by Nick Trout
I pretty much have my choice of where to sit. Two older gentlemen, who are tucking into slices of lemon meringue pie, with what’s left of a six-pack on the table between them, occupy one booth, and a redheaded man has his back to me, elbows on the bar, chatting to the solitary cook between aggressive bites of his burger. Nevertheless, I’m drawn to the same seat I occupied last night.
“Here you go, cream no sugar, right?”
Before I’ve had a chance to sit down, Amy slides a fresh cup of coffee across the table.
“On the house,” she whispers.
I must look confused.
“What? Don’t tell me you want decaf.”
“No. That’s great. But you didn’t have to …”
She makes sure her back is to the cook and brings an index finger up to her lips.
“What can I get you?”
I pick up the menu and try to read. She’s right beside me, her multicolored eyes watching my every move. All I see are words and numbers.
“Any chance of a cooked breakfast?”
I look up and dare to take her in. She’s exactly the same, and so is her effect on me.
“Of course. The works?”
I manage to nod.
“We don’t got no grits, mind,” she says in a passable southern accent. There’s that smile again, and before I can answer she’s gone. I watch as she gives the cook my order and the redheaded man turns to check me out. He’s eyeballing me like I just asked for prime rib, but I’m distracted by the marking on his face. It’s more port wine mask than port wine stain. Nevus flammeus, a vascular malformation of the skin. Present at birth, per sis tent through life.
I’d almost chickened out on a return trip to the diner after Greer’s revelation about investigating my background. He swore he simply typed my name into a search engine and up popped the Post and Courier article on my eviction from McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals. The bit in flashing neon lights about a suspended license went unmentioned, but he calmed me with assurances that folks from Eden Falls don’t stalk newcomers online. I drove away believing Greer was not the kind of guy who would stuff a printed version in an envelope and hand deliver it to Bedside Manor. At least I think I did.
One of the beer drinkers lets out a raucous belly laugh, and now I wish I’d drained my glass of wine with Greer. If I’m going to be irrational and irresponsible enough to try to talk to Amy I’m going to need all the help I can get. I don’t do “cool.” Never have. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life avoiding this kind of situation, and on those rare occasions where I’ve weakened, I work hard to keep the conversation on any topic except me. It’s like driving at night and always using your high beams—when you dazzle and blind it’s difficult for others to see what really lies behind the light. Okay, maybe not dazzle.
“Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.”
A steaming plate of scrambled eggs, grilled bacon, sausages, and hash browns slides in front of me, together with four slices of whole wheat toast.
Amy disappears before I can thank her. Damn. I should have had something ready to say. Disappointed, I unfurl my paper napkin, grab my cutlery, and with the first slice of sausage on its way to my mouth, she’s suddenly back, sliding into the seat on the other side of the booth.
“I have to ask …”
My fork hovers in the gap between plate and open mouth. Amy places the fingers of both hands on the edge of the table (she bites her fingernails), leans forward, and says, “I heard the rumor.”
She knows. She knows about the way things ended up between my father and me.
“And what I want to know is,” she pauses, and seemingly deliberating over every word, asks, “were you scared?”
Scared. Scared to abandon the only relative I had left in the world. Scared to come back here. Scared to try my hand at a new job. Scared to practice without a license.
Thankfully, whichever way I interpret the question, the answer is always the same. “Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
Amy bows her head, but I make out the slightest upturn of her lips. She gets to her feet and double pats the table. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Why do you ask?” This time I catch her before she goes.
She meets my eyes, and they seem so serious. “ ‘Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.’ ”
In the pause of my trying to decipher what she said, she’s off and busy again, refilling an aluminum canister with fresh paper napkins. She doesn’t return to my table until I’ve finished eating.
“I thought you might have come back sooner.”
“Really? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who actually likes their waitress to wait until they have a mouth full of food before she asks, Is everything okay? Come on, this is a diner.”
Her words buffet me like a squall.
“What you said earlier, was that from a movie?”
“Shakespeare,” she says. “Timon of Athens, if you really want to know. One of his more obscure plays. What, you don’t think a waitress can be educated?”
I don’t think she’s angry. I think she’s trying to tease me.
“No, no, no. Just never heard of that one, that’s all.”
She places her hands on her hips. “And you, an educated man.”
