Destination Hope - Book 5 - Reconciliation - Chapter 11

It's that time again. I pray my readers vote as God leads - not conforming to this world. Those who know me understand I reject identity politics and embrace the Biblical grounded wisdom of our nation's founders. They first declared, Abraham Lincoln restated, and I hold fast to the foundation stone, which makes America unique among the nations. That solid rock is the self-evident Truth - All men are created equal. The Constitution protects We the People of the United States, not the global village.

For new readers of this story, I linked Chapter 1. Chapters 2-4 are linked under September and Chapters 5-10 are linked under October.

Destination Hope – Book 5 – Reconciliation

A Novel By:

Charles J. Patricoff

Copyright © 2014 by Charles J. Patricoff. All rights reserved.

Chapter 11

Roberto’s Special

Reverend Dwight L. Moody trailed behind his dinner guests. He took deep breaths of the aromas tempting every fiber of his being. If he had a vice, it would be good food. He considered what he might enjoy. Everything they serve here is good. This is my favorite place.

His little group passed the lounge on their left. It appeared to Dwight every seat was occupied with cigar smoking, liquor consuming, well-dressed businessmen. However, his nose picked up the scent of his favorite dish and refocused his attention on his purpose for the evening. He might try something new and relish in a meal blended to perfection in a mouthwatering tomato sauce, seasoned with a pinch of this or that—he knew not what—but he knew he would not be disappointed.

“Will this table do, Signore?” The maître d’ motioned with his right hand. His mixed Italian and broken-English accent indicated to his hearers that he arrived from the old country not long ago, or he might be a well-rehearsed actor. Regardless, the potential diners shuffled to accept his offer.

Reverend Moody replied on behalf of his party. “Yes, sir, this will be fine.” He snapped his head to his left, made immediate eye contact with his child-burdened wife, and asked, “This will be fine, won’t it dear?”

Mrs. Emma Moody responded with a respectful tone. “Yes, Mr. Moody. This will suit us perfectly.” Mrs. Moody asked the maître d’, “Do you have a seat for my child?”

“But of course.” The maître d’ clapped his hands twice. Sporting a poor-fitting black suit, a young man, perhaps twelve years old, snapped to an awkward attention and then rushed to the maître d’s side. He said nothing. The maître d’ said, “An infant seat right away, Ramon.”

The youthful apprentice assigned to the wait staff offered a slight nod and partial bow. Straightening, he took a single step backwards, pivoted, performed a clumsy and incorrect military-facing movement, and rushed to the rear of the best Italian restaurant near Chicago’s lakefront.

Mrs. Moody patted the back of her fussy little Emma and offered the chair closest to the wall to her friend. “Do you mind, Ellie? If Little Emma needs any special attention, it will be easier on all of us if I’m near the aisle.”

Rubbing her hands over her two-days-past-due extension, Miss Eleanor Ellis said, “I’m sure I can squeeze in there, but I’m not so certain I’ll be able to get up again, especially if I eat a full order of Roberto’s Special I’ve heard so much about.”

The three friends laughed, and Eleanor wiggled her expanded frame into her seat. As she attempted to make herself comfortable, which grew more difficult, Ramon appeared and placed the infant chair at the table’s end, confirming the seating arrangements for the evening. Eleanor shook out her napkin and picked up the menu as Mrs. Moody settled into the seat next to her. Reverend D. L. Moody took his place across from his wife so the two could share the duty of attending to and entertaining their ten-month old daughter.

Eleanor set her menu aside. “I don’t need to look at this. I know what I want.”

A clap of thunder shook the building. A crash of breaking glass came from the kitchen. The startling dining disturbances were followed by a series of male and female voices shouting what sounded like spirited discussions mixed with a few accusations and questions concerning one’s heritage or upbringing. Eleanor said Emma, “I guess the kitchen help are cursing in Italian so as not to offend any of us.” The two women smirked and snorted until they burst with laughter.

Reverend Moody shook his head. Then, another louder atmospheric clash echoed overhead. He noticed hopeful diners crowding into the overstuffed waiting area by the restaurant’s entrance. “We sure got here at the right time. If we were a few minutes later, we might be trapped over there,” he pointed with his chin, “with those poor souls.”

Emma said, “Or worse, stuck outside. It sounds like there is going to be a downpour out there. It might hail.”

