Five Minutes To Midnight

by C. B. Stagg

  “I’m actually auditing a class at the community college, trying to decide if I have what it takes to move forward.”

  “Well… ” She closed her laptop and pushed it away. “Do you have anything I can read?”

  Lady, you have no idea. I nodded.

  Checking the time on her watch, she continued. “I have about thirty minutes before I have to leave for an appointment. Bring it to me and I promise to give you my fair and honest opinion, whatever that’s worth.”

  “Well?” I sat on my hands to steady them, only to find myself bouncing up and down on the booth bench.

  “Well, I think you have talent.” She smiled. “A lot of talent.”

  Her words were a dream come true.

  “I won’t mislead you, though. Writing is a tough business. And writing a novel, if that’s your ultimate goal, is not for the faint of heart. It takes time. Lots of it. And dedication.” She closed the spiral notebook with a delicate touch—one reserved for fine china or butterfly wings—and slid it across the table back to me. “Is the short story I just read based on your life?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s made-up.” The lie was bitter on my tongue. “All of the characters and events are complete fiction. Why?” Could she tell?

  She sighed, tilting her head to look at me. “It seemed incredibly real, that’s all. Your main character has great dimension, many faces. For a newbie fiction writer, you definitely have a way with words.”

  “But, do you think I have what it takes to hold my own in a college level creative writing class? As an actual student, I mean… not only as an auditor?”

  Claire nodded. “I do, I really do. You need polishing, but your voice is strong, and you have a fantastic understanding of the English language and sentence structure. Storytelling comes naturally to you, I can tell.”

  “Oh, wow, thank you.” I gulped and took a few cleansing breaths. “I’m sure you’re incredibly busy, but is it possible that, occasionally, when you’re here, you could look over my work… maybe give me suggestions?” I couldn’t meet her eyes. I was asking too much.

  She placed her hands on mine, stopping my fidgeting that I’m sure was driving her bananas. “Yes, Katy, I’d be happy to work with you. But moving forward, could we work from a digital copy? It will make the editing process simpler for both of us.”

  I froze, and she inspected my face—looking for what, I wasn’t sure.

  “Your parents do have a computer at home you could use, don’t they?”

  “Ummm… ” I should really wear more makeup.

  Her critical blue eyes bore holes, making me fidget all over again. I felt like I’d been caught smoking in the girl’s locker room. “Katy, what year were you born?”

  Her words left my body awash with stiffened hairs, and my mind jumped to another time long ago, when I’d been asked that exact question. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “Why would you ask me that? Why didn’t you just ask my age?”

  She shrugged. “Habit, I guess. I worked the door at a bar all through college. People lie about their age. If you ask what year they were born, you get—”

  “Yeah, I know. You get a more truthful answer, right?” She nodded. “I was born on December 20, 1987. I’m twenty-three, almost twenty-four, and I don’t live with my parents anymore. I haven’t since I was eighteen.”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. You just appear to be so young.” She appraised me, wide-eyed. “I guess I thought you were fresh out of high school.”

  Shaking my head, my long, thin ponytail of dull brown hair brushed my shoulder blades. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” I knew the fact that I had a prepubescent chest and donned shapeless jeans and a vintage PacMan shirt from the boy’s department at Target did me no favors. “And, to answer your other question, I don’t have a computer. I’m sorry, I just can’t aff—”

  “Hey, Momma?” The little, raspy voice popped up behind us out of nowhere. “Jo-Jo says pumpkin pie is part of the fruit food group, so I could have a piece as a snack. I told her I’d ask you. Is it? Is pumpkin pie a fruit, Mom?”

  A wavy blonde head with tanned skin, pink cheeks, and sparkling blue eyes peered at me over the counter. If the counter had been glass, I was sure we would’ve seen her perched on her tiptoes, straining to see over the top so she could get a good, nosy look at the strange woman I was talking with. She wasn’t used to me socializing with the customers.

