Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe

by Abbie Williams

  Jilly tucked her arm through mine and appropriated my can for a sip. “Jo, just take it a day at a time. That’s the only way. We have all summer to talk.” She stretched her slim legs and pointed her bare toes in the starlight; it was a new moon, and the stars rioted in bright joyous rebellion. And then, almost guiltily, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Jilly Bean,” I whispered back. “Me, too.” Even if I were here for all the wrong reasons.

  ***

  We straggled back to the house at some point; I passed out on the couch in the minuscule living room, the same blue-flowered couch that I had curled my baby hands around to pull myself upright before attempting a step into the wider world. Directly behind the couch the wall was sliced off on a diagonal plane, following the stairs up to a landing where they curved left and led to the bedrooms above. The house itself was silent; I could hear a rippling chorus of birdsong through the front windows, propped open to a fair, breezy May morning.

  I squinted, slogging a hand through my tangled hair, enormously grateful to Mom and Aunt Ellen, who never made breakfast in the house kitchen during the summer months but instead trooped over to Shore Leave and got busy there. I imagined I could smell coffee drifting over on the morning air, a welcome thought despite the ache--courtesy of more alcohol than I’d intended to consume--blossoming behind my eyes. With a groan I extracted myself from the couch and climbed the stairs, pausing for a moment on the landing to study the familiar pale-green wallpaper with its faded, trailing ivy vines. The house smelled exactly the same, of some indelible perfume of all the women who’d lived within its walls for decades. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling my past, and then continued to the sad little excuse for a bathroom that hunkered between Mom and Aunt Ellen’s rooms. Across the hall was the room I would now be sharing with Gran, unless I decided to scrunch in with Jilly in the apartment above the garage. She and Clint shared that space. It wasn’t that I minded sharing a room with Gran, but it was tempting to squeeze in with my sister to catch up on our long talks. For another moment I pictured my master bathroom in our townhouse in Chicago: a gleaming, turquoise-tiled expanse complete with heated towel racks and a tub within which it was deep enough to scuba dive. I bit my lip, hard, and entered the bathroom of my formative years.

  The ancient medicine cabinet mirror caught my reflection and threw it back without a hint of sympathy for my feelings. I continued chewing my lower lip as I took in the purple smears beneath my eyes, the snarls in my hair, the shiny, sunburned skin over my nose. Good lord, had I looked this terrible last night? My lips were chapped. I look like a woman who deserves to be cheated on, I thought, wallowing in a trench of self-pity. This is what I had come to…contemplating my pitiful reflection in the mirror where I had once primped for evenings out with Jackie. When my skin had been tan and taut and my eyes full of the sparkle of love and excitement. Tears flooded. God, I missed my husband. No, I corrected myself. I missed my boyfriend Jackson, in whose eyes I could see myself as I looked back then, full of confidence and spirit. My husband Jackie was a cheating son of a bitch I’d left behind in Chicago, ideally until he chased me back here to beg and plead forgiveness.

  I sobbed then, bending forward at the waist, thankful no one was around to hear. I leaned over the yellowed old sink where I had brushed my teeth a thousand times and where I’d puked when I’d had too much to drink. I sobbed until I almost gagged, and finally sank to my knees, onto the shaggy green bathroom throw rug, where I pressed my forehead to the edge of the sink and breathed, shallow and shaky at first. But as the minutes ticked by golden morning light began to creep across the floor and I regained a shred of composure. Come on, Joelle. Jesus. Get up and at least wash your hair. Mom always said clean hair made everything easier to face. I stood in the hot water until it ran out (about five minutes) and then scrubbed my scalp with Prell (which had been the brand of choice in this house since the 1950s), coated my face with Noxema and used the loofa sponge to give my body a thorough once-over.

  Fifteen minutes later I clacked out the screen door, my hair squeaky clean and soft on my shoulders, dressed in cut-off jeans and a sleeveless green blouse. Make-up would have added untold amounts to my self-esteem, but the small pink zippered bag containing my cosmetics was nowhere to be found this morning. I was fortunate to locate my toothbrush. Barefoot, I gingerly crossed the road and then made my way over the worn path towards Shore Leave. Dodge must have recently mowed, because the scent of shorn grass was fresh in the air. To my right, the sun was sparkling over the water like shifting gold coins, and I felt a momentary buoyancy, unexpected but certainly not unwelcome. The air felt amazing on my limbs and in my lungs, and I drew a deep breath, smelling the lake.

