Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Nighthawks 

The cafe was luminescent in the darkness. White, welcoming light spilled out on to the street through the wide glass windows, surrounding the small building in a radiant circle. The place was nearly empty, most people home already, tucked safely into bed. Holding the door open for Dorothy, Leon blinked rapidly as they stepped inside, feeling dizzy as his pupils constricted to adjust to the change. 

The cream-colored walls were bare but beautiful. The lone attendent behind the polished mahogany bar smiled at them and offered them a soft hello. They took two stools across from him and ordered two cups of coffee and a sandwich for Dorothy. She shrugged out of her greatcoat and laid it on top of the stool next to her, her purse holding it in place. Underneath the coat, she'd been wearing a tight red dress, a shade lighter than her hair, the wide scooped neckline framing her milky white chest and thin clavicles.

While she waited for her sandwich, she studied her nails.

He was intensely conscious of the nearness of her body, mere inches away from him. The smell of sweat and her heady floral perfume accosted him in gentle waves, barely noticeable under the stronger scent of day-old coffee and disinfectant. Their hands were so close; he could reach out and touch her, close the circuit between them, make that connection he'd been longing for.

Feather light, he brushed his fingertips against hers. She looked up at him, startled out of her thoughts. Reading the question in his eyes, she took his hand in hers, refocusing in on him with a good-natured, faintly maternal smile. Her irises were so green they could have grown roses.     

He felt like he'd been saved from drowning. 

"So you from New York, or a migrant like me?" she inquired. The attendent placed her sandwich in front of her and she thanked him politely. She let out a small moan at the first bite, closing her eyes and savoring the taste. "Mmm, so hungry. Haven't eaten since breakfast."

He watched her for a second, fascinated, before her question sank in. "No, uh, like you. I'm from Maine. A small coastal town named Two Lights, about forty miles east of Bangor."

"Never heard o' it," she shrugged. 

"Not many people have. Population's tiny, a little more than five hundred people. Fisherman, mostly, and their families, though a couple of loggers live nearby. Work inland in the spring."

"Your family fish?" 

"They did originally, but my father branched out." He shifted uncomfortably on his stool. He hadn't spoken to anyone about his family in years and tried his best not to think about them. It was easier to pretend they didn't exist. His last five Thanksgivings and Christmases had been spent in the city, lonely and featuring an obscene amount of liquor, more than enough to make the local Temperance League cringe. "My dad runs a couple of businesses in Two Lights -- the grocer, the hardware store, the five-and-dime. A bunch of others. Family name's stamped all over town. They should just rename it Haskellville and be done with it."

She arched an eyebrow and sucked a stray smear of mayonnaise off her thumb. "So you leave that and move here? No offense or nothin', but I'da stayed in Maine and watched Daddy bring home the bacon."

He huffed humorlessly. "I was never very happy there." Course he'd never been very happy in New York either.

Perhaps reading the thought on his face, she reached out and briefly squeezed his hand again, her face softening. "You should go back there sometime, y'know. Maybe it's diff'rent than you remember." She studied him, her wide eyes kind and understanding. "And you're a diff'rent person now too, than what you was back then. People change."

She took a sip of her coffee and watched the attendent rinse out some dishes in the small metal sink behind the bar. The only other customer in the diner was a heavily hunched man sitting catty-corner to them. Without looking up, the man coughed into his hand and lit a Camel cigarette, the smell of smoke sweet and immediate, accenuating the loneliness of the night.

Leon felt his eyes begin to prickle. 

"I thought about going back a couple of times. Especially at first. But as more time passed..." He paused. "I guess, I just lost the courage to face them. My father -- my father and I had a really rocky relationship."

Dorothy snorted into her coffee. "Couldn't've been that bad. I say, if he didn't put his hand down your britches, it can always be fixed."  

Leon sent her a shrewd look, but she rolled her eyes. "Aw, hell, don't get me started on my family. Problems straight outta the Bible, and then some." 

"Are you from Oklahoma? Your accent?"

"From a farm outside Tulsa. Lost everything in the Depression, o' course, but Daddy wouldn't sell it for love nor money. Spent a decade burnin' in the sun, eatin' dust. Moved here six years ago hopin' for a square meal."

"And you ended up bein' a..."

"Well, I did a little waitressin' at first. Had a typing job at an attorney's office in Brooklyn for awhile 'fore he put a bullet in his head. Found out his wife'd been cheatin' on him with the milkman." She clucked her tongue ruefully. "Damn shame. Couldn't find a nicer man anywhere."

He was about to reply, but she spoke over him. "Look, Leon, you don't hav'ta feel sorry for me. Strippin' ain't the most dignified job in the world, but the pay's good. I still gotta support my family back home, 'cause my daddy's a bull-headed drunkard and my momma's too dumb to leave him. I'm their daughter and I'm all they got -- they rely on me."

Dorothy's cheeks were flushed and her coffee was growing cold. She looked a little ashamed at her outburst and glanced down at her hands. Leon cleared his throat, which felt burned from the bitter coffee. 

