Dinner and Death with Miss Patricia
A Short Story by Frank MyerChapter 1
I stood at the restaurant door waiting on Miss Patricia. It wasn’t Patty, it was Patricia. It always had been, and always will be.
Coming toward me at the pace of any normal octogenarian, Miss Patricia Barrows moved with determination and style. It was Thursday evening and I held the door to Rex’s Seafood.
“Come on, Miss Patty, it’s time to eat,” I said, knowing there was a reprimand coming.
My dinner companion stopped, stood up as straight as she could, and shot back to me, “You know better than that. Why are you trying to ruin a perfectly wonderful dinner?” There was a smile with the question.
Miss Patricia Barrows set the standard of behavior whenever we went out for dinner. She preferred Thursdays since that was the afternoon of her weekly visit to her hairdresser.
Her silver hair looked elegant and her large designer sunglasses added to the glamor of Miss Patricia. I recognized this move. It wasn’t the first time. “You know better than that. What’s my name?”
At one time Patricia was the second most popular name in the United States. Because of its Latin origin the name spread world-wide. If you looked for the meaning of her name, you would find the word noble. No monarch had more class than this long-time friend of mine.
“Miss Patricia, please hurry. They don’t want me to keep the door open because of the bugs,” I said.
“What? Are they afraid they will all go outside?” She laughed at her silly question then restarted her journey to the door. I held it open as she made it across the threshold and didn’t even slow down at the sign that read, “Please Wait to be Seated.” She walked back to an open table against the wall. She slid into the booth with her cane. We like this spot. It’s the one we always use when we show up at five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon.
If I had been smart, I would have let the door close behind her and gone straight back home. It wasn’t a question of being smart, it was habit. We’d been going to dinner on a semi-regular basis for several years. I had no idea this outing would be different.
Patricia scanned the menu we had read a dozen times. She ordered the shrimp appetizer and her favorite meal, fish and chips. I often spent time encouraging her to try something new. When she did, she enjoyed it, but the next several outings always included fish and chips.
The wait staff all loved Miss Patricia. They would come by to give greetings and a few hugs. The manager knew to assign the new, cute guy to our table. Eight decades of life taught Miss Patricia the most effective ways of flirting.
Dinner was fantastic as always, and we followed our desert ritual, order one piece of key lime pie with each of use stating we only wanted a bite or two, and then fight over who would get the most bites. Being a gentlemen, I always lost. It was during the scraping of the homemade whipped cream the first hint of the evening’s disaster started.
As I mentioned, Miss Patricia is running through her mid-eighties. Nothing intimidates her. When a thought crosses her mind, she speaks it. Because of our friendship she’s more open with me than most. Decorum still motivates her.
She leaned over to say something to me. When this occurs, I know one of two things will happen, it will be funny or totally inappropriate, often both.
“That woman has no business with a baby. What’s she doing with an infant. Makes no sense.”
One of the highlights of dinner with Patricia is the game we play – “What’s Wrong with Them?” We spot people in the restaurant and guess their stories or make something up.
Part of the fun of the game is to spot the person she was talking about without being caught looking. Over the years we’ve had lots of laughs.
This was different. Miss Patricia wasn’t smiling. She scowled at the young woman with the baby. “She has no business with that baby.”
“Why is that?” I took another quick peek to spot the woman of her scorn. “Let me guess. You don’t like her tattoos. That doesn’t make her a bad mother.”
I had spotted her target. A woman sat at a table by herself. She had a baby wrapped in a dirty blanket resting in shabby stroller. She was rail thin and scarfing down her food like she hadn’t eaten in a month. She wore a sleeveless t shirt and almost every inch of her shoulders and arms were covered with tattoos. When she twitched, moving her dark, greasy hair several more tattoos were visible on her neck.
“No, I don’t like tattoos. It’s hideous what young ladies are doing to their bodies today. Awful, it’s just awful.” Miss Patricia leaned even closer to me. “She an addict. She doesn’t need to be around that baby.”
“I understand you don’t like tattoos. That’s still not a reason to say she can’t be around her baby, and how do you know she’s an addict?” I wanted to know the last part more than any other.
“I’ve been watching her during our meal. She’s drinking a lot of hot tea. Now, in today’s heat? Does that make sense to you?” Patricia looked at me with a penetrating glare.
