Texas Summer

by Hachtel, Leslie

  Wylie’s gaze followed her. When her face was visible, he was surprised to recognize Kennedy. As if she felt him watching, her eyes lifted to meet his. The electricity was there again, almost tangible. She held the gaze, as did he, for what seemed like an eternity. Then someone called out to get her attention. Wylie didn’t move for a minute, and then he swallowed hard and swung back to the counter. Judy Jane stood directly across from him, an ugly look distorting her already unattractive features.

  She cleared her throat. “Hungry?”

  The double entendre was obvious, and her whining voice completed his original impression. This woman appeared to him as someone put upon by circumstances. She seemed filled with a controlled paranoia that only festered and fed her rage at the world and the injustice of her life in it. She directed her ire at the beautiful woman working across the room, and the contrast between them seemed the obvious cause.

  “Just coffee, thanks,” he replied, then again watched Kennedy.

  Casually he leaned back and rested his elbows on the counter behind him. With clear resentment, Judy Jane grunted, moved away, and disappeared into the kitchen. Wylie reached for some sugar and poured it into the cup, stirring thoughtfully. He sipped the brew and tried to control the erotic thoughts running through his brain as he watched the young woman move to another table to take an order. Kennedy glanced back at him surreptitiously once or twice.

  The corpulent man with the red scarf spoke to the man on the other side of him. “Come on, Sweet. What about it?”

  It took a moment for Wylie to understand that the second man’s name was Sweet and this was not an endearment. He smiled at the error.

  “They’ll take my truck.” The man with the scarf sounded pleading now.

  “I ain’t made-a money, Weir,” Sweet replied, clearly unmoved by the pathetic quality in the other’s tone.

  “You know you got it. You always got money.” Weir lowered his voice now. “Or some way to get it.”

  “That’s ’cause I’m willing to do what it takes to get it.”

  “I’m willing. Just give me something to do.”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  The man, Weir, looked to Wylie. “She’s bad news, ya know.”

  Sweet nodded his agreement. “The worst.”

  It registered they were speaking to him. Wylie looked from one to the other, a little embarrassed to have been caught staring at Kennedy.

  “She’s pretty, all right,” Weir continued, “and damn sexy too.”

  “How would you know if she’s sexy?” Sweet wondered, sneering.

  “Not like that. But I got eyes.” He spoke to Wylie. “But very bad news.”

  Wylie was becoming a little irritated at this point. “Look, uh—”

  “Look, buddy, you’re new here,” Sweet said. “Don’t get your panties in a knot.”

  Weir must have found this last comment hilarious. He laughed out loud, then caught Sweet’s frown of disapproval and quieted.

  Sweet faced Wylie again. “There ain’t no work here, you know.”

  “That’s the rumor,” Wylie replied sarcastically.

  “So you planning on staying long?” This from Weir.

  “Not sure. Does it matter?” Wylie didn’t like these men and wasn’t interested in having a conversation with them. Why did they care how long he planned to stay?

  “Not to me,” Weir said.

  “So how come you’re here? No one comes here by accident,” Sweet probed.

  “Actually that’s exactly how I came here.” Wylie smiled at the irony and tried to maintain politeness. “My car broke down outside of town. I need to get it fixed before I can move on.”

  “Oh, and I was thinking maybe you was just looking for some cheap white meat.” Weir poked Sweet in the ribs as he indicated Kennedy. Wylie felt the veins in his neck bulge, but Weir was too dumb to know when to quit. “I know of some sheep been had less.”

  Without warning, Wylie became suffused with rage. It came up from his feet and swelled into his head like a time bomb. He couldn’t reason; he could only react. He slowly rose from his stool and grabbed Weir by the back of the head, slamming his face into a plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs and hash browns. The food sprayed onto the counter and the floor. Wylie held the man’s nose against the greasy plate until Weir struggled for breath. Weir flailed out and tried to grab Wylie’s arm, but he could only grasp the sleeve of his jacket, which tore.

