fondle this instead?

He had lowered and raised his shorts so quickly, he wasn’t positive that he had even exposed himself. But the look on her face indicated she thought he had, or at least understood his implication. For Paul that was enough. Instead of going up, he kept on running on St. Gregory. On that day, he would skip the stairs.

black.jpg

NEW MORNINGS

T HE FIRST DAY OF FRANCIE’S new program began on an overcast morning. That was lucky for her as nothing was clearly framed by shadow or light. As there was little difference between the curtained kitchen illumination and outside, Francie did not feel as if she was taking much of a step as she shut the back door and approached the street by way of their brick walkway. She bravely waved at her neighbor, Tracy Jansen, who passed in her Toyota. Tracy responded with a slight shake of her travel mug, and Francie wondered if it would work for her to walk with her coffee. Maybe next time, and possibly a sports drink—that would be more appropriate. After a few blocks, she found it difficult to keep walking with a brisk pace; but as Dr. Cohen had told her to expect this, she didn’t worry.

With most of the school-age children already in their classrooms or on their way, and it being too early for any toddlers to be out playing on that gray morning, the sidewalks were fairly quiet. The cloudy sky muted the color of any of the houses with bright or garish paint and the early spring winds blew any dropped debris away from the streets and sidewalks to places Francie’s eyesight couldn’t penetrate. She felt oddly calm.

But then since the whole experience of prolonged brisk walking was so new to her body, it quickly rebelled by producing a clammy sweat that did nothing to cool, and the area underneath her breasts tightened with a heaviness that left her feeling like she was suffocating. She needed to return home after only walking away for ten minutes. When glancing at her watch, Francie decided that a total of twenty minutes was fine for the first time, and immediately her body stopped resisting. She was heading back and that felt quite good.

When Francie opened her kitchen door, she noticed the time and turned on her morning news program. Good, she thought, I didn’t miss anything, and she reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of her homemade fruit and nut bread. She cut herself a large slice; surely after all that exercise, she could manage the calories. After pressing the coffee-maker’s ON button and using the remote she settled into her favorite kitchen chair, prepared to relax a little. Josh and Jeri Lynne joked behind their studio desk, and Francie felt calm enough to stay seated for the rest of the half hour.

We noticed her that first morning as we were sitting in the With or Without Café discussing our plans for the planters. We had recently filled all the ceramic and metal containers in the business district with spring arrangements and were planning for the transition to summer. Some of our choices wouldn’t handle the summer heat, and we knew we might need to replant some with more heat-tolerant varieties. And then there was the problem of vandalism. In the local park someone kept destroying the display.

The recurrent vandalism was what we happened to be discussing when we saw Francie walk past the front window of the coffee shop. Our conversation briefly stopped as we noticed her plodding march up Central Rock Avenue. Her eyes were focused on the sidewalk and she didn’t even glance our way. But still, Sondra commented on how nice it was to see Francie Newburg get out; and we all agreed that she could use the exercise. She seemed to be struggling a bit on the slight grade.

The next morning was sunny. Francie moved a little slower and felt a little sore in her knees and thighs. Her new walking shoes seemed so bright and white and she hated to see them get dirty. As Francie was lacing them, she saw little balls of dust next to the refrigerator. Before she could do anything else she needed to get out the dry mop and remove them. Put them in the garbage and close the lid. After doing so, the sunlight came pouring through the kitchen window and Francie noticed specks of tomato sauce from the previous night’s dinner still clinging to the handle of the oven door. She needed to spray it with cleanser and wipe it clean before she could think of leaving. Michael’s lunch was sitting on the counter. Francie knew he had forgotten it again and would be hungry. He was really too old for her to be dropping it off at school, she could just imagine the look he would give her later, but she worried just the same. She opened the bag to put anything that might spoil back into the refrigerator.

Before leaving her house, Francie happened to glance at the black reproduction Frank Lloyd Wright clock that hung so solidly above the coat-rack. Darn, she thought. Her program was about to begin; maybe she could walk afterwards. A little breakfast before her exercise would be a good idea, she reasoned; so she got down a soup bowl and filled it with the frosted wheat flakes Michael liked. She noticed that the box was almost empty after filling her bowl. On a notepad by the phone she wrote down the brand name and made a mental note to have Mike run to the store that evening. She avoided looking at her leather purse.

Francie never got out of the house on the second day of her new life. While taking stock of her pantry, a joke made by Josh about a repeat offender—a flasher in a city park—caught her attention. She peered out to the image of a pale teenage boy with dirty blond hair covering his eyes, a mug-shot briefly centered on the television screen. The