Little Emma fussed in her wooden seat. As if by some ancient instinct, Mrs. Moody reached for her daughter and stroked her soft, pudgy arm, adjusted the blankets forming a cushion around the child, and continued her prior thought without missing a beat. “I hope it stops raining by the time we’re finished eating. Some of those folks have a ravenous look on their faces. I’m afraid they’d throw us out into the street if we lingered long after dinner.”

Reverend D. L. Moody said, “No harm will come to any of my favorite ladies.” He leaned over and kissed Little Emma’s left hand. She jerked it away and began to cry.

“Now look what you did.” Emma raised her eyebrows at her husband.

Eleanor grinned.

“Can you believe this man, Ellie?” She said in a comforting tone to her daughter. “There, there little one. Your daddy may be hungry, but I won’t let him eat you.”

Reverend D. L. Moody folded his arms and leaned hard against the back of his chair. He half smiled, as if accepting his defeat.

The kitchen door swung open and out popped a member of the wait staff carrying a large, oval shaped tray filled with wonderful smelling dishes. Wafting stimuli of tomato, basil, oregano, and garlic caused even Little Emma’s nostrils to flare. Reverend Moody was pleased to see Eleanor with her eyes closed. He assumed she savored all of the aromas, imagining the pleasures that might soon play in her mouth. He asked, “What do you think, Ellie?”

“I can’t wait.” She opened her eyes.

“Do you see that young couple sharing each other’s entrées?”

Both Eleanor and Ellie turned to see.

“When Nathaniel gets here, you’ll have to enjoy a moment like that with him.”

For the first time in over four years, Nathaniel Graham walked the streets of a town without any attachments. No one ordered him, shouted at him, or prodded him to go this or that way. He strolled. He could choose how he would use time, energy, and his meager resources. He savored the moment as if he enjoyed a well-prepared sirloin. He enjoyed the taste of liberty. After dinner, he walked and enjoyed each self-directed step, even though he limped. Physical freedom felt warm inside, just as the summer evening enveloped him in a welcoming embrace. He took deep breaths of fresh, God-provided free air. He squared his shoulders with new resolve and almost marched to the Sandusky, Ohio Union Station.

He entered the building and walked toward the iron-barred ticket purchase window. As he crossed the floor, he noticed that no one paid him any attention. He welcomed the fact that he was just another man, like any other traveler, not a former member of the Confederate Army. He couldn’t wait to get on the nine o’clock, westbound train to Chicago, Illinois.

“Where to, friend?”

Yesterday, I was his enemy. Now, he calls me, “friend.” “Chicago, please. The nine p.m. train.”

The attendant sifted through some papers and examined a schedule. “Chicago, eh? Depending on the weather, you should arrive around six tomorrow morning. Sleeping compartment?”

Knowing his tight financial condition, Nathaniel said, “The regular fare will be fine, sir.”

The agent leaned away from the iron bars. With a squint in his right eye, he asked, “Where you from? Travelers from around these parts never call me, ‘sir.’ Your accent sounds like you’re from below the Mason-Dixon Line.”

“Yes, sir, that is correct.”

“Released prisoner? We saw a bunch of you fellas, today.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel tried to bite back the time-tested honor, but habits are hard to break. “Earlier today,” he said.

“Do you have your government travel voucher?”

Nathaniel fumbled for his envelope tucked in his inside jacket pocket. “I have it right here.”  He handed the papers authorizing his release and government commitment to reimburse the railroad to the attendant.

The railroad employee scanned the documents. “Mr. Graham, I’m afraid you’ve got a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Your paperwork grants you passage from here to Franklin, Tennessee. I can’t use this.” He held up the travel invoice.

“Do I have to use it? Can’t I purchase my own passage to Chicago?”

“Don’t you want to go home?”

“My home is in Chicago, now.”

“Of all you Rebel prisoners that have come through here, you’re the first to want to stay in the North.”

“Well, my bride waits for me in Chicago.  Wherever she is that’s home.”

“All right, then. That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

Grateful for the quick resolution, Nathaniel paid the near one-month’s salary price, another act of a free man.

There’s nothing I’d love more, Eleanor thought. “I just hope we get to share a meal.”

“Have you heard from Ohio?” Reverend Moody asked.

“Not in over a week.”

Ramon interrupted by presenting a pitcher of water and began filling their respective glasses.

It seemed Mrs. Emma Moody ignored the boy’s presence. “I’m sorry, Ellie.”

Eleanor smiled at her friend.

Reverend Moody asked, “What do you plan to do?”