  “Hi, sweetie!” I heard then, and smiled in spite of myself, turning to wave to Dodge out on the end of the boat launching dock. He was a fixture around Shore Leave; a big, scruffy-haired man whose black beard was now heavily salted with silver, whose infectious laughter made his stomach shake and everyone around him grin. I couldn’t recall ever having witnessed Dodge in a pissy mood. From a distance he looked almost exactly the same as he had in my youth: hearty and beaming, his aviator sunglasses perched on the crown of his head.

  “Morning!” I called back, blowing him a kiss. I’d catch up with him later, and he appeared busy chatting with someone ten feet below, sitting in a boat with an outboard motor.

  “Good to have you home, Jo!” he yelled before turning back to whatever conversation I’d interrupted. Seconds later I jogged up the porch steps, then winced slightly at the heavy smell of frying egg that met me at the screen. Barf.

  “Aunt Joey!” Clint came barreling toward the entryway, and I smiled at my nephew, meeting him halfway for a bear hug.

  “God, Clint, you’re huge!” I told him as he crushed me tight. It was such an aunt sort of thing to say, but it was true. He must have grown six inches since last summer. Clint pulled back and grinned at me.

  “I’m so glad you guys are here!” he said, and my smile widened. Clint was such a dear boy. He was kind-hearted and sincere; sometimes I couldn’t believe that he and Tish were as close as they were. She often ate him alive, but he took it with ease. Clint was tan and lanky, with Jilly’s incredible eyes. The rest of him was pure Chris, though; it took my breath away to see how exactly he resembled his father, from the wide, dimpled grin to the tumbled dark hair and square jaw.

  Jilly was on his heels, bearing a cup of steaming coffee. She grinned, too, and gave me a quick once-over. “You feeling all right this morning, Mama?”

  I decided not to answer that, instead taking the mug and inhaling gratefully.

  “Thanks, Jills,” I told her, and followed the two of them into the dining room. Shore Leave was built on the spare; the best tables were all out on the porch, visible through the wide, curtainless windows. Mom claimed that cutting off the lake view was a crime. Inside we had six four-tops, eight stools at the counter, and three deep booths, not counting the row of high tops in the separate bar area; the sky-blue walls were adorned with all manner of what Jilly affectionately called “trinkety crap,” which was an apt description for the fishing nets, fishing poles, lures, tin soda signs, saw blades painted with images of lake shores in summer, and dozens of framed pictures of Shore Leave in all seasons since the 1940s. I especially loved the one of Gran and Great-Aunt Minnie, taken when the two of them were in their twenties, looking like rural beauty queens, Minnie with a cigarette in her teeth and Gran with a stringer of fish. Smiles about two feet wide, happy as clams without any menfolk whatsoever. What did they know that I did not?

  In the busy season, we were open Tuesday through Saturday from eleven to eight, Sundays for lunch, but now, early in May, there wasn’t much appreciable business until dinner. Locals drove or biked over from Landon to hang out on the water; I had been simultaneously dreading and anticipating this particular crowd. Though I enjoyed seeing my former high school classmates, most of whom still lived within walki
ng distance of downtown Landon, it would be difficult to explain why I was on an extended visit without my husband. I shuddered internally, turning my attention to the kitchen, where I could hear the voices of all three girls vying for Rich’s attention. I realized, on a bit of a delay this morning, that it was awfully busy back there, far more than breakfast for the family would warrant.

  “What’s going on?” I asked my sister, who was behind the white Formica counter refilling her own coffee. Clint reclaimed his chair at table three and began pouring maple syrup over a stack of pancakes around a foot tall. I looked quickly away, my stomach jumping, and snagged a stool near Jilly.