  “Come around to this side of the bar and let me introduce you to my friend.”

  She bounced to the small, swinging door and popped right through—a virtual jack-in-the-box—making as much noise as one, too.

  “Hello.” She smiled and waved at Claire. “I’m Waverly Anne West, and I am almost five years old.”

  Claire slid from where she’d been sitting and took a knee in front of my extroverted daughter. “Hello, Waverly Anne West. I am Claire Elizabeth Clark. It is a pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands while I grabbed a small sliver of pumpkin pie from behind the counter. “I sure hope you’ll eat your pie at my table with me while I get to know you a little bit.”

  She scooted the work she had spread all over the Formica tabletop to one messy pile, making room for Waverly and her plate of pie.

  “Wow, Miss Claire, are you a teacher?” Her wide eyes took in the usually spotless tabletop. “Because I think a teacher’s desk would look just like this messy old mess you have here.”

  “Waverly!” Why, oh why, couldn’t God have given me a shy child?

  Claire shook her head, laughing out loud. “You know what, you’re right. This is a messy mess, isn’t it?”

  “She’s not a teacher exactly. She’s an editor. People hire Miss Claire to help make their writing good enough to sell.”

  Waverly nodded as she ate, waiting to speak again only once she’d swallowed, proof that bad habits could be broken. “Oh, so that’s why you’re friends with my mom, huh? Has she shown you her books?” Waverly focused on me and whispered, “Mom, go get your books and show Miss Claire. She can help you sell ‘em, maybe for real money!” She elbowed me in the pocket of my jeans, shooing me away.

  My eyes rolled involuntarily. My mother always told me she prayed I would have a daughter who behaved just like me, as payback for all the hell I put her through… and damn her if she wasn’t right.

  “No, ma’am.” I gave her my pointed, I mean business look. “Elbow me one more time and that’ll be the last piece of pie you have for a good long while. Now, say goodbye to Miss Claire and go back to Cara Jo. I’m almost finished with my shift, and you have an appointment later.”

  “Then Halloween costume shopping?” She hopped up, bouncing on the balls of her feet with her palms pressed together in prayer.

  I huffed in her direction. “Not if you don’t follow my instructions right now.”

  “Fine.” Waverly dragged herself in the direction from which she’d come like she was maneuvering through molasses with weighted ankles. But before making her grand exit, she leaned in close to Claire. “My momma has about a trillion notebooks out there.” She pointed through the kitchen. “They’re in the toaster, and she’s written on every single page. There aren’t pictures in any of them, and I can’t read them yet, but I bet they’re pretty good. She’s smart like me. Her handwriting isn’t so good, though. It’s sloppy, and if she were in my class, my teacher, Miss Jennie, would have given her a new piece of paper and asked her to write like a writer, because when you write like a writer, people can read like readers. But you already knew that, didn’t cha?”

  Claire nodded, and Waverly smiled with sparkly, ocean blue eyes, beaming at the chance to impart her unique and interesting brand of wisdom on her newfound friend.

  Claire’s grin split her face as she looked at me. “You do realize it’s November, right? Halloween has come and gone.”

  “Yes, I know, but right now they’re at least half off. We try to stay a year ahead. And I’m so sorry. Waverly is the mess, not you.” My eyes followed m
y messy mess of a daughter right out the back door.

  Her bright grin indicated Claire had enjoyed the exchange she’d witnessed. “I am the mother of three boys. You have no idea what embarrassing is. Once, my youngest came outside during a neighborhood barbecue holding his oldest brother’s skateboard with giant maxi pads stuck to his knees, telling the whole world he was ready for his big brothers to teach him to skate. There is nothing your child could say or do that would be worse than that.”

  Sitting across from Claire in her booth, we started swapping cringe-inducing kid stories, giggling like little girls at a slumber party. It felt freeing to laugh with abandon. I needed to get out of this diner more. I needed friends. “But why did she say your books were in the toaster?”

