Spilled Coffee

by J. B. Chicoine

  Mr. Garver grinned. “And how are you, Ben?”

  “Fine, thanks. How are you?”

  “Just dandy.” He looked me up and down. “You’ve put on a little height since last summer—about six inches, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Just five, actually.” At two inches short of six feet—an inch taller than Dad—I felt like a freaking giant.

  “I guess you’ll be the tall one of the family.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  He winked. “Now you’ll have to beat off all the older girls.”

  “Doubt it,” I said under my breath. He probably meant Dora.

  “Will that be all?”

  I eyed the penny candy. “Five Tootsie Rolls and five Mary Janes, please.”

  “You bet.” With a grin, he shoved two huge handfuls of each candy into a small bag as I stared at the white roots of his jet-black hair. He winked again. “With the chips, that’ll be twenty cents.”

  “Gee, thanks Mr. Garver.” I acted like it was the first time he had ever given me a whole lot more than ten-cents-worth of candy, but on the rare occasions when he, instead of Mrs. Garver, had waited on me, he always loaded up my bag. I laid down two dimes and made my way toward the exit. Mom and Penny approached the checkout.

  Mrs. Garver’s lilting call traveled from the stockroom. “Earl! I need you back here.”

  “Yes, Dearie,” he responded with a smile.

  In a moment, Mrs. Garver greeted Mom, “I’ll ring you up.”

  I pushed open the front door, sneaking a peek in the bag as I stepped outside and walked smack into the back of a green blazer. The tall blond guy, a little taller than me but outweighing me by half, whirled around.

  “What the—!” He scowled. Coffee from his Styrofoam cup spotted the front of his Oxford shirt as he held the dripping cup away from him with one hand, while the other pinched a cigarette butt.

  I gasped. “Sorry.”

  “You freaking retard!”

  I winced as he flicked the glowing butt at my face and stormed off the porch, brushing coffee from his sleeve. I glanced at Dad, behind his newspaper shield, as the Elmore creep slunk into his sporty little Mercedes. To my side, Dora whimpered. Big fat tears welled from her eyes and escaped down each cheek, meeting her quivering chin.

  The heat I had felt in my own cheeks, a second ago, dissipated. “He meant me, Dora, not you.”

  She wrung the fabric of her skirt, wet with tears.

  I shoved my hand into the candy bag and pulled out a fistful. With a gentle nudge, I said, “Here Isadora. Never mind him.”

  Like squeezing off a hose, the tears quit and her usual smile spread across her face. “I like Mary Janes.”

  As the Elmore kid peeled away from the storefront, I replaced Dora’s Tootsie Rolls with her favorite. “Don’t eat them all at once, okay?”

  “Okay,” she smiled.

  Just then, Mom called out, “Ben! Come help your sister carry bags.”

  I opened the screen door for Penny. She passed me a paper sack full of groceries as Mom stepped through with an armload; a big orange sunhat topped it off. As I headed toward the car, Frankie barreled through the door.

  Dad looked up from his newspaper. “What did you do, Beverly, buy out the store? I told you, that paycheck needs to last until July.”

  “Then I guess you can do the shopping next time,” she huffed as I put the groceries in the back seat. Dad finally budged after I took my place, sandwiched between Frankie and Mom’s new summer outfit—like she had anyplace to wear it.

  Frankie squirmed beside me, fiddling with a BB in a five-cent maze. He sang out, “Ben’s in love with a retard, Ben’s in love with a retard.”

  From the front seat, Penny reached behind and swatted my brother. “That’s not nice, Frankie. How would you like it if I went around calling you a bed wetter?”

  “Shut up. I am not.”

  “Are too,” I said under my breath.

  “Ben,” Mom spoke up. “Don’t tease your brother.”

  I stifled a huff and an eye roll and then glanced down at my white T-shirt, at the singed hole right in the middle of my chest. Great.

  Chapter 3

  How long have I been sitting behind the wheel, staring off into space? I check the Saab’s clock. It feels like hours have passed, but it’s been just a few minutes. Technically, my journey into the past has only begun, but already my anxiety is mounting. I steady my breathing, unhook the seatbelt and pull myself from the car.

