The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley

by Hannah Tinti

  The cook brought out the girl’s hamburger and the water and she stopped spinning. The cook was an old guy, wrinkles all the way up his forehead. He wore an apron and a hairnet, even though he didn’t have any hair. He set out some mustard and ketchup and then he went back to the kitchen. After a minute he stuck his head through the window and asked the girl if the food was okay and the girl said it was more than okay, it was great. She was a careful eater, cutting the burger into fourths and picking up a corner at a time to chew, taking slow sips of water in between.

  “There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight,” she said.

  “That so?” Hawley said. He picked up his coffee, but didn’t drink it. “I saw one out in Wyoming one time.”

  “Was it a Geminid?”

  “I don’t know what you’d call it. They were just shooting stars.”

  “Showers are named after their radiants. That’s the constellation they fall from. But they’re not really stars, just debris left over from comets going around the sun. Space garbage.” She poured some salt onto one of her French fries and ate it. Then she poured some salt onto another and ate that, too. She kept the shaker in her hand, going through the whole plate, one fry at a time. “Tonight’s called the Perseids, because the meteors look like they’re coming from Perseus. He’s the one who killed the Gorgon. The hero.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I heard it on the radio,” said the girl. “Plus, I have this.” She held out her foot and showed him a spray of tiny stars tattooed around her ankle.

  Conversations like this usually made Hawley feel backed into a corner, but the girl had him curious. He thought about the stars getting needled into the skin of her leg. He thought about lifting that same leg and resting it on his shoulder and kissing those stars. And he thought about the meteors he’d seen out West. For bits of garbage, they’d shone awful bright.

  The waitress came in from her smoke break and took the coffeepot and brought it over to the truckers and filled their mugs. Then she started cleaning the counter.

  “You got milkshakes?” the girl asked her.

  “Sure,” said the waitress.

  The girl gave a big smile. “I’d like one, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Harry,” the waitress called. “Milkshake.”

  The old cook’s face popped up in the window. “What kind?”

  “Chocolate,” the girl said.

  “Sure,” said the cook and he disappeared again.

  “You finished?” the waitress asked Hawley.

  He was but he wanted to watch the girl drink her milkshake. “I’ll have some more coffee.”

  The waitress took away his plate and filled his mug to the brim. They all listened to the blender going and then the cook set up a tall metal canister and a small glass in the kitchen window and the waitress put them in front of the girl, along with a straw with the paper still on. Then the waitress moved to the other end of the diner and started wiping down a pile of plastic menus.

  The girl poured some of the shake into the glass. She opened the straw and stuck it into the metal canister, started drinking and pushed the glass over to Hawley.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  “Shakes have to be shared,” she said. “It’s a rule.”

  “All right,” said Hawley. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had ice cream. The milkshake was cold and slid down the back of his throat, a great creamy dollop.

  “You’ve got one more chance,” the girl said.

  “I said I’m no good at guessing.”

  “Then I’ll tell you.” She took a long sip, her cheeks sucked in, her lips tight around the straw. Then she slid her hand off the icy metal cup, leaned close and touched the tip of his elbow with her frosty fingers. “I’m going to rob this place.”

  Hawley checked the mirrors first, the corners, then over the kitchen window. The waitress was still cleaning the menus, the truckers still talking loudly in the corner, the cook nowhere to be seen. He glanced down at the duffel bag and Jove’s satchel, safely tucked between his stool and the counter. Then he turned and caught the tail end of the girl’s breath, coated with milk and ice cream.

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  The girl laughed and let go of his arm and Hawley took another drink from the glass, tasting the chocolate syrup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You believed me,” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “You did.”

  The truckers all got up at once then and moved over to the cash register to pay their bills. They’d asked for separate checks, so it took the waitress a while to ring them up. She counted out the change while the men tipped her. Then the truckers straightened their hats and said their goodbyes and hit the bathroom and strolled out of the diner and climbed up into their cabs and started their semis and eighteen-wheelers and drove them out of the parking lot. All the while Hawley blushed and the girl kept smiling.

  “That was the best milkshake I’ve ever had,” she said. “I think I’d like another.”

  “We’ve got strawberry,” said the waitress.

  “Fantastic,” said the girl.

  The cook fired up the blender again. The waitress looked the girl over. “You coming from a party or something?” she asked.

  “No,” said the girl. “A funeral.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the waitress.

  “It’s all right,” said the girl. “I didn’t really know him.”

  The cook finished the shake and rang the bell. The waitress collected the glass and the metal canister from the window and put both in front of the girl with two straws this time. Then she gathered the sugar dispensers from the tables and started refilling them in the corner.

  The girl opened both straws. She put one in the canister, one in the glass. She poured part of the milkshake and slid it over to Hawley.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m full.”

  “I told you, it’s a rule.” She took a sip. “Real strawberries. I wasn’t expecting real strawberries.” Then she put her head down on the counter and closed her eyes. She was wearing lipstick and it had worn away in the middle from eating her hamburger and sucking on the straw, but the edges were still bright.