Say something. Stop staring.
“You really should order some pie tonight,” she says, saving me from myself. “The lemon meringue is fantastic.” And then, “Maybe I’ll bring two forks.”
“Please,” I say, with the conviction of a shy boy, and pray she doesn’t interpret it as a lack of interest. Left alone I have a minute to endure an internal tongue-lashing. What am I going to say? If I have to talk about Shakespeare it’s going to be a short conversation.
A thick triangular wedge slides in front of me—sticky yellow on the bottom, crispy white floating on top. Amy sits opposite, hands me a fork, and takes the first bite. “Go on. Try it.”
I do as I’m told.
“Really good.” I realize too late that I have shown her a half-chewed mouthful of food.
“Did your mother teach you those manners?”
The shock of this question flashes across my face as though she’s talking about Ruth. I try to recover with a hand over my mouth and a quick apology. Maybe she didn’t notice.
“Funny that you should choose this particular booth two nights in a row.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, sure to swallow first.
“Because this was Doc Cobb’s favorite seat. Nice guy.”
I flash my eyebrows and skewer a second fork load. “Beloved, apparently.”
She winces. “Hate that word. So overplayed. It’s almost as bad as closure or empowered. And don’t get me started on literally or like.”
I’m not sure whether to agree or not.
“I did a degree in English literature,” she says. “Hence the quote from Shakespeare. I’m trying to finish up a master’s degree at UVM. Creative writing … So, you ever feel as though you’re playing God?”
“Are you always this direct?”
“Would you prefer we talk about your accent, our weather, if you miss wearing your seersucker suits and your penny loafers? I’m sorry, but if something’s worth saying, I’ll say it. Just the way I am.”
For a man who savors privacy and avoids confrontation, both past and present, the discomfort distorting my smile must be obvious.
“You’re from South Carolina,” Amy says. “Big deal. This is Eden Falls. Take you less than a minute to get your bearings. So let’s get to the good stuff. Last night, Denise Laroche, what you did was straight out of an episode of ER. I want to know how it made you feel.”
Now I get it. The “scared” reference was about delivering Denise’s baby. I jumped to the wrong conclusion, again. I put down my fork. This question I can answer. “Humble. It made me feel humble.” But then something dark inside me adds, “Are you disappointed? Would you rather I told you it was no big deal?”
She m
akes a snapping sound with her mouth, as though the morsel was particularly tart.
“Not at all. Humble is exactly what Cobb would have said. How well did you know him?”
Though I’m tempted to be evasive, her quote about honesty makes me want to come clean. The question is, having started can I stop?
“I’m Bobby Cobb’s son.”
Everything changed after my mother’s death, and this label, son, became more bearable than recognizing Cobb as my father. Being his son feels blameless. And suggesting he’s my father would give him too much credit, given the way things turned out.
Busy with a tricky bit of the crust, Amy’s fork hovers before clattering onto the plate. “You’re kidding me. Why didn’t you say? You don’t look much like him. Except maybe the eyes.”
I want to thank her for the compliment. “I’m told I resemble my late mother.”
“Wait a minute. Mills?”
“My mother’s maiden name.”
Her lips part, and each colored eye sparkles in its own way as she imagines some version of my past. “So, what, you’re in the witness protection program?”
I think she’s joking but it’s not a bad analog —move across the country, change my identity, start life over. With witness protection you’re not allowed any contact with your past. Me, I’ve gone for total immersion in mine.
“I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral. Pretty much the whole town turned out for him.”
My turn to drop my fork. “I wasn’t there. Okay?” No good can come from this but I press on, feeling defensive. “Sometimes it feels like this town is nothing but a shrine to Bobby Cobb. I can almost smell the incense.” Pierced by the way Amy recoils, I wait a beat before adding, “Sorry … that came out a little …”
“Hostile?”
“Angry. I didn’t mean to sound so angry.”
“Don’t worry about it. You only get angry over the things you love, right?”
It’s strange (and a little uncomfortable) hearing someone articulate this concept. “Look, he and I were very different. It’s just that we fell out some years back.”
Amy appears flummoxed, or maybe she’s already siding with Cobb. “But he was so popular?”
“Well, yeah, let’s just say he wasn’t as popular at home.”