  As I make my way to the Garver’s Market porch, a small swarm of black flies gathers around my head. The step creaks the way it always did. A poster advertising the August carnival is skewed, taped to the inside of the window beside the screen door. The overhead bell jingles when I step in.

  Next to the checkout, they’ve installed a sub deli. Behind the counter, a familiar gap-toothed smile spreads across an aging face. Straight, salt-and-peppered hair frames her pudgy cheeks. The familiarity of her is at once disconcerting, yet comforting.

  My breath falters, catching words in my throat as I say, “Hello, Isadora.”

  She squints hard until I remove my shades. Now she smiles with recognition, as if seeing past my beard and erasing two decades. “I know you—you’re—you’re Ben! Ma! It’s Ben!”

  Mrs. Garver, her hair now feather white and still wearing the same old rhinestone cat’s-eye glasses, steps out from the stockroom. A warm smile colors her entire countenance. “Why, Ben Hughes, is that really you?”

  I draw in a deep breath—“Yeah”—and let it out slowly—“it’s really me.”

  “How are you?”

  I twitch and paste on a smile. “Good enough.”

  “Well, now isn’t this a treat?”

  Dora, breathing with effort, hasn’t quit grinning, but Mrs. Garver’s happy smile wanes. “And how is your poor mother?”

  Another lungful. Hold. “She passed away last year.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  I doubt she’ll ask about the rest of my family, but I still hope to divert her attention. “And Mr. Garver?” I remember his dyed hair, like black polish on white orthopedic shoes, but mostly I remember his kindly disposition.

  “He passed ten years ago—at seventy-six. Sudden heart attack, don’t’cha know. Killed him instantly—no suffering.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s very sad. How have you and Dora been getting on?”

  “Oh, we’re just fine. Earl—God rest his soul—made sure that we’d be well cared for.”

  “He was a good man.”

  “Yes, a very good man. Now tell me dear, what can I get for you?”

  I give the cold cut selection a once-over, wishing for sushi—or at least something semi-organic. Oh, what the hell! “Pastrami on rye, a pint of potato salad, please, and a cup of coffee.” I think twice about the coffee—I don’t need the caffeine, I just feel like something warm. “Make that a decaf.”

  “You got it.”

  As Mrs. Garver assembles my sandwich, I stroll up one aisle and down the next on the same old speckled and chipped linoleum. I grab a jug of water from the glass-doored refrigerator and stall at the sight of Marshmallow Fluff and Spaghetti-Os. As reminiscent of childhood as they are, they won’t make much of a supper or breakfast, although since I don’t know what shape the cooking facilities will be in, I’m better off buying something that doesn’t need heating. I pick up a can of Spam and read the label—this stuff is about as far from organic as I’ve eaten since before we moved to the farm. I deliberate, tossing the can from one hand to the other, weighing my options. Well, for the nostalgia of it, why not? I grab a loaf of Wonder bread while I’m at it. If I’m going to deviate from my health-food diet, I may as well do it up right. When I pass the Marshmallow Fluff on my way back, I grab a jar.

  The Mad magazine on the rack catches my eye. Alfred E. Neuman hasn’t aged one bit. I resist the temptation to buy the latest copy.

  “You certainly look dapper in your
white shirt and vest,” Mrs. Garver calls out.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Special occasion?”

  “No.” She doesn’t realize that the white shirt and vest with jeans has become my standard attire. Being ‘all buttoned up’ feels comfortable to me.

  “I heard there’s a storm rolling in,” Mrs. Garver says. “But not till after midnight.”

  Great. My body temperature rises as I head to the checkout. I wish I had ordered something cold, but Dora is already pouring coffee.

  “Would you mind adding a couple extra mustard and mayo packets to my bag, and some utensils?” I say to Dora as I glance behind me to the back corner of the store, to a narrow hallway where the cord of a pay phone catches a glimmer of light. I swallow hard, shifting my tense jaw. There’s no point in trying to suppress my tick; my eyes flutter.

  “Here you go, Ben.” Dora looks at me askance. As she drops condiment packets and plastics into my bag, she bumps the coffee cup. I’m quick enough to salvage it before more than a single drop sloshes. Now that was a rescue.

  She winces. “I’m so clumsy.”