  Everyone in the diner stopped, obviously thrilled by the excitement, the possibility of bloodletting. Finally Weir was defeated, and Wylie released him. Without support Weir slipped to the floor. Sweet snatched him up and half-carried, half-dragged him out into the street.

  No hero, Sweet, who had watched the assault unmoving, called over his shoulder once he was a safe distance away, “We’ll get you for this, you crazy son of a bitch.” And they were gone.

  Wylie sat back down. He wondered about his reaction to the nasty comments of the redneck. He hadn’t felt that kind of blinding anger in a long time. It had bubbled up in him like an irresistible demon. That thought more than frightened him a little. He thought he had mastered it. The last time that rage showed its ugly face, he’d had to pay a very steep price.

  The show was over, and the diners again resumed eating. It seemed to him Kennedy had a sense that the fight was about her, and she appeared to act both thrilled and touched. She also seemed wary. He imagined she could only ask who this man was and why he had defended her. She approached Wylie as he regained his seat on the stool. He picked up his cup and sipped his coffee. He wanted to appear nonchalant. He was breathing fast through his nose, trying to tamp down the adrenaline that was coursing through his veins.

  A sense of anticlimax descended. No one had died, and the action was done. She had probably been caught off guard by this stranger. Who wouldn’t be? She seemed both attracted and nervous.

  “Are you all right?”

  He held up his arm with the torn jacket sleeve. “Casualty of war.” He indicated the tear with a tilt of his head.

  “I can fix it.”

  “It’s OK, really. Sort of macho, don’t you think?”

  “Just give it to me. I gotta get back to work.”

  Kennedy fiddled with the sugar container on the counter, perhaps in an attempt to look busy, as Wylie took off his jacket and handed it to her. She started back toward the kitchen, then paused, looking over her shoulder. “Where are you staying? I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”

  “I can pick it up here. It’s enough that you can mend it. You don’t have to deliver it too.”

  “Where?”

  “The Sleep Tight.”

  “Even though you probably won’t.” She smiled at her little joke and then swept through the swinging door.

  * * *

  Kennedy walked to the back of the immaculate area where a door led to a makeshift back room. The floor was invisible under cases of napkins and paper towels and other assorted restaurant necessities. In the far corner, six small lockers sat stacked up, three on three. She made sure no one was watching before she tucked Wylie’s jacket into the one on the bottom right and closed the door. Then she straightened and went back to the kitchen. As she tried to come through the door, Judy Jane blocked her.

  “Be careful, little girl,” Judy Jane hissed in her ear.

  “You talking to me?”

  “You got no class. Spilling out of your clothes and wiggling yourself in front of any stranger who happens along. Always starting trouble.”

  Kennedy looked her in the eye. “Judy Jane, you’re the one spilling out and not in a good way. And if I smelled as bad as you—”

  Judy Jane raised one of her fat fists to strike, but Kennedy was quicker. She grabbed the woman’s wrist and twisted it to the side, pulling her close. “Lady,” Kennedy said, the warning in her tone clear, “you are messing with the wrong person.”

  Judy Jane was now red-faced with anger and clearly in pain. “Everyone hates you, you whore-b
itch.”

  Kennedy gave a slow smile at Judy Jane and released her hold. “All the better.”

  Judy Jane’s eyes grew wide with fear and disbelief. She was still furious, but something about Kennedy obviously intimidated her. She stepped back and glared. She pivoted and hurried back to the dining room.

  Kennedy walked to the wheel that held the orders, reached up, and spun it. Business as usual.

  “Kennedy,” the cook said, from behind her, “do you have to do that?”

  “What?”

  “Make it worse. Just let it go. It’s gonna get uglier if you don’t.”

  “I didn’t start it.”

  “And I don’t want to have to finish it. Look, you know I think of you like a daughter. I wouldn’t have hired her if I wasn’t desperate. Can you just go with that?”