  “Oh, right.” I started to laugh again. “We live in the vintage Airstream right out back. You can just barely see it from the road, but it’s big and silver, kind of roundish? Anyway, she calls it the toaster.”

  We both laughed again. When we could breathe, Claire promised she’d come by once every week or two to work with me on my writing. And once she was gone, Waverly and I flew out the door, headed to the clinic. After which, we planned to continue our search for a Captain America costume that would fit my quirky daughter.

  Chapter 3

  Christian

  December 2011

  “WILL THIS HOUSE EVER be clean again?” I looked at the mountains of ripped paper and cardboard. Someone had a mess to clean up, and I had a feeling that someone was me.

  My mother glanced over from her rocking chair and smiled. “It’ll never be quite the same, will it?” I shook my head. Nope. Never. “But this was the best Christmas of my whole life.”

  I agreed, it was one of the best. We sighed in unison, surveying the aftermath of a family Christmas no one could have dreamed. My brother Casey had married the love of his life two days before, and the two little boys they’re on the road to adopting, Julian and Taj, came for the holidays. It was their first Christmas as a family. We hadn’t had small children in the house on a Christmas morning in years.

  “How did you do it with three of us?” My mother made mothering look effortless. The woman was a saint.

  “Man, those little boys were loud.” She laughed. “And incredibly messy.”

  “Don’t forget the girls,” I reminded her. “They had a hand in all this as well.”

  My brother’s two best friends, Jase and Becky—who both grew up across the street from us—were married in a double wedding ceremony, along with Casey and Vaughn. Their daughters, Whiskey and Ruby Grace, were also involved in the Christmas morning hurricane that had swept through the modest ranch-style home I’d lived in all my life.

  She stilled. “I’d forgotten how much I missed the screeches and laughter of kids on Christmas morning. My heart is full, Christian.” Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. “My heart is full.”

  In truth, I shared my mother’s sentiments exactly. Christmas had always been my favorite holiday, but this year I got to be an uncle. Plus, I had the added bonus of it being my first Christmas in my new position as the associate pastor of Gulf Shores, a nondenominational church about fifteen miles south of where I grew up. Conducting my first Christmas Eve service with my family sitting a few pews away, right on the heels of officiating the weddings of my brother and his best friend, and followed by waking up on Christmas morning to five overly excited children—including my fifteen-year-old brother, Curt—gave me hope I’d have a family of my own one day.

  “I hate to say it, but I may be a little jealous.” Jealousy wasn’t my style, and the words were like bile in my throat, but it didn’t make them any less true.

  “When was the last time you went on a date, hon?” Using her foot, she started rocking again. A rhythm of slow creaks filled the quiet room as she awaited my reply.

  I couldn’t tell her I hadn’t been on a proper date since I’d been in college years ago, and that was only if chicken fingers and a movie constituted as proper.

  “Mom, don’t start.”

  I stood, pacing the room. Like I needed more pressure on this topic. I was putting enough on myself. “But since you brought it up, tell me this. Where am I supposed to meet a girl? The average age of the women in my congregation is eighty-seven.”

  Gulf Shores had an abundant senior population, followed by an even larger young family population. Any women close to my age were married and working on baby number two or three. I plopped down again, defeated.

  She giggled. “Have you ever thought about… ” Her eyes glanced at the family computer in the corner of the room and back to me, arching one eyebrow. I rolled my eyes.

  “Please do not tell me you were about to suggest I look for the love of my life on a dating website. Please tell me you weren’t?” I leaned closer to her, elbows on my knees.

  “Okay then, I guess I wasn’t?”

  Busted.

  “Mom, I’ll find someone. I know I will. God has a plan for me, and it includes love and a family, just like Casey and Vaughn and Jase and Becky. And just like you and Dad.” I glanced again at the mountain of toys stacked under the tree.

  “Mom, do you believe in soul mates?”