  “No, you’re not.” I hold up the cup to show her it’s still full. “See? No damage.”

  “I am clumsy.”

  “Well, you should have seen the mess I made of someone’s coffee this morning—spilled it all over some poor lady. Now that was a disaster!”

  Dora’s giggle puts me at ease. Mrs. Garver rings me up between sympathetic glances.

  “That’ll be eleven, thirteen.” She folds over the bag’s top.

  I fish out a ten and a couple ones. As she makes change, I give Dora a quick wink, pocket the 87¢, and then grab the bag.

  Mrs. Garver pats my hand. “Will we be seeing you again, Ben?”

  “Probably not. I’m just here overnight.”

  “Staying locally?”

  My heart fibrillates. “At the camp. I just bought it back.”

  Her brows narrow into one continuous tuft. “Oh … I see….”

  I force a smile. “So good to see you again. You too, Isadora.” I leave without giving them a chance to ask further questions. When I step back out onto the porch, a breeze cools the sweat running along my sideburns. Black flies gather as I head to the car.

  As I sit in the driver’s seat with the door still open, hot Styrofoam warms my hand. What was I thinking? Well, I paid for the coffee—I should follow through and drink it. That’s my nature; commit and don’t let go, even at the defiance of logic. Some call it stubbornness. I’ve always considered it fortitude.

  I could drink the coffee now and burn my lips, or forget about it until it’s tepid—or, given the way my morning has been going, I’ll spaz and spill it all over myself. With resignation, I flip off the lid and pour the coffee onto the ground. There—that wasn’t so hard. Without ceremony or further contemplation, I put the Saab in gear, leaving the spilled coffee behind.

  Ten minutes later, I turn onto Rockette Lake Road. Before long, I pass familiar landmarks. The boat landing. The public beach. The overgrown, still creepy-looking picnic area gives me a shudder. The pavement ends where a boulder forks the road. A sign, Swaying Pines—Private Drive, signals my turn. Ahead, on the winding dirt road, an SUV approaches. I pull over as far as possible, struck at the narrowness of the passage compared to what I remember.

  I meet up with another car, not unusual for Memorial Day weekend. As I continue driving, swatches of the lake become visible, and sunlit reflections flicker between evergreens. Through my open window, a light breeze carries the crisp scent of water—that trigger is sufficient to send me back.

  Bad enough that I had to sit beside Frankie for the entire three-hour drive from Southeastern Massachusetts, but by the time we left Garver’s, he had used up the half-roll of toilet paper Mom had given him for his runny nose. For the hundredth time, I caught him with his finger up his nostril.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I asked as he studied what he had dug out.

  “Wipe it on the back of the seat with all the others.”

  “Mom!”

  She huffed, “Ben, you’re going to make me miss my turn.”

  “But he’s—”

  “That’s enough!”

  “Gross.” I leaned as far away from him as possible until Mom turned onto Rockette Lake Road. As soon as water came into view, Frankie turned into an overgrown Labrador retriever, prancing around the back seat. He rolled down his window, scuttling to his knees, his sneakers grabbing the hairs on my thighs.

  “Get off me!” I shoved his feet away as he stuck his head out the window, eager to lap up rushing air. In many ways, my little brother was like a family pet—he could get away with anything, in spite of his wet nose and bladder problems.

  Mom glared via her reflection in the rearview mirror as her hot pink fingernail shook in my direction. “Don’t be so intolerant, Ben.”

  I was more annoyed that Frankie blocked my view than I was at his feet in my lap. We were coming up on Whispering Narrows, ‘cottage’ of the richest man on the lake, Doc Burns. Our car, leading the Falcon, slowed at the first set of large cement lions perched atop stone pillars that marked a half-circle-driveway entrance. I craned my neck, hoping for a glimpse of curly red hair. For as long as we had been coming to camp, just a peek at Doc Burns’ granddaughter made my heart race. Over the past few years, she had traded her pink sundress for hot pants, and then last year, a two-piece bathing suit. I could never hope for a wave, but her mere glance at our station wagon would be the perfect beginning to my summer.

  As we approached the second pair of lions, the overhanging porch of Whispering Narrows came into view. Doc’s Land Rover was parked in front. Off to its side sat two other cars I had never seen before—a new, black Jaguar Coup and an old, blue Rambler station wagon with a red driver’s door and multicolored tailgate.

