Part 7

After that, Clara packed up the U-Haul and disappeared.

She organized exhibitions and oversaw installations. She built relationships with collectors, critics, and journalists. She led the artistic direction, planned exhibitions, and met all the artists of the present: the great, the not-so-great, the fads, and the impetuous young and rich who were really working hard at their craft.

Sometimes, late at night, she sent a message, and was surprised to see Ethan typing, and she sent him pictures of the art, and he would send her pictures of his dinner and his dog. And they continued with the postcards, but felt just like back then at the airport, with the gestures being out of place now. And slowly, the cards stopped, and the pictures stopped, and the three burbly dots on the phone screen stopped. And they worked long days, nights, and weekends to numb the emptiness and forget.

2025

The red sun was reaching down toward the horizon when she parked outside Frank’s Diner. The place changed. Someone paved the gravel parking-lot, rebuilt the façade, and painted the outside orange with black lines like the cracked ice pattern like the wooden Chinese windows. The old-fashioned neon signs read “Flat Coke on Tap,” and “The Greaseburger Country.” Clara read the signs a little puzzled, and wondered whether there still was a Frank.

Inside, few old couples sharing a dessert and a young man drank a beer at the bar. Besides that, the place was empty. A young girl in an orange apron and a nametag that read “Beth” walked up to Clara’s table.

“What can I get you, hon?”

“May I ask, what’s a Greaseburger?”

“It’s the newest thing. A lean beef hamburger with baked bone marrow as the spread.”

“Sounds terrible. I’ll have that with extra pickles, also on the side, and fries, and a large flat coke.”

“Perfect. Just so you know, the flat coke has maple syrup in it. It’s iced tea kinda thing.”

***

“Here we are,” said Beth, and set the plate down.

“Wow. That’s a lumberjack portion.” Clara smiled when Beth put down the plate.

“Yes, it is.”

“I hope I won’t get fined if I don’t finish.”

“I’ll check with the manager.” Beth smiled and put her hand on Clara’s arm. “Enjoy,” she said and walked away.

Game seven was playing on the TV as Clara spread the bone marrow over the bun and bit into the best hamburger she had ever had. When she drank the flat coke, her whole past walked in on her with all its small moments that would never return: the smell of paint in her hair, the schoolbooks and cigarettes, and the’80s music.

“How is everything?”

“Just wonderful. I can’t believe this place is still standing. Does Frank still run it?”

“No. No. Frank’s retired. There is a new owner.”

“And what’s with the flat coke?”

“Well, it turns out people came here more for the flat coke than the food. Ethan told me that it started with a broken soda machine, and grew into like a nostalgia thing.”

“It sure did. Did you say ‘Ethan’?”

“Yes, the owner.” Beth pointed her pencil over her shoulder toward the kitchen.

“Ethan? Ethan is… here?” Clara nodded toward the kitchen window.

“Yes. Do you know him? I can get him if you want?”

“Huh.”

“Huh?”

“Yes, huh, as in, ‘I can’t believe Ethan would be the one to buy this place’ huh.” Clara exhaled and lingered for a moment. “Yes. Please do ask him to come out. Tell him an old friend stopped by.”