Eleanor placed her right hand on her abdomen. “I imagine I’ll be pretty busy here real soon. By the way, thank you both for tolerating my craving for Italian food.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Reverend Moody teased and offered a toothy grin. “Any excuse I can have to eat here, I’ll take it. Look at this place. It’s more active than a bee hive. There isn’t a table available, and it’s the middle of the week in a stressed economy. It serves the best tasting food in town, and everyone knows it.”

“Thank you for your kind endorsement, Signore.” The waiter seemed to appear out of nowhere. “May I offer you a drink this evening—a glass of our very fine house wine perhaps?”

Reverend Moody looked at the ladies, then replied for all of them, “No, thank you. Water is fine. But I believe we are ready to order.”

“Very well, Signore.” The waiter addressed Eleanor. “Madam.”

Eleanor said, “I’ll have Roberto’s Special.”

“Excellent choice.” He winked at Eleanor, then addressed Emma. “And you?”

“We,” she pointed at Little Emma, “will share your spaghetti and meatballs.”

Again, he nodded his approval and turned to Reverend Moody, “And you, Signore?”

Reverend Moody said, “I would like the Chicken Parmesan.”

This time the maître d offered no assurances. He stood at a near perfect attention and said, “I will place your order and come back in a few minutes to check on you.” With that, he departed, marched to the kitchen, and disappeared.

Reverend Moody restated his earlier question. “So, Ellie, after the baby arrives and you’re back on your feet, what do you plan to do?”

Eleanor let a sigh escape.  “I suppose, it depends.”

Mrs. Emma Moody stroked her daughter’s pink cheek. “On what?”

Eleanor’s face rose. “Not what—whom.”

“Nathaniel?” Emma asked.

Eleanor nodded.

Reverend Moody shook out his snowy-white napkin. “Well, I have it on good authority,” he placed the napkin in his lap and smoothed it. “The government is closing all the prisoner-of-war camps and releasing all but the worst offenders.”

Eleanor exhaled. “That’s one of the things I fear.”

Ramon appeared and set a basket of fresh-baked bread on the table, along with a saucer-size plate holding a slab of butter.  Then, he disappeared.

With a soft tone, Mrs. Moody asked, “What is it, Eleanor?”

Seconds passed in silence. It seemed like minutes. Another boom of thunder rolled overhead and trailed to the east, stretching over the nearby great lake. How do I answer?

Eleanor noticed a plump lady with thick, shoulder-length gray hair going from table-to-table like a bee seeking nectar from a spreading flower bed. Eleanor wondered if she happened to be the owner’s wife. Or, maybe she’s the owner, dressed like that in a formal, black-evening gown.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the apparent restaurant’s social director, Eleanor knew she must complete her answer for her two friends. “When I don’t hear from him, I wonder if he’s gotten cold feet, or is in trouble with the Federal authorities again.”  Suddenly, she shot an angry dart toward Reverend Moody. “What is it about you preachers? You always seem to think you have to lead some cause for Christ.”

“Eleanor, please.” Emma touched her friends hand.

Reverend Moody’s entire body stiffened, and again he pressed against the back of his chair.

Saving the evening, the aging matron reached the Moody party’s table. In a heavy Italian accent, she said, “How wonderful to see you here on this wild and stormy night, Reverend Moody.” She dipped her head toward Emma, “And Mrs. Moody.” She ogled over Little Emma, then said to Eleanor, “And it looks like we’re about to have another new arrival real soon. How are you feeling, Miss Ellis?”

Eleanor was puzzled. Did we meet?

“If you need anything, be sure to let me, Mrs. DéJordano, know. Enjoy your dinner.” And with that she moved to another table. As Mrs. DéJordano paid special, individual attention to each member of that party, too, Eleanor noted the black-satin bow tied to perfection on the back of her dress—a touch her mother would have added. Eleanor let the sad memory slip away and mused aloud, “I wonder how she knew me.”

“I suppose that would be my fault, too,” D. L. Moody confessed. “I let Mrs. DéJordano know that you would be our guest for dinner when I made the reservation. I know it’s her practice to go out of her way to make every patron feel at home.”

“This is her business?”

“Yes Eleanor,” Emma confirmed. “The war has changed everything.”

“I should say so. I can’t tell you how many folks thought Mother and I were crazy to open our little dress shop. But I’m so grateful we did. I’m afraid we would have starved to death if not for the little income it generated.”

Emma said, “But then, you made it into a successful little operation.”

Eleanor smiled. “We did okay.”