  As soon as I had a clear view of the massive pillars that supported the porch roof, the front door flew open and shut. Amelia skipped down the granite steps, halting when her attention landed on our caravan. Penny leaned across Mom’s lap, waving like an imbecile until Amelia waved back. My whole body heated to such an uncomfortable level that if I burst into flames, at least my embarrassment would end, once and for all. Why did big sisters have to be so conspicuous?

  As we passed, I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder, catching one last glimpse of Amelia. Penny reached back and gave me a knowing shove. I ignored her, now lost in lust. Amelia Burns. Love of my life. Maybe this summer I would get up the courage to talk to her.

  Chapter 4

  As I maneuver the Saab past Whispering Narrows, the estate soon disappears beyond a stand of blue spruce, which hides two other camps and separates Safe Haven from Whispering Narrows. Thick greenery buffers a sharp, uphill turn in the road. One sweaty hand grips the steering wheel, while my other fist tightens on the stick, grinding gears as I downshift. It hadn’t dawned on me how much shorter the incline would be, let alone how diminished our cottage might seem. In fact, the old place looks so small, hidden in the overgrowth at the top of the hill, that I overshoot the driveway. Shifting into reverse, I watch eighteen years catch up in my rearview mirror.

  I pull into the clearing between the cottage and a lean-to that is literally leaning. We used to call this nondescript driveway “the dooryard.”

  I check the dashboard. 11:00. I wonder what Gretchen, my ex-fiancée, is doing right now, “On Saturday, the Thirtieth of May, Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Seven, at Eleven in the Morning.” Probably her sisters are offering consolation, or more likely, congratulations on having cut me loose. It’s ironic, how I have inadvertently traded one life-altering day for another. Granted, it remains to be seen whether the next twenty-four hours ends up altering my life. I didn’t plan that bit of melodrama, it’s just how the days fell. Either way, it seems auspicious somehow.

  Pushing Gretchen out of mind for the time being, I climb from the car. The smell of decaying leaves hangs in the midday air
, and pine needles crunch underfoot as I walk the path toward the cottage. Spotty moss covers the roof except in those places where shingles have fallen off. The chipped and peeling layer of asphalt brick siding makes an apt statement about Safe Haven. Even with the crumbling facade and rotting sill, I can’t help seeing potential. I shake my head and move forward.

  This property has changed hands once since we lost the place. I was told that after the foreclosure it sat for ten years. The young couple who bought it ended up in divorce shortly thereafter. If anyone made improvements to the cottage, I’m sure they’ve long since slipped into disrepair.

  Even though I’ve braced myself for the impact of so much time away, I didn’t anticipate how the years would rush past as if they were Frankie and Penny racing each other to the water. I twitched at the sound of birds swooping down the path, weaving between overgrown limbs. I pick up my pace, careful of the roots at my feet, and hurry down a rickety stretch of moldering stairway to where I played as a boy.

  This piece of property sits upon the highest point of the lakefront and slopes down into the deepest curve of a sheltered cove. Whispering Narrows’ waterfront eats up half of the cove’s north side, then pinches it off before curving back out into the lake, where Doc Burns’ floatplane used to moor. The “Narrows” closes up the cove just enough that it muffled the rumble of the Cessna, while allowing passage to the rest of the lake. Unfortunately, the Narrows also enhanced all acoustics within the cove. We used to cringe at Mom’s grating censures that returned as an echo: “Bad enough we have to hear that god-awful contraption, but we have to look at it, too!” Yet, I loved having the plane in sight beyond the Narrows, just as much as I relished light-handed piano sonatas that rolled down the Burns’ lawn like an early morning mist.

  I would have ventured down our dock, but too many planks have disintegrated on the sagging, narrow walk. It looks like a sad old smile with unsightly gaps between teeth. My boots feel heavy now that I’m standing on a small patch of beach, kicking at some loose gravel. I drop to my rear end. With my laces untied, I pry off my boots and then peel off red-and-white-striped socks. I can’t help grinning, which is why I wore these socks in the first place. I was told they would help me keep my sense of humor.