  “Rich said there’s a party of twenty heading over for lunch today. Some guys he used to know. I guess they’re at the campground and heard we serve a damn good fish fry.” Jilly leaned the small of her back against the stainless steel sink near the coffee maker and took a long drink. “Mmmmm.”

  I sipped cautiously. From behind the ticket window, Tish’s face appeared. She was my early riser, a true morning person, and she grinned brightly at me, visible only from the shoulders up.

  “Morning, Mom. Aunt Jilly said we should be nice to you since you’re hung over this morning.”

  I groaned, giving Jillian the evil eye. She rolled her own back at me, as Tish continued, “Grandma said we could all help out this summer in the café.”

  “Starting today, if you like,” Mom called, appearing behind Tish. She was dressed in a flowered blouse, her hair piled into a serviceable bun on her head. Both she and Tish were sporting earrings made from feathers, two pairs for my daughter.

  “Where’d you get those?” I asked, twirling a finger near my own earlobe.

  “Aunt Ellen makes them,” Tish informed me. “Are you gonna help out today or what, Mom? There’s a twenty-top at noon.”

  “We’re here twelve hours and you’re already spouting restaurant lingo,” I observed, deciding not to make an issue about the earrings. I was all about picking my battles these days. “Yeah, that’s fine, Mom, I’ll help.”

  “Better get some shoes first, Aunt Joey,” Clint said, indicating my bare feet with his fork.

  “Right, thanks, Clinty,” I told him, curling my toes over the rung of the stool.

  “Here comes Gran,” Jilly observed, peering over my shoulder.

  I turned in time to see our grandmother come whacking through the screen door, a small, wiry woman in pink pedal pushers, her wispy hair resembling nothing so much as a dandelion gone to seed. She used a cane these days, and wore thick-soled orthopedic shoes, but her voice was as strong as ever, her eyes snapping as she reached with her free arm to give me a hug. I wrapped my own about her and hugged as hard as I dared; she felt so frail in my arms. I clung for a long moment as she rubbed her hand over my back, briskly. Then abruptly she pulled back and said decisively, “Joelle, you look good.”

  My heart softened. “Thanks, Gran, you too.”

  “Where’s that son of a bitch, Jackson?”

  I didn’t even flinch, I was so used to this attitude. Gran, to be fair, had never been overly fond of Jackie, even back in our dating days. She always claimed he was too charming for his own good, which I’d resented. I leaned and pecked her on the cheek before replying, “He’s home in Chicago, Gran. He won’t be here this summer.”

  “How are the girls taking it?” she asked, lowering her voice a smidge. Her shrewd gaze would harbor no bullshit from me.

  “Terrible,” I admitted, following at her side as she moved to join Clint.

  He mumbled, “Morning, Gran,” around a mouthful of pancakes.

  I went on, low-voiced, “They adore their dad. They can’t see his faults.”

  “Hmph,” Gran replied to this. But it was true; the girls didn’t know about their father’s indiscretion, though I knew Camille suspected. She hadn’t been willing to swallow the story I’d concocted about the two of us needing a break. But as much as I loved my children, and desired to be honest with them, I couldn’t bear to reveal that particular truth.

  “Nice t-shirt, Gran,” Jilly observed, steering the conversation onto a new path. Clint wasn’t hugely observant, especially with food in front of him, but he certainly didn’t need to be inadvertently informed about my husband’s lover, either. “Is that one Dodge got for you?”

  Gran smirked, sitting up straighter so I could read the words printed across her shirtfront. Gran loved t-shirts with slogans; this particular one was navy blue and announced: EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO MY OPINION. I giggled.

  “Speaking of the devil,” Gran said, as the front porch thundered with Dodge’s footsteps. I jumped up again and ran to give Dodge a big hug; it was damn good to see him. He caught me up and growled into my neck, then released me for a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hi, honey,” he said. “It sure is good to see you coming up the lake road for breakfast. Takes me back to the olden days, you know?” His voice still rumbled like thunder in the next county.

  “It’s good to be here,” I replied. And it was, no matter what the circumstances.

  “The boy says hello,” Dodge went on, referring to his son, Justin. “He was heading out on the lake this morning.”