"I -- I understand," he said, his voice soft. "But let me just say, if you ever get tired of working at the theater, or just want to try something new or something, call me. I'm sure I can get you a position at the ad agency where I work. And the entrance level pay isn't that bad. Here -- " He rummaged through his briefcase for a second. "This is my card."

He slid it over to her, the small white rectangle bright against the dark countertop. She stared at it suspiciously for a second before slipping it into her purse.

"Well -- thanks -- I guess. Not many men would care."

"You deserve more than a bunch of losers like me ogling you every night. I'm sure that's gets tiring."

"Baby, you got no idea." She reached over and took off his hat, raising an eyebrow at the label, impressed. "But, still, I'm glad t'have met you. You're a -- a real nice guy." She tenderly ran a hand through his hair, her red nails raking his scalp and curling around the sensitive pink shell of his ear. It was like she'd put every ounce of intimacy she could spare into that gesture. 

She kissed him then, nothing more than a swift brush of their lips, so restrained it was like a touch. Before he even registered it, she was turning away from him, her green eyes sad and a little regretful, as if she was berating herself for being weak. 

"I'm real tired, so I think it's about time I head out." Her voice had, if possible, gotten even deeper, was edging on hoarse. She gathered up her purse and jacket and held them close to her chest, like they were her only possessions in the world. "It was nice talkin' to you tonight. You stay safe out there."

"But -- wait -- Dorothy -- " Suddenly, he was desperate not to lose her, bile building up in the back of his throat. "I have to see you again. Can we have dinner sometime? Properly?"

She stared at him, unfazed by his panicky tone. She picked up his hat and put it back on his head, tipping it to the side playfully. "Oh, Leon, no. I mean, just look at you -- and look at me. We ain't meant to be, doll. Just grab a taxi and go home. Go home."

Her gaze held all the pity in the world -- you poor dumb schmuck, it said, falling in love with a girl like me. But in that desolate hour, she appeared almost sculpted, regal, illuminated by the forgiving yellow glow of the cafe lights. Green eyes, red lips, white skin, colors so saturated they were matte, brutal and basic like children's paint. He wanted to immerse himself in her, let her strength absorb his weakness. His guilt. 

Go home. Go home. Go home, she said.

He watched her leave. Her figure sunk into the darkness of the night and he felt her loss like a physical ache. His headache returned, a pounding drumbeat on the inside of his skull, and his chest felt tight, suffocating. He should run after her -- beg to go home with her, win her back somehow -- make her fall in love with him through some dashing speech. That's what men did in the movies, right? They made some kind of theatrical show to prove their love? They didn't sit still on a diner stool at midnight, frozen by the sound of their own heartbeat. 

Breaking the stillness of the night, the other customer, the man, heaved himself off his stool. He took one last draw off his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the ashtray beside him. The rings under his eyes were so dark they looked painted on.  

"Night, Jeff," the man said to the attendent, tipping his hat. 

"Goodnight, Mr. Hastings. See you tomorrow."

The man grunted and trudged out the door. For a moment, Leon expected the attendent to start hinting for him to leave, before he remembered Dorothy saying the cafe stayed open all night. Theoretically, he could stay here for hours and wallow in his sorrow -- the way a beautiful woman had just slipped through his fingers. She'd been as painful and addicting as well-aged whiskey, just a sip and he'd been left thirsting for more.

He was about to order another cup of coffee and bunker down for an all-night pity party when a surge of exhaustion hit him. His bed called out to him. God, he wanted to go home. Go home.

The words echoed through his mind again in Dorothy's voice. There was something almost prophetic about them, a command from God, perhaps, though he'd never been a particularly religious man. 

He thought of his uptown apartment -- 'spacious' the ad for it had said, the word obviously a draw -- but he was wise enough now to know that the adjective translated to 'empty'. Lonely. The possibilities of a wife and kids had never come to fruition. The space had never been filled. Though his apartment was luxurious, befitted with the fanciest furniture money could buy, it was not his home.

Two Lights. He'd mentioned it to Dorothy, but he hadn't done it justice. But how could he describe a place his mind could barely wrap itself around, a muddle of memories and love and guilt and innocence lost. Even thinking about it now tore his heart in two, nostalgia warring with hostility and potent fear. So many obligations failed. So many people left hanging. 

He'd left hoping for better things, a brighter future. But Two Lights had stayed with him, lurking in the corners of his mind. The salty spray of the ocean. The smell of his father's cologne. The tin soldiers on top of his dresser.  

The thought choked him. 

He'd gotten home from the war, needing to put the experience behind him. But the town wouldn't let him. Two Lights was his past. Though it featured no battles, spawned no explosions, the war lingered in the silences of the house, the haunted faces of his parents. He'd never forget the deadness of his mother's eyes when she told him John had been killed. 

Sometimes he'd catch her fingering the telegram in her study, as if hoping she'd somehow misread the words.

But there it was. That was his home. Two Lights was his childhood, imperfect but beloved. Against his better judgment, he missed it. Perhaps now, after five long years, it was time to return. Was he the prodigal son finally seeking redemption? Time had been tough with him, but had left him all the wiser. Maybe his parents would see that, and forgive him the transgressions of his youth.