  “I’ll try, Norma. But there’s only so much I can take.” Kennedy knew Norma had his share of conflicts and understood. His name alone had probably caused him so much grief. How could his mother have done that to him?

  “Just do your best, OK?”

  The dinner crowd at Norma’s was long gone. The diner was virtually deserted except for Freddie sitting alone in a booth. He had slipped in earlier and was sipping coffee that he liberally laced with brandy. The seat was torn red faux leather. Freddie was heavyset and soft, so the tear was that much more obvious as it tried not to widen with the effort of supporting his weight. Kennedy always sensed a stench about him, which seemed induced by a lifetime of total self-indulgence. Any trace of the virile young man he used to be was long gone. He was grizzled and dissolute, with a seven-o’clock shadow, but he still managed to communicate a sense of corrosive power. No one missed that.

  Kennedy was busy cleaning dishes, wiping down tables, and pointedly ignoring him. She was tired, and she just wanted him to go away. But then she always wanted him to go away.

  Her thoughts strayed to Wylie. Him, she wanted to stay. She had been tentative, as if not sure what to expect. As soon as she was next to him, he looked up into her eyes and smiled. She had almost smiled back in relief and anticipation. She was attracted by his rugged good looks. He had a strong jaw and straight nose, and his mouth was finely sketched. It was his eyes, though, that held her fast. They were hazel, with green and gold dancing together. His gaze was piercing, as if he could tell all of someone’s secrets if he just stared long enough. It was disconcerting and enticing.

  Reality jolted her back to the unwelcome occupant. Freddie seemed prepared to outlast her. Kennedy walked to his table. Why couldn’t he just find something else to amuse himself and leave her alone?

  “Time to go home, Freddie.” She made no attempt to conceal her irritation.

  He sneered at her. “You got no manners, girlie.”

  “Kennedy. My name is Kennedy.”

  “My girls got manners.”

  “Your stepdaughters deserve you.”

  He didn’t look up at her. “Since when aren’t they your sisters? Bet you’d be quick enough to claim them if there was profit in it. Oh, wait. That’s the problem, huh? There’s less profit in it.” He chuckled out loud, and it was a harsh, mirthless sound.

  Kennedy shook her head in disgust. “Go home, Freddie. Now. I’m sure Ruby is wondering where you are.”

  “My wife is none of your concern, girlie.”

  “Or yours either, obviously.”

  “You’re just jealous since I didn’t marry your mama either?”

  “Hardly. She wouldn’t have you if you were the last man on the planet. She has taste.”

  “You know, I could make your road a whole lot easier. All you’d have to do is shut your mouth and learn to do what you’re told.”

  The comment threw Kennedy back eighteen years. She was sitting in Freddie’s house on the sofa. She had been wearing her best dress to be introduced to her sisters’ new stepfather. The frilly pink made her feel very special. Her father was never even in town, and she desperately longed for someone to fulfill that role.

  Freddie had come up and sat down beside her, grinning from ear to ear. “Hello, little darling. I’m gonna be your sisters’ new daddy. I’m hoping to include you in our little family. You’re such a pretty little thing, with that blonde hair and big eyes.”

  Kennedy had looked at him with those wide eyes full of hope. He smelled like cheap cigars, and his hair stuck to his scalp, but she could forgive anything if he would treat her like his daughter.

  He had pulled her to him and held her. She remembered it had felt so safe. For a moment. And then his hands had moved. He stroked her back and then moved down to her knee. The huge diamond pinkie ring he wore sparkled as it caught the light. She had been so fascinated by it, she hadn’t paid much attention to what he was doing. The ring and the hand it graced slipped above her knee and then higher under her nice new dress.

  At first she whimpered, but his hand had gone higher still, and he laughed at her. Then when he held her in place, she screamed. Freddie backhanded her in the face and yelled at her to shut up. He hit her again, and she sat motionless, terrified, as he stroked himself until he groaned in pleasure. A small wet spot appeared on the crotch of his pants, and he grinned at her. Something about the expression made her sick to her stomach; she couldn’t hold it in. She vomited all over the front of his shirt and started to cry. He swung at her head again. This time, everything went black.

