Free Gilbert Morris by The Angel of Bastogne Page A

the sleepy-eyed clerk, “Could we get a meal? Where’s the best place to eat around here?”
    â€œThe Elite Café. It’s the best place. It’s the worst place, too.” He grinned and said, “It’s the only place that’ll be open this time of the night. Don’t eat the steak.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with it?”
    â€œThey’re awful.” The clerk was a young, pimply-faced man with the beginnings of a beard that was a mistake. He probably grew it, Ben thought, to hide his complexion and to give him a little maturity, but it seems to emphasize both the complexion and the immaturity.
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œRight down the street there, three blocks, and it’s right on the highway. You can’t miss it. It’ll have a sign outside: ‘Mom’s Place.’”
    â€œYou know what Hemingway said about that, don’t you?” Charlene said. “He said, ‘Never play cards with a man called Doc and never eat at a place called Mom’s.’”
    â€œWell, we got candy bars and cheese and crackers in the machine.”
    â€œI guess we’ll try Mom’s,” Ben said.
    The two left the motel, and as they walked along, Ben saw that the town itself basically straddled the highway. It was, more or less, a strip mall with a few side streets. “I’d hate to live in this place,” he said.
    â€œProbably some pretty nice people here.”
    â€œBut it’s so dreary.”
    â€œSome of them probably think it’s a great place to live. They’d hate it if you made them live in Chicago or any other big city.”
    â€œWell, there’s Mom’s Place. I hope the Board of Health has been keeping a close watch.”
    Mom’s Place was a storefront café with the lights shining out into the gloomy darkness that had fallen now. When they stepped inside, the warmth came at them with a rush, and Ben said, “Well, it smells good.”
    Mom’s Place consisted of one large room with a door leading to the kitchen. There were ten tables with tablecloths that didn’t match, nor did some of the chairs. A radio was playing country western music, and Ben grinned wryly. “What

a break. We get music with our dinner. I don’t think there’s going to be a hostess. How about right over here?”
    The two sat down at a table that was covered with a red and white checked tablecloth. The toothpicks were in an empty Tabasco bottle, and the salt and pepper shakers were in enormous aluminum containers. An oversized bottle of Tabasco sauce completed the condiments.
    Three of the tables were occupied, two of them by couples and one by a solitary man who looked like a truck driver. All of them had turned their attention to the newcomers, and the truck driver called out, “Mom! Customers!”
    The swinging door to the kitchen opened, and a short woman, round as a beach ball, came out. She was in her late fifties, and her hair was drawn back in a bun. She wore no makeup and no ring. The sleeves of her dress came down to her wrists, and the hem of her dress was well below her knees. “Good to see you. Pretty cold out tonight.”
    â€œIt’s getting worse, I think,” Ben said.
    â€œYou two stayin’ over?”
    â€œThe weather got us, so we’ll have to stay until it clears up.”
    â€œWell, hope you enjoy your stay.” The woman had a moon-round face and large brown eyes, also round. She was pleasant-looking and said, “What can I bring you?”
    â€œDo you have a menu?”
    â€œThere it is on the wall.”
    Ben and Charlene turned to see a chalkboard with the selections available. Ben studied them and said, “I guess I’ll have the pork roast.”
    â€œWe got potatoes and carrots with that and fresh baked bread.”
    â€œI’ll have the same,” Charlene said quickly.
    â€œWhat’ll you have to drink?”
    â€œCoffee