A Piedmont Porchlight Story
Pete McDowell was a man of habits. Not bad habits, particularly. Just habits.
He got up every morning at six, shaved whether he needed to or not, and drove into Piedmont for coffee at Elevated Grounds on Centre Avenue. He’d been doing it long enough that Brandon Moore, who owned the place, could generally tell what time it was by the sound of Pete coming through the door.
Seven fifteen. Monday through Saturday. Sunday was reserved for church, which Pete attended faithfully over at the Holiness Church on Hughes Street, although he maintained that some of the sermons lasted longer than the Israelites’ forty years in the wilderness.
Pete drank his coffee black. No sugar. No cream. No foolishness. He considered flavored coffee an unnecessary complication in an already complicated world. Brandon once offered him a caramel macchiato. Pete looked at him like he’d suggested putting mayonnaise in the communion wine.
“Son,” he said, “if I want dessert, I’ll order pie.”
And that settled that.
⁂
Elevated Grounds was a pleasant little place. There were flowers out front, tables where folks could sit and watch Centre Avenue go about its business, and a bright red British telephone booth that looked as though it had wandered over from London and decided Alabama suited it better.
Pete liked the place. He liked the coffee. He liked Brandon. And he especially liked the fact that nobody tried to sell him a breakfast sandwich containing avocado. Then, one October morning, he walked in and found a new girl behind the counter.
She was maybe thirty. Dark hair pulled back. Pleasant smile. Name tag reading DIANNE.
“Morning, Mr. McDowell,” she said.
Pete stopped. “Morning.”
“Your usual?” He looked at her. “Reckon so.”
“Black coffee. Large.”
“That’s right.”
She poured it and handed him the cup. “Careful. It’s hot.”
Pete took the coffee. “Have we met?”
Dianne smiled. “Not yet.”
Pete considered that an odd answer. But he was seventy-three years old, and he’d learned that young people said all sorts of peculiar things.
He paid and took his usual seat by the window.
⁂
The next morning, Dianne had his coffee ready before he reached the counter. “Morning, Pete.”
“Morning.”
“Sleep any better last night?”
Pete stopped. “Beg pardon?”
“Your shoulder. It was bothering you yesterday.”
Pete stared at her. He hadn’t mentioned his shoulder to anybody. Not even Brandon. It had been aching for three days, an old injury he’d picked up working at the sawmill.
“How’d you know about that?”
Dianne looked mildly surprised. “You told me.”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
She frowned. “Well, I must’ve misunderstood.”
Pete took his coffee. He sat down. And for the first time in several years, he forgot to read the newspaper.
⁂
By Friday, Pete had begun to look forward to seeing Dianne. Not in any romantic sense. He was old enough to be her grandfather for goodness sake, and besides, he hadn’t been interested in that sort of foolishness since his wife Martha passed away.
But there was something comforting about the girl. She listened. She remembered things. She asked after people Pete hadn’t thought about in years.
One morning, she said, “You ever hear from your brother?”
Pete nearly spilled his coffee. “My brother?”
“Raymond.”
Pete looked at her. “Raymond’s been dead since 1984.”
Dianne’s expression changed. For the first time, she seemed genuinely troubled.
“Oh,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
Pete watched her. “How’d you know his name?”
She looked down at the counter. “I suppose somebody mentioned him.”
But Pete knew better. Nobody had mentioned Raymond McDowell in years. Not around him, anyway.
⁂
That afternoon, Pete asked Brandon about the new girl. “Where’d you find Dianne?”
Brandon looked up from what he was doing. “Dianne?”
“Your new barista.”
Brandon smiled. “Oh, she’s been a tremendous help.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Not sure, exactly. Said she’d lived around here before.”
“Before what?”
Brandon shrugged. “Before she came back, I reckon.”
Pete didn’t much care for that answer. “How long’s she been working here?”
“About a week.”
“Got references?”
Brandon laughed. “Pete, you planning to hire her away from me?”
“No. Just curious.”
“Well, she’s good at her job. Customers like her. And she remembers everybody’s order.”
Pete looked toward the counter. Dianne was wiping down the espresso machine. She glanced up. And smiled at him. As though she’d heard every word.