  “Who was it that died?” Hawley asked.

  “My father.” She kept her head on the counter, her eyes closed. “I didn’t know where to go after the funeral. It was either this or a bar.”

  “Need a drink?”

  “Yes,” the girl said. “And no. I’ve been sober for a year. So it’s only milkshakes for me.”

  Hawley kicked his bag aside, so there was more room between them. He could feel the bottle of whiskey he had there roll underneath his foot. “You never met your father?”

  “He left when I was a kid. But he used to send me singing telegrams for my birthday each year. He never forgot. It made my mom so mad. I used to think I’d get along better with him. I even ran away a few times, trying to find him. And now I have his truck. A giant snow truck, with a plow and emergency lights and everything.”

  Hawley didn’t know what to say. His own father had died of a stroke when he was fifteen. Since then Hawley had been on his own, and now he was the same age his father had been when he was born. Thirty. It didn’t seem young and it didn’t seem old, exactly, but it was half a life gone, at least.

  Hawley took a long sip from the glass. The girl was right—the cook had used real strawberries. The seeds were there, at the back of his tongue, tangy and fresh and full of flavor. It was as if he’d stepped into a garden, brushed aside the spiders and found a perfect berry, unspoiled and ripened by the sun.

  “A snowplow could make a good getaway car,” he said, “if you still wanted to rob the place.”

  The girl opened her eyes. For a moment Hawley thought she was going to start crying, but instead she laughed. It sounded like a baby laughing. She lifted her head from the counter and wiped her eyes and then she put her han
d on his elbow again. Her fingers were warm this time. “Thanks,” she said.

  And Hawley knew that he had said just the right thing. It was a good feeling, to know that he had. Soon they would get off these stools and never see each other again but for now they sat in a quiet that held just the two of them and sipped their milkshakes. Then the bell over the door rang and Ed King walked into the diner.

  He was wearing a shiny, oversize dark-brown suit. His hair was shaved close to his head and he had a nose that hung from his face like a door off its hinges. The man was older than Hawley, close to Jove’s age. But he still carried himself like a boxer.

  “You Sam Hawley?”

  “That’s right.”

  King came and stood next to him at the counter. They shook hands and Hawley could feel the strength in the man’s arm. All the time King was staring at the girl, the corner of his eyelid twitching. “Looks like you already ate.”

  Hawley realized that if he introduced them he might find out the girl’s name. But he didn’t want her to know Ed King. He didn’t want her to see the kind of people he ran with, or to find out any of the rotten things he’d done. Hawley picked up the duffel bag and Jove’s satchel and motioned to the waitress that he was moving to one of the booths.

  “Nice talking with you,” the girl said.

  “Sure,” said Hawley.

  They took one of the booths in the corner. Hawley sat with his back to the girl so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at her. He focused on King’s broken nose. He checked the mirrors, nudged the money with his foot, took a swig of water to clear the sweetness out of his throat. The waitress came over and brought a menu.

  “Got any specials?” King asked.

  “The pork. We roast our own every day out back. And the pie. We’ve got eight different kinds.” Ed King ordered a pulled-pork stew and a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.

  “What kind of pie you want?” the waitress asked.

  “Bring me what’s fresh.”

  “All our pies are fresh.”

  “Then bring them all.”

  After the waitress left them, Ed King took the satchel from Hawley and placed it on the seat next to him in the booth. He opened the top and slipped his hand inside and moved it back and forth like he was testing bathwater. “Everything here?”

  “What he told me.”

  King closed the bag. The waitress returned with the bowl of stewed pork and the coffee. She brought over a napkin and a teaspoon and a soup spoon and some milk and sugar and left it all on the table. King turned the sugar upside down over his coffee. The canister was glass with a metal spout in the middle and the sugar fell from it in a rush.

  “How’s Jove?”

  “He’s okay,” said Hawley. “Can’t wait to get out.”

  King put down the sugar and took a gulp of coffee. It made Hawley’s teeth ache just to watch. “Wish he could watch the fight.”

  “Maybe he can,” said Hawley.

  “Dayroom at that prison’s only open until six. And lights out at ten. I did eighteen months there myself, back in the day.” King started in on the pork stew. Every few bites, he’d glance over Hawley’s shoulder. Hawley could tell King was looking at the girl. He wished now that he had taken the other seat.

  The men discussed Jove’s chances for parole and then King started talking about the fight, how he’d trained one of the boxers and how the other owed him money. Hawley nodded but all the while the rest of him was listening for the girl. He heard the slurp of the straw as she reached the bottom of the milkshake. The click of her purse opening. The sound of paper as the waitress slid the check across the counter. The cash register ringing and shooting out its drawer. A scuffling as the girl slipped her feet back into her high heels. And then a small ting of a pin falling, and Hawley knew she was clipping the small black hat onto her head again and after that she would be gone.

