He did not look at the laminated menu. His thumb stayed on the rim of his water glass, tracing the pattern in the cheap glass.
“Richard has always watched everyone in this town,” I replied, keeping my voice low so the people at the counter would not hear. “He thinks the bank gives him the right to do it. He thinks he owns the ground we walk on.”
The waitress, Betty, brought us two glasses of sweet iced tea and a basket of warm cornbread. She gave Daniel a long, curious look before she wrote down our order of chicken salad.
She had known us both when we were young, back before the war took him away, but she did not say a word about the fifty-five years that had passed. She just wiped the table with a damp cloth and hurried back to the safety of the cash register. I watched her whisper something to the short-order cook behind the pass-through window.
Before she could return with our food, the front door opened, and Richard walked in. His loud, booming voice carried easily over the clatter of heavy plates and the low hum of the kitchen refrigerator.