⁂
The following Monday, Pete arrived at seven fifteen. Dianne was waiting.
“Morning, Pete.”
“Morning.”
“Black coffee?”
“Please.”
She handed him his cup. Then she said something that made his stomach turn over.
“You ought to call your daughter today.”
Pete looked at her. “My daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Dianne hesitated. “Just think she’d like to hear from you.”
Pete frowned. His daughter, Caroline, lived in Birmingham. They talked every Sunday evening. He’d spoken to her the night before.
“Everything all right with Caroline?”
Dianne looked away. “I’d call her, Pete.”
He went to his table. Sat down. And called Caroline.
She answered on the third ring. “Daddy?”
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just checking on you.”
There was a pause. Then Caroline laughed. “Well, that’s sweet. I’m fine.”
They talked a few minutes. Pete hung up feeling foolish. But that afternoon, Caroline called him back. She’d been in an automobile accident. Nothing serious, thank the Lord. A fellow had run a red light and struck her car. She was shaken up but unhurt.
“Daddy,” she said, “I don’t know why you called this morning, but I’m glad you did.”
Pete sat very still.
“So am I, baby.”
⁂
The next morning, Pete went straight to the counter.
“Dianne.”
“Morning, Pete.”
“How’d you know?”
She looked at him. “Know what?”
“About Caroline.”
Dianne didn’t answer.
“She was in an accident yesterday.”
“I know.”
Pete felt the blood drain from his face. “How?”
Dianne looked toward the window. “Sometimes I remember things.”
“What things?”
She was quiet. “Things that haven’t happened yet.”
Pete stared at her. “That don’t make any sense.”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t.”
“Then why’d you tell me to call Caroline?”
Dianne looked back at him. “Because last time, you didn’t.”
⁂
Now, there’s a statement that ought to give a man pause.
Last time.
Pete stood there trying to decide whether he’d heard her correctly. “What do you mean, last time?”
Dianne looked troubled. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Well, you did.”
She glanced toward Brandon, who was busy with another customer. Then she leaned closer.
“Pete, have you ever had a dream that felt like a memory?”
He nodded slowly. “Suppose so.”
“Have you ever remembered something that never happened?”
Pete didn’t answer. Because he had. For years, he’d occasionally dreamed of his brother Raymond. Not the way Raymond had died. Not the funeral. Something else. A fishing trip. The two of them sitting beside Terrapin Creek on a warm October afternoon.
Raymond laughing. Pete telling him something. And then the dream would change. Raymond would turn toward him and say, You oughtn’t have let me go. Pete hadn’t thought about that dream in months.
Until now.
⁂
“Raymond,” Pete whispered.
Dianne nodded.
Pete gripped the counter. “What do you know about Raymond?”
She looked at him sadly. “More than you remember.”
Pete felt something cold move through him. “Then tell me.”
Dianne shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you haven’t told me yet.”
Pete stared at her. “Girl, you’re talking in circles.”
She smiled faintly. “Time does that sometimes.”
⁂
That evening, Pete went home and opened an old cedar chest he’d kept in the spare bedroom. Inside were pictures. Letters. A few of Martha’s things. And a small envelope containing Raymond’s watch.
The watch had stopped at 4:17. It had been found among his belongings after the accident. Raymond had died in 1984 when his truck went off a narrow road outside Piedmont. Pete had always believed his brother fell asleep at the wheel. But now, holding that watch, he remembered something else.
An argument. The two brothers standing beside Raymond’s truck. Angry words. Raymond saying he was leaving town. Pete telling him to go ahead. Then Raymond driving away.
Pete had never told anybody about that argument. Not Martha. Not Caroline. Nobody.
And he’d spent forty-two years wishing he’d called his brother back.
⁂
The next morning, Dianne wasn’t at Elevated Grounds. Brandon was behind the counter.
“Where’s Dianne?”
“Off today.”
“She sick?”
“Don’t think so.”
“When’s she coming back?”
Brandon shrugged. “Tomorrow, I expect.”
Pete took his coffee. Sat at his usual table. And waited. The following morning, Dianne was there.
