Free Smoky Joe's Cafe by Bryce Courtenay Page B

her. Once I lost me block and took the Confederate and pushed the blade into her dressing-gown where her navel was. ‘Go on, push,’ she says real quiet, her eyes locked onto mine, ‘Kill me and we’ll both be out of our misery.’
    I came so flamin’ close to pushing the blade home that I start to tremble just thinking about it. Now I see me hand is half lifted to hit her. She and the kid are everything in the world I love, and all I’ve ever given her is grief. I sigh, and my hand drops to my side. ‘Okay, we’ll lock the cafe for the afternoon.’
    â€˜No,’ she says, ‘we need the money.’
    â€˜Well, suit yerself, I’m going to the meeting.’
    â€˜Right! Off you go then. Go on!’ She points to the door.
    â€˜Right, screw yiz!’
    â€˜Right, that’s it!’ Wendy shouts. ‘And don’t bother to come back. Go pack your things!’
    I’m real close to losing me block, ‘What? You threatening me, Wendy?’
    â€˜I’ve had enough, Thommo.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I can’t take any more, mate.’ She wipes both her eyes
with the side of her fist, ‘Mum and me own Smoky Joe’s, just bugger off, will ya!’
    â€˜Shit. The meeting, it’s for Anna!’ I yell. ‘The meeting’s for Anna.’ The words are hardly out of me mouth when I realise I’ve stuffed everything. I’m gunna have to tell her about last night right off.
    â€˜Anna?’ Wendy looks hard at me. ‘What about her?’
    â€˜Gettin’ her better. A bone-marrow transplant.’
    â€˜Thommo, you better be very careful what you say next,’ Wendy says quietly. Her voice is like ice.
    â€˜Yeah, well,’ is all I can think to say.
    The commercial traveller must have caught some of this, because I hear his chair scrape back. He gets up, folds his newspaper, ‘I’ll be off then,’ he says. He’s ordered coffee but I haven’t brought it yet. He comes over to the counter to pay.
    Wendy waves him away, ‘That’s all right. See you next time. Thanks for coming.’
    I try to grin, apologise. ‘Sorry, mate, bit of a domestic.’ He walks out, not saying anything. I guess he’s seen a few things in his time on the road.
    The three old-timers have already et and gorn. They’re all fast eaters. A plate of eggs, cuppa strong tea, four sugars, dash o’ milk, a fag and they’re off to wait for the pub to open.

    I go over to the commercial traveller’s table to clear the plates. He hasn’t touched the fried tomato. I must buy a thousand uneaten tomatoes every year. ‘Dead Toms’ Wendy calls them.
    Wendy starts to shut up the cafe. The doors are solid plate glass, no frames, they were her old man’s pride and joy. He’d polish them every morning with a chamois kept special for the purpose. ‘Same as on Woolworths in Narrandera,’ he’d say to anyone passing by, tapping the shining glass with the knuckle of his forefinger.
    He’d had ‘Smoky Joe’s Cafe’ written in grey and white imitation smoke, the smoke writing curling across the two doors. He brought the Italian signwriter up from Griffith. Told him to go for his life, it has to be perfect, spare no expense, Mario Lanza. Being a musical man that’s what he called all Eyetalians.
    The stainless-steel bolts shoot home, one at a time, and it’s Wendy and me alone. Shit, what am I gunna do?
    â€˜Now, what about Anna?’ she asks.
    â€˜You better sit down, love,’ I say, pointing to one of the tables. Then I tell her about last night. About Shorty’s proposal. I’m expecting any moment to wear the heavy glass ashtray on the table. She don’t say nothing, she’s
dead quiet, looking down, picking at one of her nails with t’other, her hands on her lap. Then, after a while, she looks up at me, a tear swells out her