Under the placemat was a second document, the Last Will and Testament of Walter J. Hammond, and Mr. Kline turned it so I could see the second page. My name was on it. So was the daughters. And next to her name, in Mr. Hammonds own hand, were four words. Learn kindness from Denise.
The daughter read them over my shoulder, and then she sat down hard on a counter stool and started to cry.
Mr. Kline explained it plain, in booth six, at 6:15 in the morning, in front of the whole diner. The twenty thousand dollars that said DENISE in the memo line was the money Walt had quietly paid the Pittsburgh lawyer who took my son Tylers case for free. I never knew where that lawyer came from. It came from booth six.
For two years I thought a stranger had been kind to my boy, and all that time it was the old man I poured black coffee for every morning.
The will left the daughter the house and his savings, which was most of what he had. It left me a small sum, and the coffee mug he drank from every day for seven years, and a note that said the mug was the important part.
My boss, who ten minutes earlier had told me to go home, poured Mr. Kline a fresh cup and did not charge him for it.
The daughter found me by the register before she left. She said she was sorry, and she meant it, and she asked if she could sit in booth six sometime, just to understand the man she had been too busy to visit. I told her it was always open at 6:15. Her daddy would have liked that.