“Morning, Pete.”
He walked straight to the counter. “I remember.”
Dianne nodded. “I know.”
“We had an argument.”
“Yes.”
“Raymond drove off mad.”
“Yes.”
Pete swallowed. “And I let him.”
Dianne looked at him. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
Pete shook his head. “That’s what everybody says.”
“But you never believed it.”
“No.”
She reached beneath the counter. And placed something beside his coffee. A small silver pocket watch. Pete stared. It was Raymond’s watch. The same watch he’d left in the cedar chest. He picked it up. The hands were moving.
4:16.
4:17.
4:18.
Pete looked at Dianne. “How’d you get this?”
She smiled sadly. “Raymond asked me to give it to you.”
Pete couldn’t speak. “He wanted you to know something.”
“What?”
Dianne leaned closer. “He wasn’t angry with you when he died.”
Pete’s eyes filled. “He wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Then why’d he leave?”
“Because he was angry with himself.”
Pete looked down at the watch. It was still ticking.
“And he wanted you to stop blaming yourself.”
⁂
Pete sat at his usual table for a long time that morning. He didn’t read the newspaper. Didn’t drink much coffee. Just sat holding Raymond’s watch. When he finally looked up, Dianne was standing beside him.
“Pete?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something else.”
He waited.
“Tomorrow morning, don’t come in at seven fifteen.”
Pete frowned. “Why not?”
“Come at seven thirty.”
“What’s fifteen minutes matter?”
Dianne looked toward the front windows. “Sometimes it matters a great deal.”
Pete studied her face. “Something going to happen?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“What?”
Dianne smiled. “You’ll see.”
⁂
The next morning, Pete arrived at seven thirty. Not seven fifteen. He’d sat in his car down the street for fifteen minutes, feeling like the world’s oldest fool. When he walked into Elevated Grounds, Brandon was behind the counter.
Dianne wasn’t there.
“Morning, Pete.”
“Morning. Where’s Dianne?”
Brandon looked puzzled. “Who?”
Pete stared at him. “Dianne Reynolds. Your barista.”
Brandon frowned. “Pete, I don’t have anybody working here by that name.”
Pete felt the room tilt. “She’s been here two weeks!”
Brandon shook his head. “Been me and the regular crew all month.”
Pete looked around. The counter. The espresso machine. The tables. Everything exactly as it had been.
Except Dianne.
He reached into his pocket. Raymond’s watch was still there. Ticking. Brandon looked at it.
“That’s a nice old watch.”
Pete swallowed. “Belonged to my brother.”
“Well, it’s keeping good time.”
Pete looked down. The hands showed seven thirty-one.
⁂
That afternoon, Pete learned what had happened. At seven seventeen that morning, a delivery truck had lost control on Centre Avenue. It jumped the curb. Struck a planter. And crashed into the front of Elevated Grounds.
Nobody was hurt. Brandon had been in the back. The regular customers hadn’t arrived yet. But the truck had struck the very table where Pete sat every morning. At seven fifteen.
Pete went home. Sat in his kitchen. And thought about Dianne Reynolds. The girl who’d remembered his coffee. His shoulder. His brother. His daughter. And a morning that hadn’t happened yet.
He wondered who she was. Where she’d come from. And why she’d chosen him.
⁂
Now, I don’t know what to make of Pete McDowell’s story. Neither does Pete. He still goes to Elevated Grounds every morning. Still drinks his coffee black. Still sits by the window. Although he chose a different table after the accident.
And he still carries Raymond’s watch. Says it keeps better time than anything he’s ever owned. But there’s one thing Pete hasn’t told Brandon. Or anybody else, for that matter.
One morning, about a week after Dianne disappeared, he found a note tucked beneath his coffee cup. No envelope. No signature. Just six words written in a neat, feminine hand.
Next time, don’t wait so long.
Pete read it twice. Then he folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. And that evening, for the first time in forty-two years, he dreamed about Raymond without the argument.
They were sitting beside Terrapin Creek. The sun was warm. The fish weren’t biting. And Raymond was laughing. Pete woke up smiling.
Which, considering everything, seemed a pretty good way to start the day.
⁂
