Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  The bell above the door jingles as I step into Rudy’s Books, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s in the middle of a coughing spell. I watch as he reaches for the trashcan. He unceremoniously brings it up to his mouth and spits the contents of his hacking inside. A few more lingering coughs and a dramatic throat-clearing later, and he’s settled back into his chair—pretend gambling on the screen in front of him. Now it’s my turn to clear my throat. Rudy looks up, jolted out of his slot machine haze. A look of annoyance flashes on his face before he sees that it’s me.

  “Owen. How you doin’?”

  Rudy has an obsession with the mafia, and at times I think he imagines that he’s Tony Soprano or Don Corleone. Maybe I’ve come to make him an offer he can’t refuse. I haven’t, but that doesn’t stop him from preparing.

  “Hey, Rudy. I’m doing okay. How are you?” I just witnessed him practically hacking up his internal organs; I can’t imagine he’s well. But I know the rules. I never acknowledge his health or lack thereof. Asking him how he’s doing is just a formality, and he answers the same way every time.

  “Same shit, different day. So, what do you want?”

  Rudy is blunt and wastes no time. I appreciate that.

  “This may sound strange, but I was wondering if you have any books on making conversation. It’s for a, uh, research project? Yeah, a research project.” I try to make my voice sound confident.

  He huffs with all the air of a man who’s heard a lot of bullshit in his day. Slapping the cover of his iPad closed, he levels me with a perceptive look.

  “What’s her name?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Owen, do you think I was born yesterday? This is about a girl, isn’t it?” He eyes me curiously before adding, “Or is it a boy? It’s a different world out there now, but you like who you like. That’s why they make vanilla and chocolate ice cream.”

  There you have it. The complexity of sexual orientation can all be summed up in flavors of ice cream. It isn’t an entirely unrealistic analogy when you think about it.

  “It’s not like that, Rudy. I have this new coworker and I need some ideas on how to talk to her about her less-than-stellar work performance.”

  “Oh sure, sure.” He purses his lips and waves his hand back and forth dismissing my explanation. “Your generation is always looking at screens. No one knows how to talk to each other anymore.” This from a man whose closest companion is an iPad loaded to the brim with slot machine apps. “Check the self-help section over there. Third pile from the wall about halfway down. There’s a book about the social network or digital era, some shit like that.”

  “Thanks, Rudy.”

  I find the book I’m looking for in the exact spot he said it would be. The front cover has silhouettes of a man and a woman with colorful word bubbles above their heads. The title is in bold block letters across the top: Conversation in the Digital Age: 83 Easy Ways to Put the Phone Down and Start Talking. The eighty-three strikes me as odd. Why not add two more ways to make it an even eighty-five or remove three weaker suggestions to bring it down to eighty? But then again, maybe the author feels it’s more important to present good advice than it is to round the number of suggestions. I admire that kind of determination.

  Back at the counter, Rudy takes the book and punches in the price on the cash register all while never fully taking his eyes off of his game. Placing the money down, I slide it over to him and just as he reaches for it, he erupts into some sort of hybrid mix of a cough and a sneeze. Swiping at his nose with the back of his hand, he tilts his head up and looks me directly in the eyes. I brace myself for the impending advice I know is heading my way.

  “Listen, Owen, I’m not trying to tell you what to do here, but shit or get off the pot, you hear me? If I were you, I’d learn what this girl likes. What’s her favorite candy? Where does she like to eat? What kind of flowers does she like? And then give her those things. Ladies like a man who can provide.”

  Sure thing, Mr. Mob Boss. Something tells me Lydia isn’t the sort of girl who can be persuaded by material objects. If I’m going to “get the girl,” it’ll be with words, not with objects.

  “Like I said, I’m not looking for a relationship here. I just want my fellow employee to do a better job.”

  “Okay, okay, all right. If you say so.” He hands me the book and gives me a half wave, half dismissal returning back to the flashing screen.