“Come on, now. People drink tea year-round. Look at the English.”
“Does it look like we’re in London? This is Dallas Texas in the middle of the summer. No one drinks hot tea unless they’re sick or something. Another thing, she’s added a five packs of sugar. Addicts crave sugar. They can’t help it. Their bodies demand it. That woman’s an addict. She doesn’t need be around that baby.”
A few people at the tables glanced up at us. Patricia had gotten a little louder than we realized.
I looked at the empty pie plate. I had three bites. Once again, my dinner partner won the battle.
“Do y’all need anything else?” Juan, our waiter asked. He always made sure we were taken care of. He stood almost at attention with one arm behind his back.
“I think that’s about it.” I said and looked to Patricia for confirmation. She nodded.
Juan smiled and brought his other hand out to show us what he was hiding. “Someone forgot to order cheesy grits to go.” Miss Patricia smiled at the small, white, to-go box. Juan continued, “Guess what? I forgot to add it to the tab. Enjoy.” He placed the box in front of Patricia.
“Bless your heart. I did forget.” Patricia was all smiles until she looked at me and gave me a fake scowl. “How could you let me forget?”
I was about to answer when the front door of Rex’s opened and a young man carrying an empty baby carrier entered. He headed straight for the table with the lady and the baby.
The young woman yelled, “Don’ you come near me. You can’t have her. She’s mine.” She grabbed the baby out of the simple stroller and hugged her close.”
People couldn’t help but turn and look. The man smiled and sat down across from the table and began to whisper to the lady or speak low enough we couldn’t hear him. She seemed to relax, at least a little bit.
Juan gave a sigh, and said, “I better go over and make sure this doesn’t escalate.” He left the wallet with the bill on the table and walked across the open room to the table with the young couple and the baby.
“Whose turn is it to pay?” my dinner partner asked.
“Miss Patricia you know it’s your turn. Don’t play that game with me.”
We laughed at another one of the silly games we played. I learned a lot of people are intimidated by this grand dame of Dallas. Most backed down from her reputation and her glare. She enjoyed it when I would push back, at least a little bit. I always had to mind my manners.
She began to dig in her purse and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills. She waived over Claire, another one of the servers who covered out table. “Honey, I’m sorry but this is the smallest I have. Will this be okay?”
Claire looked at the two, crisp Franklins and smiled. “Of course, that’s perfect.”
Tattoo lady slid back from the table and stomped her feet in a mini temper tantrum. “It’s not fair. No one gives me a chance.” She still held the baby in her arms. She rocked the baby back and forth a few times then ran out of energy. She laid the baby on the table. She was breathing hard. We all could see her thin body working on deep breaths.
Juan did his best to keep a lid on the situation. He was talking in a soft voice so we couldn’t hear what he was saying.
I turned to Claire, who was very pregnant and still working. I knew she would get a large tip from Patricia. “What is going on over there?”
Claire gave a sad smile. “She comes in from time to time. She thinks this is her restaurant. She’s from a real wealthy family. They used to own the place. They had an organic food shop that went out of business. We’ve been here almost three years. She comes in wondering why the menu has changed. She’s off her rocker.”
Patricia gave me a look as is to say, “I told you so.”
Claire leaned over the edge of the table. “If I tell you something, you promise not to repeat it? I mean ever.” Of course, we agreed. How could we not?
“That ain’t her first baby. She sold the first one she had.”
I recoiled back. “That can’t be right. How do you even know that?”
Claire took a quick look around. “I’m no saint, but I do happen to know a few people who are major turds in this life. Miss High Society over there needed some money and she knew her family wouldn’t help her, or worse, take her baby, so she sold her baby. Not joking.” With that she reached down to take the bill and the money. “I’ll be right back.”
“Awful Just awful what some people do.”
“Don’t be too hard on the woman. We don’t know anything about her. Who knows if the story Claire told us is even true?” We slid out of the booth. Don’t forget your walking stick.”
“What cane?” Patricia asked with a chuckle.
Her cane at first looked like a collage of brightly colored pieces of paper from a first-grade class art project. If one took the time to look, they would see it was a signed Andy Warhol piece. No telling how much it was worth or how she even acquired such artwork. Claire brought back the change and we left most of it there for the hard-working mom.