Another waiter passed, carrying a tray full of dinners. An odor of seafood invaded Eleanor’s oversensitive sense of smell. “Oh, dear Lord. That’s awful.” She felt a pang. “I’m afraid I just lost my appetite.”

“It used to happen to me all the time with this one.” Emma gestured to her now sleeping infant. “Give it a minute. It’ll pass.”

As Eleanor took a few deep breathes, Reverend Moody inserted, “I understand your brother, Paul, has acquired the shop.”

“That’s correct. He has big plans for it. He told me he’s changing the layout, adding men’s clothing, and renaming the store The Metropolitan. He hopes to open his new venture within the next few months.” Eleanor said softly to Reverend Moody, “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Reverend Moody nodded.

Accepting his transacted forgiveness, Eleanor said, “I guess to answer your earlier question, when the baby is strong enough to travel, we will go to Sandusky, Ohio. Maybe I can help Mr. Graham get out of prison so we can be a family.”

“What about your brothers?”

“Paul has made it clear he doesn’t believe my story. And he sure objects to my future—married to a former Rebel. John is stationed somewhere along the North Carolina coast, so he’s occupied while he occupies. We,” she rubbed her stomach, “are on our own.”

Their waiter arrived with the three dinners and distributed them. “Will there be anything else?”

The three adults gazed at each other and all shook their heads. Reverend Moody answered, “No, sir. I think we have everything.”

“Very well, I’ll come back in a little while to see how everything is. Enjoy.”

After a hurried blessing, the table grew noticeably quiet, except for abundant, imperceptible noises coming from the kitchen, surrounding background conversations, and their almost sinful oohs, ahhs, umms, and an occasional, “Thank you, Lord. This is so good.”

Eleanor swallowed a near gluttonous amount of Roberto’s Special and felt another sudden pang. It was a bit more intense than the one before. Another clap of thunder seemed to shake the entire town. Rain fell so hard it sounded like a dozen Mexican hat dancers performed on the restaurant’s roof.

Mrs. DéJordano sashayed to their table. “Is everything cooked to your satisfaction?”

Everyone had a mouthful and simply nodded and grunted their assent.

“Can I get anyone anything?”

Eleanor swallowed another large mouthful of tasty pasta while holding up her hand. She felt a little moisture and another gripping pang, which etched wrinkles across her brow. She dropped her fork to the floor

“What is it, Miss Ellis?” Mrs. DéJordano asked. “Is something wrong with your dinner? What can I get you?”

A vicious cramp assaulted Eleanor’s lower abdomen. “I’m afraid…” She gasped for air. “…if you don’t…” She grabbed the table, shaking every place setting. “…want me to have this baby right here…I think we need to leave…” She panted like a dog in midsummer. “…now.”

Eyes darted, heads turned and Mrs. DéJordano offered, “My covered carriage is tied up behind the kitchen. Do you think you can make it?”

Emma began to gather up her baby and her things. “Dwight, you take Little Emma home. I’ll ride with Ellie to the hospital.”

“But what about dinner?”

The three women looked at the good reverend with a combined stare of disbelief and anger. Emma shook her head as if to wonder why she married this man. Mrs. DéJordano grabbed the back of Eleanor’s chair with one hand and offered assistance with the other. Nearby patrons jumped out of their seats and made room for Eleanor to pass.

A hard, crippling pain shot through Eleanor’s back and crossed through her abdomen. She doubled over. Catching her breath, she cried, “We better go.” A trail of milky-gray water followed as she crossed the Italian marble tile and entered the kitchen.

A rain soaked telegraph carrier reached the Moody residence and dismounted. He took refuge under the front porch overhang. He shook from the cold biting through his bones. Gathering his energy, he knocked on the front door and waited. After a prolonged minute, he knocked again and inclined his ear to hear if there might be detectable movement inside. Nothing. The teenage courier removed the telegraph office’s official notepad from his canvas pouch. With his issued pencil, he scratched out the required, standard, Sorry I missed you notice. He explained that he tried to deliver a telegram at approximately seven in the evening and that Miss Eleanor Ellis could pick it up the next business day at the downtown Chicago office.

He tried the front, outer door and found it unlocked. As duty required, he unlatched the wood-framed door and stuck the note into the jam. Shivering, he shut the door, rushed to his horse, and rode off into the fitful night.

Wind buffeted the unlatched door and sucked it wide open.

Again, thanks for reading. I am unapologetically Pro-Life. After 60 million babies murdered in America, it's past time for this demonic practice to end. Vote.

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