  The waitress came over to the booth carrying a giant plate with eight slices of pie. There was blueberry, cherry, pineapple, peach, key lime, pecan, chocolate pudding and banana cream. Each piece had a dollop of whipped cream on top. “There you go,” she said as she put down a fork and another napkin. But Ed King wasn’t looking at the pie. He was staring across the diner and his eye was twitching like crazy.

  “Hey,” he called out. “Didn’t I just see you at Gus’s funeral?”

  Hawley spun around. The girl was about to leave, the door already open, the black hat perched on top of her head like a little animal. Hawley felt his guts stir, a thrill mixed with dread as she let go of the handle and the glass door softly closed. She blinked twice before answering. “I’m Gus’s daughter.”

  “I knew it,” said King. “All this time I’ve been trying to place you. But the hat was missing.”

  The girl walked over to their table. “That’s a lot of pie,” she said.

  “Have some with us,” said King.

  The girl stood there for a moment, making up her mind. She glanced at Hawley and smiled. “All right.”

  Hawley slid over and she sat down next to him in the booth, holding the purse in her lap. She was close, her hips spreading across the seat. King called for more forks and the waitress brought two. Then she went outside for another cigarette. Hawley was already full from the milkshakes but the girl picked up a fork and took the point off the banana cream.

  “I’m sorry about Gus,” said King.

  “It’s all right,” said the girl. She glanced at Hawley. “How do you two know each other?”

  “This lug works for me sometimes.”

  “Really.” The girl licked the edge of her fork. “Are you from around here or did you know my dad from Phoenix?”

  “I know him from New York,” said King. “It’s a funny story, but I don’t think you’ll want to hear it.”

  “You can tell me,” she said.

  “All right, I will. But I wish I had a drink. I’m usually drinking when I tell this story and it comes out better that way.” He scratched his nose. “I met Gus placing a trifecta at Aqueduct. After that he helped me with a couple of jobs. He was a real little guy and he was nearly always short on cash, because he spent all his time at the track. I liked him because he drank harder than anyone I ever saw and he was never sorry about it. It’s funny he didn’t say anything about having a daughter. And you’re pretty. You’d think he would have been proud to have a daughter like you.

  “When he was drunk it was like he was a different person, and he used to do crazy things for money. If someone said, ‘I bet you won’t punch that guy,’ he’d go up to a bouncer and punch him. Or if we said, ‘I bet you won’t toss your wallet,’ he’d give his credit cards away to strangers. He’d pitch all his clothes off a balcony, or throw his keys down a sewer grate. Everyone would be laughing and he’d say, ‘Sober Gus is going to love this!’ Then I’d see him the next day, his face all busted up, trying to cancel the cards, or on his hands and knees in front of a sewer grate by the side of the road, with a hook at the end of a string and he’d say, ‘Drunk Gus did this to me.’

  “A few months back when he was Sober Gus he asked me for a loan, to help him cover a debt. So I gave it to him, but Drunk Gus put the money on a horse instead and lost. When I went to collect, Sober Gus cried, and I kept thinking of him crouched over that sewer grate, all pathetic, fishing for his keys, so I told him I’d give him more time. And you know what Drunk Gus did? He went to my gym that same night and busted the safe and stole my deposit for the week. He drove to Atlantic City and spent every bit of the dough, and then he up and died there, owing me, owing everybody. So that’s how I know him.”

  The girl put down her fork.

  “You didn’t have to tell her that,” said Hawley.

  “I did,” said King. “Now she knows all about her old man.”

  The pie fillings were starting to run together, the colors mixing on the plate. Hawley could feel heat coming off the girl beside him.

  “Why did you go to the funeral?” she asked.

&n
bsp; “Because he owed me five thousand dollars.”

  “It’s not so much,” said Hawley. But he knew that it wasn’t about the money. What bothered King was that the guy had turned on him.

  “It’s plenty.”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t got that kind of money. I don’t know if any of this is true.”

  King stabbed a piece of pie with his fork. He put it in his mouth. “Believe it.”

  The bullet hole in Hawley’s back began to ache, the first one he got in the Adirondacks, and as soon as it did, his mind started taking inventory—his father’s M14 rifle and extra ammunition in the duffel by his feet, a loaded Smith & Wesson revolver tucked into his belt. Hawley’s body was ready, every muscle tight.

  The girl slid out of the booth. She had taken her gloves out of her purse, and she held them crushed between her fingers. She was shaken but she still thought she could just leave. “Thank you for the pie.”

  Fast as lightning, King threw out one of his boxer’s arms and caught her around the wrist. It made Hawley jump to see him do it.

  “Let go of me.” The girl struggled against him. She was looking for the waitress.

  “Sit down,” said King.

  The girl opened her fingers and the gloves floated to the table. She stopped fighting and King relaxed his grip, but he didn’t let go. The little black hat had come unpinned; Hawley saw her eyes flashing underneath the veil. The girl acted like she was going to sit down again, but instead she bent forward and sank her teeth into King’s wrist.

  The man screamed and his fingers released. As soon as they did, the girl snatched her gloves and ran for the door. King scrambled out of the booth to go after her but Hawley got up and blocked the way.

  “Just let her go,” he said.