Hope Was Here: Chapters 1–6

I was a bus girl at the time, which meant I cleaned off dirty tables and brought people water and silverware. I’d been salivating for years to be a waitress.

And I saw right then if you’re going to cut the mustard in food service, you’d better know how to handle turmoil.

There weren’t any whiffs of stuffed pork tenderloin with apricots or country meatloaf with garlic mashed potatoes or Addie’s famous cinnamon ice cream dripping down that deep-dish apple pie of hers with crust so buttery it would bring cabdrivers to their knees in pure reverence.

The sign wasn’t lit up like it had been for those sweet eighteen months that Addie had been chief cook and part owner with Gleason Beal, Slime Scourge of the Earth.

Miriam Lahey, one of my two best friends, had given me a NEW YORK FOREVER T-shirt as a good-bye present and said solemnly, “There’s a lot of cheese where you’re going, Hope. I’m not sure how this affects people long-term. Wear this shirt and remember who you are.”

Addie was flying on the interstate to Wisconsin, the land of lactose.

He was the only male either of us knew who had made the chart consistently over twelve months.

Have they ever eaten sushi? That’s usually how I determine food sophistication.

Grazing cows. Basic bovine boredom.

These double stairways descended to the street from the front door and were symbols of Quaker faith and hospitality—constant reminders that all guests were to be welcomed from whichever way they came.

It read “G. T. Stoop, Proprietor” at the end.

The town was a hodgepodge of styles.

A dilapidated building with a faded sign for the Mulhoney Community Center.

“We’ll use the leftover whips in a shepherd’s pie and in potato croquettes, but not on a dinner plate with pot roast. You know your way around a menu, don’t you?”

I put down my end and fell to the floor to make a point.
Addie doesn’t always pick up on subtle, except in seasonings.

I have a round face (a sweet face, people say) with no discernible cheekbones.

“Don’t have to mince your words either,” he added.

“And I’m sure she is a fine, upstanding woman,” Addie said.

I scanned their faces to find kindred spirits.

Next, Vietnam vets in combat fatigues; World War II veterans rode behind them, waving flags.

Addie and I stood by a white gazebo as the Dancing Darlings scurried off to frenzied applause.

To quote Shirley Polanski, head waitress at the Humdinger Diner: “Beware of a big man whose stomach doesn’t move when he laughs.”

For my money, we have too many warring factions here—people who don’t want the Real Fresh Dairy to expand any further; people who do.

Eli Millstone was at his shoulder, face flushed. “Those are sweet dreams and I share every one. Just how high are you suggesting we raise these good people’s taxes to get the money to pay for all this?”

“I just went to the tax assessor’s office, Eli. I had to search through some big computer printouts, but the facts are there for anyone to see.”

“Our roads are cracking because dairy trucks are carrying loads heavier than our streets can handle. We have residents in the south end who can’t sleep at night because those trucks are rumbling by their windows, taking illegal shortcuts to the interstate to save gas and time. I say we levy a fat fine against that business until they obey the law. We can use that money to fix the roads and help our people.”

The Mayor motioned stiffly to Miss Pittypat, who shoved the Dancing Darlings onstage for an insect extravaganza number featuring “Eensy Weensy Spider” and “Glow Worm.”

First, my effervescent smile.

He leads the disgruntled out the door.

“Cecelia, our town charter says anyone can run for mayor who’s a resident, thirty years of age and up, and a U.S. citizen.”

“I’ve had one round of chemotherapy, Emma. I’m hoping it will put me into remission.”

The well was dry—that’s what I concluded. I wrote a poem about it once—free verse—I can’t rhyme for anything.

I was filling saltshakers and napkin holders, wondering if G. T. Stoop was going to kill himself with this campaign. Wondering if there were any interesting teenagers in such a dinky dairy town.

I knew zip about politics, but admitting that would not have been shrewd.

“I’m sorry every day of my life, young man.” She plodded off.