  As I open the door to leave, Rudy calls out, “Hey, just be yourself, kid, and if that doesn’t work, then she’s a God damn idiot.”

  I hold up the book and nod a thank you.

  I settle into my futon and reach for my cup of green tea. Taking a sip, I crack open the book and prepare to up my conversation game. Skimming the table of contents, I mentally cross off the chapters about business meetings and professional opportunities. Those topics are of no use to me. As I scan the list, the heading How to Make Real Friends catches my eye and sounds like a good place to start.

  The chapter is broken down into sections. Each passage has an action word above it. Apparently, in order to connect with Lydia, I need to remember to smile, make eye contact, lean forward with open arms, and touch her when necessary. What kind of book is this? Am I trying to be her friend or lure her into my unmarked van? Still, I have nothing better to do so I might as well read up on how to become an effective serial killer—excuse me, I mean, friend.

  An hour later and I’m not much better off than when I started. I did pick up on a few key points that might help. I need to actively listen to Lydia. Take what happened earlier today, for instance. When she said she had other things going on in her life, I should have asked her if everything was okay. She might be looking for someone to talk to, and I could be that person. I also need to ask open-ended questions to keep the conversation going. It’s the only way to learn anything about her.

  I reach my arms above my head and yawn. It’s late. Tomorrow I’ll start working on becoming Lydia’s friend. I might even invite her to lunch. I think she needs a person, and maybe it’s time I have one, too.

  I lumber over to the kitchen counter where my phone has been charging. I power it back on and notice one missed phone call. I recognize the number and swallow the lump in my throat that always forms when my past creeps up on me. There was a call at 8:57 p.m. from Mary Standish. Sarah’s mom. She left a voicemail. I suck in a breath and press play.

  The voice on the recording reminds me of warm cookies on the kitchen counter and country apple scented candles. Mary Standish was/is the June Cleaver of mothers.

  “Owen, hi. I’m sorry for calling so late it’s just…” I can hear her take a shaky breath before continuing. “I’m finally sorting through Sarah’s room. It’s about time, I know. I just wasn’t ready to let her go. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  I don’t. I let Sarah go the minute I left Connecticut, but calls like this one remind me that my past is never far away.

  “I found a few things I thought you might want. A few pictures and a teddy bear—you know, the one you won for her at the Fall Festival that time?” She chuckles at the memory. “Sarah had her eye on it the minute she saw it hanging there from that hook on the wall. Do you remember what she said?” I repeat the words aloud as she says them on the recording. “He’s all alone. All of his friends have found new homes and he’s stuck inside that trailer. How sad.”

  That was Sarah. She wore her emotions on her sleeve like a badge for everyone to see. She was always on the hunt for a new cause and that night she settled on the plight of a stuffed oversized teddy bear.

  Mary continues. “Anyway, I, uh, I’ll box everything up for you. Maybe you can stop by the next time you’re in town.” A deep inhale and then, “You know, Owen, Mitch and I don’t blame you for the accident. That’s what it was. An accident. We lost our daughter, but we lost a son that day, too. I hope you’re well and happy. Take care, Owen.”

  The message ends, and I st
and there frozen—holding my phone up to my ear. I listen to the sound of stillness as memories overwhelm me.

  14

  Fall Festival happened every October in Orange, Connecticut. New Haven Orchard converted their land into an autumnal playground complete with a corn maze, carnival rides, games, and apple cider cotton candy. Autumn was Sarah’s favorite season, and the festival was something she looked forward to every year. I picked her up at the library that night and we met up with her parents in front of the Bobbing for Apples stand.

  Mitch Standish was a tax accountant by day, but out of the suit and tie, he was a regular comedian. He looked right at me and said, “Come on, Owen. Ten bucks says I can snag more apples than you. What do ya say? Care to put your money where your mouth is?” And then he laughed a great big belly laugh that involved his whole body. We all laughed right along with him because that man’s laughter was more contagious than a runny nose in a preschool.

  Strolling around the orchard, we came upon the infamous teddy bear. Sarah was so enamored with him; I spent nearly all the money in my wallet trying to win him for her.

