We'd been forced to close our restaurant six months before. For three years, it was what she lived for. It was the first thing she cared about after Jamie died.
We'd bought the storefront downstairs with the settlement money -- not that it forgave anything, and not like we forgot -- but it did help distract us. Enid went to work immediately. I'd wake up at 6:30 to cold, empty sheets. In the air I'd smell butter or cinnamon, or tortillas if it was Tuesday. And oh, the pumpernickel. That was my favorite. I was the one with any kind of ethnic background, but Mexican-Italian just made me like every other american who likes tacos and spaghetti. But Enid, she was a European mutt. So, lacking any real identity, she sought them all, and found herself in a culinary chaos of what she called "meandering cuisine."
Unfortunately, to the neighborhood, Enid's devil-may-care attitude about the menu was less intriguing and more confusing. People enjoyed the food, but they didn't know what to expect. So we blew through the whole $130,000. Like that. Like there, your son was one of the thousand victims before a toy recall, and got himself strangled in a plastic tube, and there, you didn't get nearly enough for his life, and there, it's all gone. Start over, but starting over takes too long.
So when people stopped coming into the restaurant, Enid started to keep the ones who did. She never hurt them. She wanted their company. I mean, really wanted it. So, they stayed. And then stayed some more. And soon I was wondering what I was going to do with all these people -- I mean, we could fit three four-tops and four twos, at most -- that was on a Saturday, with the two extra chairs from our kitchen upstairs. But Enid wanted them. And I love Enid. And Enid loves me. And that's all we got, for now. And our new friends, who won't be leaving anytime soon.
