Spilled Coffee

by J. B. Chicoine

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, right.” I gave my oar a thrust. “And what’s-his-name isn’t a lifeguard again this summer?”

  “His name is Percy.”

  “God Penny, what kind of name is Percy? If I had that for a name, I’d change it to Gomer Pile.”

  She kicked my ankle. “Don’t be so intolerant.”

  “Sheesh. I was just kidding.” It wasn’t like her to be quite so touchy. “But seriously, isn’t he a little old for you? I mean, what is he, about twenty?”

  “He’s only nineteen. Besides, he barely knows I’m alive.”

  “He seemed to know you were alive at Garver’s the other day.”

  “Barely. He didn’t say two words to me.”

  “Maybe he’s not into sixteen-year-olds.”

  She folded her arms across her front. “Just shut up and paddle.”

  I kept rowing for about eight-tenths of a mile—at least that was the distance I had clocked on the station wagon odometer, from the beach to our camp. It was probably less, rowing a straight line across the lake, but with the sun directly overhead, I felt every inch of it. I quit rowing and took off my T-shirt.

  “Oh my gosh,” Penny gasped.

  “What?”

  “When did you grow armpit hairs?”

  “God, Penny—I don’t know.” And I really wasn’t sure. It was as if one morning I woke up and there they were. And that was the least of it.

  She pulled her hair out of her ponytail. “Don’t be so defensive.”

  “I’m not. It’s just weird is all, and it doesn’t help having my sister point it out.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” She fluffed her hair. It fell past her shoulders. “I guess we’re both growing up, but it’s easier thinking of you as a little kid ….”

  “Yeah, well …,” and there wasn’t anything more either of us wanted to say about that.

  I rowed closer to shore, near the public picnic area, peering through the low, overhanging trees at the shelter and porta-potty. No one sat at the scattered tables or cooked at the built-in grills. No wonder. Not a single ray of sunlight warmed the dismal setting.

  “That part of the park gives me the creeps,” Penny shivered. “That’s where the pervs hang out. They say it’s haunted, you know—by the Picnic Ghost.”

  I laughed. “What happens? Do sandwiches mysteriously disappear?”

  “Beats me.”

  “So, have you ever seen any?”

  “What—ghosts?”

  “No. Pervs.”

  “No, that’s why they’re pervs. They sneak up and peek in through holes in the back of the porta-potty, when you’re, you know ….”

  “Gross.”

  “And only pervs use them. Us normal people use the nice restrooms.” She pointed to the opposite end of the beach, behind the boat launch. I had used that restroom. It didn’t smell bad. And every year, they painted over nasty stuff written in the stalls. I rowed harder to arrive at the public landing quicker. Penny kept her eyes to shore and broke a smile. She had spotted what’s-his-name.

  She adjusted her button-down shirt, which was no longer buttoned, revealing the top of a two-piece suit. “Were you planning on sticking around?”

  That meant she didn’t want to hurt my feelings by saying, ‘You’re not sticking around, are you?’ I could take a hint. Since I had already done my own scoping-out of the beach and found no one of interest, I said, “I’m just gonna mess around on the lake. You want me to come back in an hour, or what?”

  “How about two?”

  She was stretching how long we could be away without Mom panicking. I checked my Timex and glanced at Percy Wade who hadn’t taken his eyes off Penny since we beached. Then our eyes met. I stared him down, which surprised me. I mean, what was I going to do, go over and tell him he best not mess with my sister? I looked back at Penny. “Where’d you get that swimsuit, anyway?”

  “Never mind that. Hour and a half?”

  “Sure. But not a minute longer.”

  Three hours, three fish, and a sunburned-back later, I braced myself as I rowed up to our camp’s dock with Penny. Giving my oar a calculated twist, I landed the stern against the dock with a clunk, holding my breath at the sight of Mom on her recliner.

  She sat up and waved with a smile. “Did you kids have a nice time?”

  Penny and I exchanged wary glances.

  I held up a couple yellow perch and a bass. “Yeah.”

  “That’s so sweet. It warms my heart that the two of you play so nice together.” She lay back and closed her eyes, smiling all the while, her paper cup in hand.