  “How is he doing?” I asked, trying to curb my profound curiosity. “I haven’t seen Justin in years.”

  Dodge opened his mouth but Gran filled in, living up to her shirt: “He’s in a bad place, Jo, real bitter. He can’t get over his accident.”

  To my surprise, Dodge didn’t argue. He sighed and accepted the coffee Jilly held out to him. He sipped and then added, “Lou’s right, Joelle, much as I hate to admit it.”

  Gran pursed her lips in satisfaction and Clint looked on, his own eyes full of questions.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, directing the question to Dodge, but again Gran answered, “He is still a handsome devil. He always had such a pretty face, looked just like Marjorie. But the scarring is hard on his vanity. You’ll just have to see for yourself, Joelle.”

  Ruthann came through the swinging door between the kitchen and dining rooms and scampered over for a hug. She was young for her age, with a sweeter disposition than her sisters; at twelve, neither Camille nor Tish would have been overly willing to hug me in public. I reached out my arm and snuggled her while Dodge ruffled her hair. Tish reappeared and Gran began to badger her about her earrings, and in the ensuing hubbub I forgot all about Justin Miller.

  By twelve-thirty, Shore Leave was packed with fishermen. I donned a pale blue Shore Leave apron over my shorts, reprising my role as server along with Jilly and Camille. Tish was helping in the kitchen while Mom and Aunt Ellen took care of seating and bartending, respectively. I fell right back into the ebb and flow of waiting tables, even enjoying myself in the familiar space, bantering with Rich’s buddies as they ordered mugs of beer and fried fish sandwiches. Jilly and I took care of the porch crowd, letting Camille take the indoor tables, which weren’t as busy; she was still getting used to the whole waitressing gig. I watched her surreptitiously as she worked, marveling anew at how lovely and grown-up she looked, my prim, intelligent, dreamer of an eldest daughter, her dark curls held back in a barrette, her cheeks flushed and her eyes merry. It struck me that at her age I’d been with Jackie for nearly two years; had spent countless hours in the backseat of his car and in his parents’ basement drinking cheap wine and listening to Billy Squires and Van Halen; had been making love in every conceivable position known to two teenagers in the early ’80s.

  Oh Camille, I thought, my heart pulsing with an ancient ache. I was so very glad she’d yet to have a serious boyfriend; I couldn’t bear to imagine my girls doing the things I had done. Done and yes, enjoyed very much. That in itself was one of the most profoundly difficult realities about being a mother: reconciling the old self with the mother-self. The sexless, dull, rule-spouting mother I had most surely become. The worst part was, I’d give my front teeth to go back the old me, at least for a weekend.

  “Can I get this without cheese?” a man
at my elbow asked, pulling me from my wool-gathering. It was bright and sunny on the porch, with little wind, and Flickertail Lake was gleaming like a polished blue agate under the radiance.

  “For sure,” I told him, transferring the pitcher of iced tea to my left hand and collecting his plate. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing doing, honey,” he said, catching up his beer and returning to a story in progress at his table. I headed for the kitchen, using my rear to open the outer door, and eased through the throng of people up to the ticket window.

  “Rich!” I called, clacking the fish sandwich onto the high metal counter. “I need a number five, no cheese!”

  “Coming right up,” someone said, and I started slightly as Rich’s grandson Blythe appeared from around the corner and into my line of sight. He was so tall he had to duck to meet my eyes. My heart began pounding my breastbone like a fist, and I found myself momentarily tongue-tied. How humiliating.

  “Thanks,” I finally managed.

  “Busy out there,” he observed, taking the plate and turning to the grill while I remained frozen to the spot, unable to tear my gaze away. Holy hell, he was good-looking. Because his back was to me, I studied him longer than prudent, taking in his faded jeans, worn almost smooth over the back pockets. His hair was probably almost as long as mine when undone; currently it was tied low on his nape with a piece of twine. The bandana was still wrapped around his forehead, though he’d shaved since last night. His shoulders were so wide under the sky-blue Shore Leave t-shirt that a yardstick wouldn’t be enough to measure them. The pale color of the material allowed for the play of his muscles across his back. I bit the insides of my cheeks, hard.