  After that, Kennedy cowered in fear whenever he was around or even when his name was mentioned. She didn’t dare tell anyone what he had done. She was so ashamed of what she had let him do, and the unspoken threat from him was clear. A few years later, when she was old enough to understand what he had actually done that day, the fear dissipated, but she could never bear to look at him without feeling nauseous. The shame persisted even though she knew it wasn’t her fault. She always wondered why no one suspected what kind of man he really was and the things he did to little girls. Or maybe she was more afraid they knew and didn’t care.

  Now she was back in the present, staring at the soulless man in front of her. Her hand instinctively went to her cheek, as if the pain was fresh. A small scar marred the smooth skin as a reminder. As if she could ever forget. All the rage from those many years ago could be recalled in an instant, and Kennedy fought to control herself. Not for the first time she wondered about Dolores and Delie and their fate at his hands. Certainly she wasn’t the first child who had incited his perverted desires. The thought made her want to hit him and keep hitting him until she felt better, which could take a very long time.

  “If you don’t get out of here right now, Freddie, I will kill you.” This last was said sweetly, but years of fury and crushing disappointment fueled the sentiment.

  He jumped up and put some bills on the table, then slid out of the booth toward the door. He was moving so fast, in fact, he failed to notice Delie coming into the diner. He nearly knocked her over.

  “Hey, Daddy. Watch it.” The word “daddy” dripped with sarcasm. He mumbled something under his breath and hurried away.

  Delie watched him go, and then gave her attention to Kennedy, who was clearing away Freddie’s dirty dishes. Delie moved to the counter and perched on one of the stools. Kennedy placed the dishes in a container under the counter and straightened. She closed her eyes for a moment in a brief “give me strength” and rose to face her half-sister.

  “So what’s new, Kennedy?” Delie asked cheerily.

  She wasn’t fooled. “What do you want, Delie?”

  “You know, you have a real attitude problem.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s why nobody likes you,” Delie sneered.

  “Oh, is that why?”

  Delie straightened her spine with the surety of superior knowledge.

  “So let me understand, Delie. If I was friendlier—so to speak—everyone would like me?”

  “I just cannot for the life of me understand why you have to be such a bitch. After all, no one really blames you for being illegitim
ate. It’s not like it was your fault—”

  “What do you want?”

  “Can I get a Coke?”

  Kennedy went to the old cooler behind her and pulled out a can. She popped the top and slid it across the worn counter, not offering a glass or ice. Then Kennedy tilted her head in anticipation of what was coming.

  “I was kinda wondering why you didn’t come to PJ’s funeral. I mean, he was your real daddy.”

  This wasn’t a question Kennedy expected, and it took her a moment to recover. “It’s none of your business, is it?”

  “I really am trying to like you, Kennedy. After all, we are sisters.”

  “Half-sisters. And only because your mother was such a scheming whore.” Sometimes the old anger got the better of her, and it just spilled out. And dealing with Freddie never helped her mood. She immediately regretted her outburst. None of this was Delie’s fault.

  Delie sucked in her breath. “It’s your mother who was the whore. PJ married my mama. And don’t you ever forget it.”

  “How could I? After all, you and yours manage to remind me constantly.”

  “Well, I really came to talk to you. To warn you. That new boyfriend of yours is going to be a problem.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “I am trying to be your friend here. We are still family, sort of.” This was said with exaggerated patience. “The new guy. Wylie. He needs to go away before things get more complicated.”

  Kennedy was baffled by this conversation, but she rather liked the idea that the new handsome stranger might be her boyfriend. There hadn’t been any new blood in this town since, well, she couldn’t remember when—and he was gorgeous. And hot.

  Kennedy brought her attention back to Delie. “Honey, go home. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have a boyfriend.”