  She named him Charles. “Owen Charles, it only makes sense that this guy takes your name since you’ve saved him from the carney life.” I can still see her wink at me as she spoke; a gleam in her turquoise eyes.

  George weaves between my legs meowing loudly, pulling me out of my thoughts. I’m still clutching my phone to my ear. I give my head a slight shake and put my phone back on the counter.

  Mary wants me to visit. She’s looking for a connection to Sarah, but I can’t be that for her. I need to leave the past where it is. I’ll have my mom arrange to pick up the box and when I visit, I’ll take it to my storage unit.

  I know she said that she and Mitch don’t blame me, but if they knew what really happened inside the car that night, they might feel differently.

  You can learn a few basic things about a person just by watching them. Number 9, for instance, doesn’t want to be here. He’s in his early twenties and finishing his degree in Applied Science at the local community college. This job is a way for him to save up some money. It’s a means to an end. I couldn’t tell all that with just my eyes, but watching someone involves all the senses. If you listen as well as look, you’ll gather all you need to know about most people. Number 9 loves to complain about his professors to anyone and everyone unlucky enough to be in the breakroom with him. I’ve heard enough just by walking by when he’s lost in one of his whining soliloquies.

  Constance, also known as 4, is impossible to miss. Everything about her is loud—from the clashing wild animal print on her clothing to her extreme mood swings. She’s convinced that she works harder than anyone else. She says this regularly and talks about herself in the third person, which is how I know her first name. “Constance doesn’t like having to pull everyone’s weight. Constance shouldn’t have to do other peoples’ jobs for them.” She’s a final QC inspector like I am, and she thinks that should mean less work for her since everything in her bins has been inspected twice already. If she finds even one rogue stitch, there is hell to pay for everyone within earshot.

  Lydia isn’t giving up her secrets so easily. She’s more of an enigma. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to and never more than a few words. From what I’ve gathered so far, she keeps all of her interactions pleasant. “Yes, the weather is perfect today,” or, “I did try the clam chowder from the deli and you’re right, it’s amazing.” I have a feeling that even if she didn’t agree with someone, she’d never let them know.

  She’s wearing a yellow cardigan today. It’s the second time I’ve seen her in that color. It suits her.

  I was getting by with podcasts, books, and sewing mistakes. Now I can’t see a door open or hear a paper flutter to the ground without checking to see if it’s her. She’s invaded my thoughts—moved right in and settled there. I can’t avoid her even if I tried, but I haven’t actually tried at all. She flipped my world on its axis and made me want to get to know her, to make a connection. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way. I’m not even sure I’ve ever felt anything like this before. I was once very sure of my feelings for Sarah, but that changed over time and even in the beginning, I can’t say I ever experienced anything at this level.

  She’s in her cubicle right now sorting through her bin, and if I pause my iPod and lean in, I can almost hear the faint creak of her chair as she bends down to grab a new pile of socks.

  I know what I have to do, and like the old adage says, “There’s no time like the present.” Before I can change my mind, I rise from my seat and swiftly make my way over to Lydia’s desk.

  She looks up from the disarray of red and yellow striped tube socks strewn about the counter. Bright eyes peer up at me as she bats her full lashes, blinking away the concentration. She regards me with a half smile that’s somewhere between shock and anticipation.

  Clearing my throat, I get right to the point. “Do you like soup?”

  She considers my question for half a second before answering. “Depends on what kind.”

  “How about wild rice soup? Does that make the cut?”

  Her smile widens and her shoulders relax. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had it, but it sounds amazing.”

  Feeling victorious, I match her smile. “Well then, you have to come with me to lunch. I can’t let you live here another second without trying Nigel’s famous Wild Rice soup. It’s legendary.”

  She chuckles. “In that case, lead the way!” She stands and lifts the cardigan from the back of her seat. Her arms glide into the canary yellow sweater as she moves toward me.