We headed toward the door. David, the manager hustled over to wish us well. As he does every time, he let us know he appreciates our business. The commotion from the baby-momma cut short our conversation.
Everyone in Rex’s watched as the mom stood, grabbed the baby off the table and let the man opposite her know her plans. “You don’t have to call the cops. I’m leaving.”
She didn’t shout the words, but we all heard her. It’s a small restaurant. Everyone stopped eating to watch the real-life drama play out in front of them for no extra charge.
Baby momma made it a few steps before the dad’s words made her stop. “You’re not taking Samantha. The court said I am to watch over her.”
Time stood still as we all waited to see what would happen next. If I had taken a poll, no one in the place would have guessed what happened.
“If you want the little rug-rat so bad you can have her.” At the last words she tossed the baby up in the air toward the young man.
A collective gasp came from each of us in the place. The dad was agile enough to catch to catch young Samantha with no harm being done. Baby Samantha giggled at the thrill of being tossed in the air. All of us sighed with relief. The mom turned toward the door and stomped out.
As she passed us, Patricia and I heard her as she muttered, “I’m tired of this crap. I don’t deserve this. I’ll kill them both. Bastards.”
We watched as she left Rex’s and turned to the left to walk down the sidewalk past the remaining stores.
I held the door as Miss Patricia walked through and we headed toward my car. I opened the passenger’s side door and she slowly ascended to her seat. Closing the Suburban’s door, I moved to my side and got in, started the engine and began to pull out of the parking spot.
“Go right and let’s see what happened to Miss Happy Addict.”
“Patricia, come on now. You don’t know she’s and addict.”
“You know what your problem is?”
I took a breath. “No ma’am, I guess I don’t know what my problem is. Let me guess, you want to tell me.”
“I don’t want to, but I have to. You won’t listen to anyone else. You’re too nice. That’s your problem. You think everyone is okay, and you always give them the benefit of the doubt.” Miss Patricia took a breath. She scanned the sidewalks to see if she could find her target. “Go right, please.”
“Miss Patricia, you know we go left to go home.”
“You’re right. I guess you can do what you want to.”
Now, I’m a bit slow. Some lessons take longer for me to learn than others. One rule I do know, when a woman says, “You can do what you want to.”, what you want to do better be what she wants. I turned to the right.
We could see all the way to the end of the parking lot. No baby momma.
Patricia pointed to a break in the line of stores. “Go there.”
I turned left as instructed. The windows on the side are tinted darker than the windshield. Miss Patricia lowered her window so she could see better. At the back of the stores I stopped to get a reading of what to do next.
We heard the faint sound of a small engine. To our right, about half-way down the line of stores baby momma was making her way on a moped scooter. It would have been a lot easier if she was sober, or not high. Every few feet she would tip over. In the three episodes we witnessed she was able to jump off once but did a mini crash the other two times.
“Go right. Let’s see what she’s up to.”
“Up to? She’s making a break for it. Now we know. Let’s turn left and I’ll take you home.”
“Did you hear her? She’s going to kill that baby. We have to do something.” Miss Patricia was set with a rock-hard determination to chase after baby momma. In for a penny, I suppose. I turned right.
We could both see the young addict had righted the moped and mounted again. It took a couple of tries but she was able to finally get both feet up on the running board and make progress again.
She turned to see us following her and she sped up.
“Catch her,” Miss Patricia said.
I guessed she wanted to talk to the young lady. If I knew what Miss Patricia had planned, I would have put the car in reverse.
“Come on, slow poke, catch her.”
I pressed the gas pedal a little harder. The eight cylinders kicked in and I sped up. As we progressed, baby momma kept looking back. Paranoia happens with drug users.
We were so close I could see the stickers on the back fender. It was a parking permit for SMU, the university close by. This wasn’t even her scooter. Big surprise.
The bigger surprise came when Miss Patricia said, “Speed up.”
I did. My passenger grabbed her Andy Warhol cane, stuck it out the window and nudged baby momma off to the right. Unfortunately for her there was a light pole that wasn’t going to move.
In the rear-view mirror, I saw the results of the crash. I took my foot off the accelerator.
“I’m ready to go home now, please.”
“Miss Patricia, we need to go back and check on her,” I said as the car rolled to a stop.
“Do what you want.” After a slight pause, “After you take me home.”
Chapter 2
Rumor has it when Noah stepped off the Ark and wanted a cup of coffee, he dropped by Kuby’s. That seems a bit of a stretch, but the German deli / restaurant has been here at least since Columbus. It’s tucked into the corner of Snyder Plaza. Some of the staff has been here since day one and that’s the way the regulars like it.
Imagine a diner that fell out of a time machine, except the booths haven’t been updated since Elvis sang Jesus Loves Me in Sunday School. Yes, Elvis went to church.
“Thank you for picking me up. I know this is not normal,” the 80+ year old sat across from the table from me. She was sipping on a cup of coffee black as night. It was good tasting. Her cup of joe matched mine.
“I don’t mean to be nosey, but don’t you have a regular driver for your daily errands?” I asked.
My plate was dropped in front of me by Martha. I’m pretty sure Martha lived in the supply room. She was always here. She smiled and refreshed our cups. Did she ask if we wanted decaf? In her world, you drank coffee. Martha didn’t serve dark water.
I looked up at Miss Patricia. She was holding back. I could tell. “Well? Are you going to answer me?”
“She died. I need to find a new driver,” Miss Patricia brushed back a lose strand of hair as she answered as nonchalantly as if she was giving you a weather report.
Her answer caused a delay in me enjoying my two eggs over easy with ham and hash browns plus biscuits and gravy for good measure. “Died? What happen? You push her down the stairs?”
I thought it was funny. My breakfast partner did not. She looked at the table beside us as if she was thinking about joining them for breakfast.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I asked.
She took another sip and said, “After this you need to drop me off at the doctor’s office. They want to run some test. They told me I have to fast before the test.”
“I’m not sure you’re supposed to be drinking coffee.”
“Thank you, Doctor Kildare, they told me the same thing. That’s nonsense. Who can start a day without heaven’s nectar? Not this lady. If I don’t have my coffee, I get grumpy.”
Since my filter guy wasn’t quite awake yet I let this slip. “How can you tell the difference?” I laughed. She did not. Miss Patricia turned and dug into her purse. She brought out a newspaper. It wasn’t the whole issue, just the Metropolitan section of the Dallas Morning News.
She slid the paper over to my side of the table. I popped on my reading glasses. “What am I looking for?” “I bet you can figure it out, Sherlock.”
“Drink more coffee would you, and hurry,” I said.
Martha came by and filled up our cups again. I scanned the page and found a small article about the accident behind the stores. The lady was killed in a single person event.
“Don’t we already know this?”
Miss Patricia didn’t answer. She reached across the table and flipped the folded paper to the other side. She tapped the section of the page where the article continued. I read. Oh, I see. The lady in question was wanted for several crimes. She had walked out of the Frank Crowley Courthouse. Her parents probably weren’t happy since they backed the bail. It was more than I paid for my last house.
I looked up from my reading. Miss Patricia was all smiles. “I told you something was wrong with her. It’s good she’s gone.”
I went back to eating my eggs and didn’t say a word. The silence lasted until I cleaned the plate of any yolk with the last bit of biscuit. The final drink of hot java and I was ready to drop off Miss Patricia at the doctor’s office. We rode to the doctor’s office in silence. We’re comfortable with not speaking all the time. Sometimes we ride even with the radio off.
We pulled up to the office. The valet opened the door for Miss Patricia. Before she exited the vehicle as they say, she looked at me. “Are you mad at me?”
“No ma’am.”
“She was not a good person. She was going to hurt that baby. I couldn’t let that happen,” Miss Patricia said. I thought it was odd to talk about this in front of the valet, but he was looking behind us at the Corvette pulling under the overhang. Two hours later I picked her up and took her home. We didn’t say hardly a word on the fifteen-minute ride to her house.
I finished the day cleaning up a few items from work then went home after a brisk work-out. I’m not sure what time it was but I heard my cell phone beep. I keep my cell in the other room since I’m such a light sleeper. In the morning I read the text message. “Are we still on for dinner Thursday night?”
That’s how I became the driver for the oldest vigilante in Dallas, Texas.