  She continued rocking. “Yeah, I think I do, but I think you have to be open to the idea. Once Dad and I finally met and started talking about our past, we discovered we had been thrown together on so many different occasions without ever knowing. I think it’s because we were too busy chasing the wrong dreams to see that the right one was staring us in the face.”

  “Thrown together? Like, how?” I was intrigued. I hadn’t heard any of this before.

  “Oh, like when we started college, he worked for a grocery store and I had a part-time job at the dry cleaners inside the same store, but we never met. And his best friend lived in the same apartment building I did for years. We probably passed each other dozens of times. He says he even remembers delivering pizza to my apartment a time or two. And get this... his favorite radio station was the one where I did an internship and eventually took a job. For years, he’d heard my voice announcing his favorite songs, not knowing I’d be the mother of his children.” She shook her head at the memories, her soft smile making her look younger than her age. “So many missed opportunities.”

  I loved picturing my parents young and in love. Their frequent displays of affection had become more endearing and less disgusting the older I got. My couple goals were modeled after the breathtaking thirty-year marriage of Kyle and Claire Clark, and I would settle for nothing less.

  “Are you sad you missed out on those years together?”

  She shook her head. “No, his life before me shaped him into the man I love now, just as my life before him shaped me into the woman he fell in love with. Without those experiences, we wouldn’t have been us. Have faith in the process, Christian. God’s at work within you.” She stood and stretched. “She’s out there, but you have to be open to the possibilities.”

  The older I got, the smarter she got. Amazing how that worked.

  “And on that note,” she popped a kiss on the top of my head, “I need to get down to Perrilloux’s.” She navigated toward the center of the room and started kicking through the trash in search of her shoes.

  “Perrilloux’s the diner? You’re working on Christmas Day?”

  The flexibility in my mother’s job made her office somewhat portable, and she often worked around town at different places, depending on the time of day or the weather. The woman operated like a Swiss watch with her schedules, and her work ethic was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. However, as she prepared to leave, her computer remained in her bag in its usual spot. She made no attempt to grab it. Instead, she gathered a handful of gifts she’d set aside before the banshees were let loose this morning.

  “Yeah, just for a bit. I’m meeting a friend there. Today’s her daughter’s birthday, and I get the impression she doesn’t have a lot of family. So I wanted to go visit he
r and give them a little something.”

  “Is the place even open today?” I was still shocked, and a bit miffed she planned to leave her family on Christmas. It’s not as if the football zombies—my dad and brother—would care. But I did.

  “Yep, I’m pretty sure it’s open. But if it isn’t, it won’t matter. My friend lives right behind it in a sweet little Airstream fixed up real cute. She’s a waitress, but in addition to that, she also manages the diner and the RV park.”

  “The RV park?”

  “Yeah, it’s quite slow this time of year, but she says it keeps her hopping in the summer.”

  She smiled, with a wave, and disappeared out the back door. Seconds later, I heard her Jeep fire up and back out, off to spend part of Christmas with some old lady… who wasn’t a member of her family.

  It took seven industrial-sized trash bags—and the better part of an hour—to tame the wild and crazy destruction zone once known as my parents’ living room. With everything back in its place and nothing better to do, I grabbed Mom’s computer and started perusing the local real estate sites.

  I’d moved into the guesthouse attached to the parsonage the weekend after I’d accepted the job. It was located right behind the church. Before that, I’d come back home to live between graduating from seminary and securing a position in my field, tail between my legs. It had damaged my ego. Getting out from under my parents’ roof became my main priority. I didn’t, however, foresee the challenges of living just thirty paces away, door to door, from perfect strangers… one who happened to be my boss.

  Pastor John and his wife, Janice, moved to Gulf Shores five short years before, but in that time they’d grown the church significantly. So much so, they needed to hire me.

  “Christian, I’d like to welcome you to the Gulf Shores family. We’re just so glad to have ya, son.” John shook my hand and patted me on the back as he ushered me into his home for dinner, which smelled fantastic.