  Later on, when Dad returned from errands, he passed out Nutty-Buddy cones. A pretty pathetic apology for skipping out on me, but that didn’t stop me from grabbing two.

  That night, I double-checked under the bunk bed for my other dollar. Lo and behold, there it was, way back in the corner.

  Chapter 10

  Wiping my sweaty palms, I again bypass the basement door and make my way up to the Saab. A wave of heat engulfs me as I open the front passenger side where a stack of paperwork lies atop an armload-of-a-cardboard box. I glance at the dashboard. 3:10. As I lift the package from the seat, my gaze settles on the ruined artwork. I put down the box, grab the sketchpad, and toss it on top of everything.

  Inside the kitchen, I lay the box on the table and set aside the paperwork. With the overlapped flaps of cardboard pried open, I remove a layer of crumpled newspaper and then lift Doc’s clock. She still runs as good as the day I finished regulating her in his shop.

  At my apartment in Denver, I allowed her main and chime springs to unwind before packing up for the journey. She survived the humidity of Missouri, the chaos of dorm life at MIT, and the Rockies’ high altitudes. Her case is a little worse for the wear, but she has been the constant in my life, resting only during those short intervals when I had to pack her up for a move. Something in her continuous tick-tock stabilizes my ‘works’—my main spring. Inserting the thumb-worn key, I give it a few turns and then open the back, hook her pendulum to the spring wire I once repaired, and set it in motion. Focusing on the gentle ticking, I close my eyes, imagining myself standing in front of Doc’s workbench, listening for the slightest irregularity in each tock, as if it were her heart beating.

  Thinking back on my mechanical aptitude, I have to admit it was a clever repair for a thirteen-year-old.

  I didn’t bother sneaking as I rifled through our shed for an old bucket of tools. Dad had taken off again, and Mom dozed on her recliner with her paper cup as usual. All I needed was a strip of fine-gauge steel and some cutters.

  Laying out an old piece of cardboard, I glanced over to the corner where Frankie and Skip had built a barricade around the mouse nest. It was empty. Probably ended up as snake lunch. I shuddered at the awful nature of things—the brutality of life and death. Survival of the fittest.

  Dumping the coffee can of nuts, bolts, corroded screwdrivers, and rusty nails, I spotted what I was looking for—a spark-plug feeler gauge. Fanning the gradations of thin metal tabs, I compared them to the split pendulum spring and chose the correct thickness. With stiff tin snips, I cut one. Dad would never notice. Ingenious as improvising the repair was, I didn’t feel comfortable telling Doc I had rooked my Dad’s tool, yet I hoped Doc would still be impressed.

  “I’m going to ride my bike,” I told Mom.

  “Okay, don’t be long,” she replied, as if she would notice.

  I pedaled to Whispering Narrows’ garage, parking my bike down near the mooring, out of sight from the road. I gave the plane a long stare, wishing I could get up the nerve to ask my parents for permission to fly with Doc. I then checked the beach for Amelia. She lay front-side up, her head nested in a halo of strawberry curls. Perfect. This morning, I could mess around with the clock and watch her from the window over the workbench.

  Inside the garage, I passed the black Jaguar—a 1965 XKE coup. I would have walked all t
he way around it or even dared touch it, but I was afraid Doc might walk into the room and think I was messing with his stuff, so I moved to the workbench. As I bent to open the tool drawer, the door between the house and garage creaked opened.

  “Oh. Hi.” A smooth female voice stood me straight up. A brunette approached, removing her round sunglasses—the same lady I had seen on Doc’s patio a few days ago. Big brown eyes looked me up and down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

  I tried not to stare at the sway of her hip-huggers as she moved in my direction, yet as soon as she stood beside me in the hazy sunlight of the window, it was her gauzy, see-through midriff that I couldn’t quit staring at.

  I swallowed hard. There was no way I could control the surge of heat. “Hi. Doc said I could be in here.”

  “No, you’re cool.” As she combed fingers through her hair, long straight tresses shimmered bluish-red and covered her front. Whereas her dark coloring did not match Amelia’s, her features did. “I’m Sunshine. I think I saw you the other day, out on the water.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to catch my breath. “I’m Ben.”

  She held her hand out. I offered mine with hesitation and she gripped it—not firm but not limp.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ben.” She smiled and let go. “I’m just taking the Jag out.”

  I nodded. “Oh.”

  “What’cha working on?”

  “Doc’s clock.”

  She laid her hand on my shoulder as she stepped closer for a better look at the disassembled clock parts drying on an old newspaper. She stood about my height and smelled like a combination of citrus and burning leaves. Earthy, but not in a bad way. “Far out. You’re one smart kid, Ben.”

  I liked that she used my name, as if it were worth remembering.

  She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Hey, I’ve got a pair of earrings that busted. You think you could fix them for me?”

  “I could look at them.”

  “What a sweet kid,” she patted my flaming cheek and turned away.

  A second later, she slunk into the front seat of the Jaguar as the automated garage door opened. Shifting into reverse, she looked behind and backed out.

  “Goodbye, Ben.” She waved and then peeled out of the driveway as the door lowered.

  Wow, my first up-close encounter with a Jaguar coup and a hippie, all in one morning.

  Once I had the clock put back together, I wound the spring and wrote a note to Doc, telling him it still needed regulation. Not that I couldn’t have taken it to our camp and done it there, but I couldn’t hide the ticking and didn’t want to have to explain where it had come from. Besides, leaving it in Doc’s garage gave me an excuse to come back.

  I signed my name and glanced out the window. Amelia had been gone from the beach for a while, so I wouldn’t get a final look before I left. I wiped my hands and stepped out the side door to retrieve my bike. I pushed it uphill toward the pea stone and rounded the corner of the garage just in time to catch Penny talking to Amelia in the driveway. They waved goodbye with a smile before Penny pedaled off on her Schwinn. Not that my sister striking up a friendship with Amelia would better my chances, but maybe Penny would say something nice about me, and maybe Amelia wouldn’t think I was a complete jerk. Since I hadn’t thought a whole lot more about my last encounter with Dora, maybe Amelia hadn’t either.

  Chapter 11

  Now that I have the clock ticking, I return the key to my pocket. It clanks against the marble. Rolling its smoothness between my fingers like a worry stone, I inspect the aggie and set it on the table. It rolls across oak and onto the floor, continuing its path to the wall. The house always had a tilt toward the lake. One good shove and the whole place would probably collapse into the basement. That accounts for the clock’s uneven ticking.

  If I tuck a few pages of that sketch pad under one end of the clock, that should regulate her enough to keep her ticking the night through. With that done, I again pull out my pocket watch. Still no movement. Guessing that it’s close to 3:30 by now, I nudge the clock hands into position.

  From the cardboard box, I remove a yellowed envelope and scrutinize it the way I did the first time I laid eyes on it. It’s addressed to me, care of my aunt, Mrs. Wanda Biggs, RR#2, Kingsville, Missouri. Back when I received it, I would have torn into it, but when I read the return addressee, I kept much of the envelope intact. With the same anticipation, I blow out a slow breath, lift the flap, and slip the card from its sheath like a sacred emblem. Water-colored daisies wrinkle the paper, even after years of having been pressed between pages of an old calculus textbook.

  My Dearest Ben,

  We love you and know you will rise above it all … I hope Penny is doing better….

  Love, Sunshine

  I ached when I first read that, and even now it triggers regrets. Yeah, I should have written back—should have kept in touch. Then again, it was all so overwhelming. Who could blame me for withdrawing from everything and nearly everyone I knew before I turned fourteen?

  There were a lot of legitimate reasons why I never kept up with Amelia—other than through Doc—but there would have been nothing ‘complicated’ about staying in touch with Sunshine. I have always felt bad that I didn’t respond to her note; granted, I didn’t receive it until three years after the fact, when I was deemed “old enough.” Ironically, the arrival of her card coincided with Doc contacting me—a phone call I happened to pick up on before it could be intercepted. Finally receiving word from Sunshine and hearing from Doc within the same week dumped me into a bout of depression, not because they had disturbed me, but I learned they had made several other attempts and I had been “shielded” from supposed upset. Strange, what people will do—will withhold—in the name of protecting the innocent.

  Sunshine would be pleased to know I at least kept her card. In fact, after this weekend, I’ll do my best to contact her—she could likely use a little encouragement. Perhaps I’ll quote her own words.

  Although it’s with an ache in my heart, I smile, recalling my second encounter with Sunshine.

  Midweek, midway through June, I woke early again. No one stirred when I snuck out. Dad had returned to Massachusetts over a week ago, which meant no more hopes of fishing with him but a lot more freedom. Just the same, if Mom caught me messing around where I shouldn’t, she would keep a tally of my misdeeds and report them to Dad. He might forget or ignore Mom’s complaints, or he might choose to address them at the most humiliating moments. I would have preferred a beating in private than the demeaning way he treated me around others.

  I jumped on my bike and pedaled away from Safe Haven, down around the curve, looking for any activity at Whispering Narrows. The old patchwork Rambler I had seen the day we arrived was parked in front of the garage. Walking my bike past the car, I read the bumper stickers—Make Love, Not War; Flower Power; Daisy Hill Home—surrounded by peace signs and sunflowers painted all over the replacement tailgate. That would take a lot of bottles of Testors—at 69¢ each, covering maybe a square foot per bottle, well, that would eat up a year’s-worth of hot lunch money. Besides that, Dad would kill me if I ever painted anything on the Galaxie.

  I rounded the corner of the garage and parked my bike out of sight. It was 7:07 when I unlocked the door. When I reached the bench, the hands on the old clock corresponded exactly to the numbers on my Timex. My job was complete.

  I scratched my head, killing time. How was I going to come up with another excuse to be at Doc’s place? Just then, the door to the main house flung open.

  “Oh good! I’m glad I caught you, Ben.” The smooth voice belonged to Sunshine. This time she wore a smock, speckled and smeared with paint. “Would you mind looking at my earrings?”

  “Sure,” I said as she glided toward me.

  She held out her closed fist, bright blue and yellow under her fingernails. “Sorry about my appearance. I’ve been up early, painting.”

  “What are you painting?”


  “A landscape on canvas.” She dropped several large hoops and beads into my hand. “Can you fix it? You might have to redesign them a little. I think I lost a couple parts.”

  “Sure.”

  Through the open door, a blond-bearded, shirtless man in bellbottoms stepped into view. “Sunshine, how about some bacon and eggs?”

  “In a minute,” she replied as if singing the words.

  The guy raised a brow at me and exited.

  “That’s Lenny, my boyfriend,” she said. “Would you like some bacon and eggs? Have you eaten?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, come on,” she smiled and grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. “I’m making pancakes and everything.”

  “I couldn’t. Really.” I pulled back. Just then, Doc appeared in the doorway.

  “Ben. Perfect timing. Come on in, son.” Now he had a hold of my other arm. I had no option. My heart shot into my throat. I couldn’t have uttered no if I had tried. Doc ushered me beyond the garage and in through another door, into the kitchen. I scanned the room for Amelia, but only Lenny sat at the table, peering at me through round spectacles.

  “Ben,” Sunshine said, “this is Lenny.”

  “So you’re the kid who fixes stuff. Fixer-man,” he said, lifting a banjo from the seat beside him. “Come on and sit. Be comfortable.”

  Outside the sliding-glass door overlooking the lake, a girl—that is, someone around Sunshine’s age—turned toward the house carrying a camera with a huge lens. Her wild, dark hair hid a lot of her face, although I could still tell she was cute. Her tie-dyed T-shirt stretched across her huge chest.

  “Hey,” she said, stepping inside and flipping me a peace sign.

  Sunshine gestured, “And that is Candace.”

  I returned a quiet “Hi,” and sat beside Lenny, a banjo nestled in his lap. He didn’t have a Southern twang, but he could have passed for a hillbilly.

  Sunshine shed her painting smock and traded it for an apron that covered little of her bikini top. As she lifted the neck loop overhead, I caught a glimpse of dark wisps at her armpits. Holy crap!—girls grew hair there too? I had never seen that on my sister or Mom. If it hadn’t been for the view of so much boob, maybe the hair would have seemed gross, but it didn’t.