  And just like that, I have a date. The thought nearly stops me in my tracks. Is that what I wanted? Dates lead to relationships and those inevitably bring complications. My mind drifts to Sarah, but this is nothing like that. This is just simple, uncomplicated friendship.

  But my hand itching to grab onto hers says otherwise.

  15

  Nigel’s Soups makes its home in a renovated shoe repair shop. He kept the long solid wood counter, the exposed brick, and wood beams to give the place a rustic charm. But to be honest, the walls could be painted a putrid green and no one would care. It’s situated on the corner of Campbell and Desire, and with a list of soups a mile long, the line often stretches out the door and down the sidewalk in front of the café. In addition to the regular menu, there’s a featured soup each day. Wednesday’s soup is Wild Rice and in this little Minnesota town, it’s practically a national holiday.

  I asked Lydia to lunch a little early in the hopes of beating the crowd, but even at 11:15 a.m., the line is still at the door. We find our place at the end and I take the opportunity to tell her about this local landmark.

  “No one knows how Nigel does it, but it’s impossible for him to make a bad batch of soup. It’s like he has a golden ladle, or something. And the Wild Rice soup is like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.”

  “You’re really up-selling this soup! I hope I’m not disappointed.” She winks at me.

  “Impossible. Trust me, after today, you’ll be in this line every Wednesday without fail.”

  “Well, I’m definitely intrigued!” She shifts her weight to her left foot and leans to look around the people in front of her. “It looks like a lot of people share your enthusiasm.”

  “Nigel is a legend. And he’s nothing like a Seinfeld character. There are no rules and no questions too big or too small. Ask him anything and he will take as long as he needs to answer you. Just be prepared to face the wrath of the people in line behind you.” I say those last few words in my best Clint Eastwood voice, and it works. She laughs and gives my arm a playful shove.

  Nigel is up to his elbows in rice soup. Both of his hands grip a lengthy wooden spoon as he vigorously stirs the immense pot. His face splits into a wide smile. “Hey! Mr. Inspector Man! What’ll it be today?” A wink punctuates his question. He already knows why I’m here. I feel my own lips curve up as I motion to Lydia beside
me. “We’ll have two bowls of your finest Wild Rice soup, Nigel!” Now it’s my turn to wink. He responds with a deep laugh. I’m sure he’s just as surprised to see me with Lydia as I am to be standing here beside her. With our bowls in hand, we find a small table tucked in the corner.

  As she takes her seat, Lydia’s expression turns serious. “Okay, Owen. Moment of truth time. Let’s see if you’re right about this soup.”

  She lifts the spoon to her mouth and parts her lips. I see her small pink tongue dart out to steal a taste, and I’m rewarded with a low moan that I can feel everywhere.

  My mind is all over the place. My eyes are glued to her mouth and my vision is hazy. Get a grip, Owen. It’s just soup.

  She’s looking up at me expectantly. It isn’t easy, but I find my voice. “Told you so.” I manage to make myself look smug in an effort to hide the lust I can feel building up inside of me.

  She nods slowly. “That you did.” She pauses for dramatic effect before adding, “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  My eyes widen. If she only knew. I suck in a breath and accidentally inhale some rice. I fall into a coughing fit and try to mask it with my napkin. I dab at my watering eyes and try to steady my chair as my body convulses in the seat. It’s no use. I’m trying to look cool and put together, but I’m failing miserably.

  She reaches across the tiny table and gives my back a few hearty pats. I must look so helpless. Fantastic.

  Pulling myself together, I try to hold on to a small sliver of dignity. “I forgot to mention, you never want to breathe in while eating rice. It’s a health hazard.”

  She lets out an amused chuckle. With her elbows on the table, she places her chin in her hands and leans in, locking her eyes with mine. “We may have just met, but you’re the only friend I have in this town. Wouldn’t want you choking to death.”

  Friend. It’s the only word I hear her say. That was my goal here, and it sounds like mission accomplished. But if being Lydia’s friend is what I wanted, why does it feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach?