Thorn-Field

by James Trettwer

  With this publication news, perhaps things are going too well. She doesn’t necessarily believe in the idea of karmic balance, but in moments of indecision she does wonder if something bad will happen to balance all of the good currently in her life.

  So for the moment, she decides once again to hold off registering for university. She’s studied some online course material for an Introduction to Administration class and read that doing nothing is a viable option.

  “Silence in Wind” started this whole current chain of events. She refuses to wonder how such good can come from her anguish. She only accepts that it does.

  She tucks the two letters away and free associates. She writes, Coincidence? Is the universe nothing more than a random series of electrochemical reactions? But if man is made in the image of God, and man is capable of committing the atrocities he does, what exactly has man been modelled after? How can the concept of a loving God take such a young life . . .

  The seedpod slithers in deep darkness. She squeezes her eyes shut and roughly brushes her hair with her hand. Inhaling, she wills herself to remember the smell of her damp hollow. She writes, life continually comes up with contrivances, that would immediately be rejected as ridiculous, impossible in satire or even farce . . .

  Instincts tuned toward the customer, she senses someone enter the restaurant even though she’s in the kitchen. Putting her pen and notepad away immediately, she strives for excellent customer service and quick-steps to the front of the restaurant.

  A man casually leans on the cash register counter and patiently waits to be seated. The suppertime crowd is long past and it’s seat yourself by this time, but he still waits. Lourdes guesses he is around twenty-five years old. His dark brown hair is spiked and his clean-shaven face has no five o’clock shadow. He is six feet tall and his tapered, white dress shirt reveals his well-formed, muscular torso. Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his forearms are tanned and veined.

  He stares directly at her with his bright blue eyes and she has to look at the bridge of his nose while she approaches him. She feels her face flush. What’s the deal here? she thinks.

  She draws her focus away from his intense stare and looks at his left hand. There is no ring and no tan line showing where a ring may have been recently removed. Possibilities, quite unbidden and unexpected, flood her mind. It’s been so long since . . . No! Get to work, idiot.

  When she looks up again, he is examining the back of his left hand, fingers spread, with the slightest smile. She takes a deep breath, clears her throat, and asks, without any traitorous quiver in her voice — years of controlling feelings do come in handy sometimes — if she can help him with something.

  He replies, with a bass radio announcer’s voice, “Could I still grab some supper, please?”

  She clears her throat and says, “Follow me.” She turns and fumbles the menu she grabs from the stack on the counter. She has never fumbled before. It’s always turn and grab in one fluid motion.

  She feels him watching her while she leads him to a booth by the window farthest away from the counter where four regular cronies, all retired farmers wearing baseball caps, are gossiping and drinking coffee. She deliberately cat-walks, one foot directly in front of the other, like models on TV, even hopes her hips sway sensually, like Helena’s.

  Stop it! she scolds herself and purposely splays her feet as she takes the last few steps toward the booth. Jaw tight, she sets the menu on the table, points to the seat, and says through clenched teeth, “I’ll be right back with some water.”

  If he notices that anything is amiss, he does not let on. His passive and bemused expression does not change. And damn the bugger. He’s still staring.

  Lourdes almost sprints back to the kitchen to compose herself. She realizes that she forgot serving protocol and did not ask him if he’d like some coffee. She rarely makes even a single mistake, let alone two in as many minutes. She leans against the food-prep counter, breathes, and recalls the sound of the breeze through the leaves in her hollow.

  Snapping her head up, she glances around, sure that the baseball-cap cronies, who can see her through the food-serving opening, and Gus, the nighttime short order cook, are all watching her. She’s sure they all know what she’s thinking. But they are all fixated on a CFL game playing on the small television on the shelf above the opening.

  She takes a minute to scribble two notes in her notepad. Your eyes seared your image on my soul. Love at first sight is a clichéd, fictional fake farce, except in real life. She scratches out that terrible first line and then pockets the notepad.

  The cronies suddenly boo. So does Gus, shaking his fists toward the ceiling. He says, “Come on you bums. Get in the game.” His hairnet flops on his forehead and his long grey ponytail whips back and forth when he shakes his head.

  “Who’s winning?” she asks.

  “Not the Riders. As usual.” He slaps his fist into his other palm. “Another two and out with a shitty punt. And they’re down two touchdowns, no less.”

  “Who are they playing?”

  “Thieving Edmonton. I can’t believe their luck. Thirteen Cups and counting my aunt Fanny’s twa—” Gus abruptly shuts his mouth and doesn’t finish his epithet in front of her. Turning, he takes tomorrow’s pies out of the oven while a half-ton truck commercial blares about how tough the vehicle is.

  She doesn’t care about football and everyone knows that. All the better: no one will pay any attention to her. Peering through the opening, she studies the man in that revealing dress shirt. He leisurely sits back, watching out the window, with his hands folded on the closed menu on the table top.

  Lourdes pours a glass of water, takes a deep breath, and walks toward the faraway booth. Long before she is in his field of vision or even before he can possibly hear her coming, he turns toward her. Smiles. Stares.

  She watches the glass in her hand, afraid she will slop water if she doesn’t concentrate. She sets the glass down. Her mouth is so dry that when she tries to speak there is only a rasping sound. She clears her throat again.

  “Thanks so much,” he says immediately, touching the glass. “I was hoping I could still get something for supper, if it’s not inconvenient.”

  “Not inconvenient at all.” Her voice scratches, which she covers with a cough. Enough of this, control yourself, infant! She focuses on the work, gains control of herself, and remembers to ask if he wants something to drink before she takes his food order.

  “Would a Pilsner get me with the in-crowd over there?” He nods toward the cronies.

  “You’re not going to drink and drive, are you?” The words are out of her mouth before she realizes she’s said them. Damn this man.

  He replies smoothly, “I have a room here tonight. Only a short stagger that won’t involve motor vehicles. I promise.”

  How did he get under my skin like this? She cannot not reply. She coughs again to recover her composure. Back to work, you. She says, “Good to know. But I was actually thinking you don’t look like a Pil guy. We have Keith’s in bottles. You look more of a Keith’s kind of guy.”

  “If you say so. Keith’s it is.”

  “And I live here, so I can help you to your room.” WTF!? Her face burns. She feels sweat on her forehead and a stickiness in her armpits. Stop it. You wacko.

  The only sign of a reaction from the man is a slight widening of his eyes and a momentary ripple of his eyebrows. With that unchanging, damnably passive face and that constant stare, he says with an even voice, “A very kind offer. But I’ll probably have just the one. Work tomorrow and all. Thank you, though.”

  He stares at the name tag on the upper part of her left breast. Abruptly extending his hand, he says, “I’m Lee. It’s nice to meet you, Lourdes.”

  She instinctively takes his hand. His single shake is firm but not hard.

  Betrayed again by her body, she feels a ripple in her lower abdomen. Maybe if I stab myself, right in the eye . . .

  “I have to apologi
ze,” Lee says, holding her hand in his for more than a moment. “I called you by name without asking permission first. I’m sorry for that. Most inappropriate on my part. But that name is so unusual. I’m afraid I lost control and had to say it out loud. It rolls off the tongue. Many apologies.” He finally, finally, breaks that stare and opens the menu.

  “No. No worries,” Lourdes rasps. Trying to gain a modicum of control over herself and the situation. She says, prattling, “The specialty tonight is chicken stir-fry, Gus’s specialty, he can make it with his eyes closed, which might be your best choice tonight, I’d recommend it, with the way that silly football game is distracting him, I don’t think he can focus on cooking properly.” Did I really just say all that without taking a breath? What am I, eight?

  “Stir-fry it is then.” He slaps the menu closed.

  “Stir-fry with rice and a Keith’s, which I’ll bring right away.” She rarely has to write down orders; usually only when a horde of children is in the restaurant after church on Sundays.

  She fetches the Keith’s from the refrigerator and a glass from the freezer. Lee again turns to watch her the moment she emerges from the kitchen. He thanks her for the beer with that voice of his.

  She flees back to the kitchen and feels she’s scuttling like a weasel after pillaging the henhouse. She takes yet another deep breath to regain her composure.

  The cronies and Gus shout in contempt at a bad call. Gus throws a fork into the sink. They have no idea anyone else is even in the restaurant and they pay no attention to her.

  “One stir-fry special, please, Gus,” she says.

  “No problem,” Gus replies. “I’m done with watching bums and losers play their peewee, scrimmage football.” He immediately goes about his business.

  She watches Lee through the food-serving opening again. He leans back, head turned toward the window, hands folded on the menu. She slaps her forehead with her open palm. Another mistake after all. She forgot to take the menu.

  Okay, control yourself. This man is not coming on to her. Who wants chunky, damaged goods? Clearly, she’s imagining things. She puts her palms on her hips. Admittedly, she’s down to 185 pounds, but her uniform does nothing to hide her stomach.

  There are also other customers to look after. Only the four cronies at the counter, granted, but she can’t ignore them. All business, she pours them more coffee and offers them pie. They all accept and two ask for a-la-mode. She asks Lee if he wants another beer, which he declines. She retrieves the menu and returns it to the stack, placing it precisely, and turns back to the restaurant in one smooth motion.

  Back in the game. She mentally high-fives herself.

  She serves Lee his food when it’s ready and waits the appropriate number of minutes before asking how the meal is and before coming for his empty plate. On each visit she completely ignores his intense, blue-eyed stare.

  Things are back under complete control until he gets up to leave. She has been dawdling in the kitchen and didn’t take him his bill. Did she do this on purpose? She is suddenly very tired.

  She turns down the corners of her mouth when she gets to the cash counter. “Was everything okay?” she asks, with as level a voice as she can muster.

  “Fine,” he says.

  She gives him the bill. “Cash or do you need the machine?”

  “I’ll pay cash.” That damn voice, flawless and calm like a national news anchor, is so soothing. He pays his $18.65 bill with a twenty and a five, telling her to keep the change.

  Stuffing his receipt in his wallet, he says, “Maybe see you at breakfast.” He spins on his heel and leaves without a backward glance. The door to the motel lobby swings shut and she catches the flash of his white shirt — it’s like the flash of the purple sheen on her hollow crow. She takes the change from the cash register and slams the drawer shut. Dropping the change into the shared tip jar, she takes the five-dollar bill to Gus and says, “That man wanted to give you this tip.” She waves the bill at him.

  “Great. Set it there.” Gus points at his wallet and keys sitting on a sideboard in the cooking area.

  Fine. He’s gone. I don’t need his money or him. Back to work. Damaged goods aren’t on the menu tonight. But the smell of Lee’s aftershave or body talc, much like Old Spice, lingers.

  It is a quiet night for customers and the cronies are only interested in the football game. Lourdes tries to scribble some notes and finds she is uninspired. She’s been blocked before but this time she encounters a white blankness, much like staring at the back of a crisp, white dress shirt.

  The apple and cinnamon aroma of Gus’ pies permeate the kitchen. At least the smell of Lee is gone but her stomach grumbles. She knows she is far from hungry and that she is only craving food. She will not submit to the craving and hangs on until her shift ends.

  With only a cursory good night to Gus and the cronies, Lourdes speed-walks past them to the lobby exit. Outside, she breathes in the damp, warm evening air. Moisture clings to her skin and she feels exhausted. Her eyes dry and crusty, she rubs them vigorously, takes a cigarillo and lights it with her Bic, savouring the vanilla flavour. She holds the smoke in her mouth but does not inhale. The parking lot is still and quiet in the orange wash of its quartz halogen lights. She sees a flash of white and breathes in sharply, sucking smoke into her lungs and coughs. Her stomach flips, but not from inhaling.

  Lee sits on a picnic table in the motel’s rest area. His back is to her. Her heart races. Is he waiting for her? Impossible. She has had enough of her own foolishness and stomps toward the picnic table to prove it, gravel crunching under her shoes.

  At the sound of her approach, Lee swings his legs right around on the tabletop and rests his feet on the opposite seat. He waves and his white teeth flash.

  “Hey you,” he says.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks, with an edge in her voice.

  If he notices the tone, he doesn’t let on. “Thought I’d check out the stars,” he replies, “while I finished my smoke.” He holds up an extinguished stub of the same cigarillo brand that she smokes. “I found these for sale in the lobby. The English dude running this place imports some quality stuff.”

  Goose bumps creep all over her skin. There is something about this man. She is attracted to him — or maybe just fascinated, like a crow drawn to a shiny object. An electricity emanates from him. An electricity that is hard to resist.

  “By the way, I didn’t tell you my last name earlier. It’s Markham. I’m really happy to see you again, Lourdes. And I didn’t even have to wait until breakfast.”

  She says, “My last name’s Smith.”

  “Smith? Really?”

  “I can show you my photo ID.”

  “No need. I believe you,” Lee says with a grin, extends his hand and again, instinctively, she takes it. He says, “My god, are you ever cold.”

  Her hand is freezing. The feeling intensifies the warmth of Lee’s hand. He sets his cigarillo butt on the table, takes hers from her trembling fingers and sets it down also. He takes both of her hands in his. “Are you okay?” He draws her toward him, careful to keep their entwined hands between them. She does not resist.

  “I’m good,” she says, her voice wavering. “I was just in the freezer.” Her knees quiver and she isn’t sure if she can continue to stand. She extracts her hands and says, “I’ll just sit for a bit.” She quickly sits beside him and grabs her cigarillo, taking a drag.

  He gazes back up at the sky and says, “Beautiful night. I really like the way you can see the stars when you’re away from the city.”

  “Which city?”

  He leans backward on his hands. She can feel the warmth of his arm as it brushes her. He did that on purpose, but she does not shunt away.

  “Regina,” he says.

  “What brings you to the backwoods burg of Liverwood?”

  In that throaty radio voice, Lee tells her about himself. “I work for Bland Electronics, in service and support. The company bids
on tenders for maintenance contracts on various control systems for a bunch of industries in the province. We’ve just won the tender for Liverwood Potash and tomorrow is my first visit to the mine.”

  She can’t help but compare Lee to her father, who went right from high school to a helper trainee position at the mine. “Have you ever worked in a mine?” she asks.

  “I have, but not the actual mining of ore or potash. Our contracts include hardware and software support and operating system and programming support and upgrades. I’ll be working on the mine’s control systems and computer gear.”

  “You have a Computer Science degree?”

  “Actually, I have a Bachelor of Admin with a minor in CS. I’m also a Chartered Accountant. I got that designation taking night classes. And I took a leave of absence from Bland to take heavy-duty mechanics at SIAST too. I figured if I have to work with heavy industry, that ticket could only benefit me.”

  “So you’ve never been a miner?”

  “Afraid not. I’ve worked for Bland ever since I graduated university. I’m more of a jack-of-all-trades and master of none. But I’ve been inside most mines in the province, including that gold mine up north. I’ve been anywhere from the Shand Power Station to the Tobin Lake generating dam. The job takes Bland lots of places and Liverwood is the latest in a long, long list.”

  Lourdes simply says, “Uh-huh,” and takes another drag.

  Lee sits up straight and turns to face her, making more space between them. She lifts her head to study the brilliance of the stars against the pitch black void of outer space.

  After a moment’s silence, he says, “You know, with all the places I’ve driven to, they’re right about the wide open prairie.”

  “Right about what?” she asks.

  “They say the flat prairie is like the ocean. I like to think of the places I stop at as my ports of call.”

  “Is there a woman in every port?” WTF! For a second time tonight! She should have asked if he’d ever been to the ocean. Or who “they” are supposed to be, at the very least. Instead, the words are again out before she realizes she has said them.