Her head lists ever so slightly to one side as though, physically and metaphorically, she’s starting to see me in a different light.
“He was good with the animals though,” I say. “And hey, what’s not to like in a man who basically gives away his services for free?”
“You think life’s all about making money?”
“If I did, would I be here in Eden Falls?” As soon as I say this I worry that I’ve offended her. If she’s mentally jotting down my answers and keeping tally, I’m not scoring so well. “I don’t think your life should be consumed by your work, that’s all.”
This appears to give her pause.
“Yes, but you’ve chosen a vocation, right? A calling. The line between the two is bound to blur.”
“Maybe. But if you can’t see the divide, if you can’t strike a balance, someone’s going to pay the price.”
She puts down her fork. Twelve inches separates her hand from mine. No jewelry, no wristwatch, no ring.
“Is that what went wrong between you and him?” she asks, and I wonder if she is doing the same thing, looking at the fourth finger on my left hand—no band, no indentation, no telltale ring of pale skin where the sun never reached. Have I made my estrangement from my father sound like a failed marriage?
“I … um … I’d rather not …”
“It’s okay,” she says, and we share our first awkward silence.
“So you grew up here? Attend MRH?” she asks.
It takes me a while to remember MRH is Missiquoi Regional High. “Yeah. Just my freshman year. But you’re younger than me, so I’m sure our paths never crossed. You lived here your whole life?” Go back to what works. Use the high beams.
She flinches, as though I hit a nerve. “Why would you think that?”
“I just thought Eden Falls might be home.”
“Nah, I’m just back here for a while. I dropped out of school. I still have a few more credits left to take. This waitress thing is fine for right now. They’re flexible about my hours, and with people like you around, I make decent tips.”
“But you are going to complete your education?”
She bristles, pulls back her hands. “You don’t think it’s appropriate for a smart woman to work as a waitress?”
“No of course not. I mean, no, I think it’s fine. But … I think everyone should get a chance to fulfill their potential.” Why do I sound so self-important?
“Really. You think I’m a stereotype, an academic dropout forced to choose unskilled labor? You think the only math I can do is calculate fifteen percent? You think I have a kid at home?”
“No, I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Is running Bedside Manor—dreadful name by the way—something you’ve dreamed of your whole life? This is you fulfilling your potential?”
“I didn’t really choose to do this. It’s just something I have to do for right now. But I agree with you, about the name.”
She straightens and smiles, but it’s the smile of a bitter victory. “Something you have to do. Something that feels a bit like a chore, a burden, unpleasant but unavoidable.”
“Exactly.”
She shakes her head and stands. Given her expression I’m pretty sure I’m in trouble. “It sounds as though we have something in common, but one of us sees the dilemma very differently.”
If I could get away with saying nothing I would. “Sees what?” I ask.
“That doing right by someone else, especially someone you love, means having to ditch your pride.” She sighs, reaches into her breast pocket, pulls out the bill, and slides it across the table. “Thank you,” she says, sounding anything but grateful. “I’ll take that when you’re ready.”
On the way home I drop by Fancies Convenience Store to pick up a few groceries. First impression: there is nothing particularly fancy about it. It’s a converted red barn, rustic, complete with high ceilings and original post-and-beam construction. But I was wrong. Oh, it’s no Piggly Wiggly, what with the tight aisles and Lilliputian shopping carts, but for a small town store, Fancies is surprisingly well stocked. It has its own deli, butcher shop, and there’s a homemade ice cream counter. Beyond transparent strip curtains lies a chilling treasure trove of beer and wine. I wonder if they have a barista?
The collision of our carts is the stuff of Ben Hur.
“Sorry about that.”
“Not a problem, Doc.” Steven, Ginny Weidmeyer’s fiancé, grasps the handlebar of his cart like he’s hanging on to a Harley for dear life. I notice a list between his thumb and forefinger and then, like most folks who get to talking in a supermarket, I can’t help but peruse the items Steven is about to purchase: a box of Land O’ Lakes butter, half a dozen bottles of Grolsch beer, a pint of Cherry Garcia, and a bag of Lavazza espresso. I remember Ginny telling me how Steven always brings her a cappuccino first thing in the morning.
I look up. He appears to have noticed the way curiosity turned into scrutiny. I’ve got to say something.
“Expensive caffeine habit?”
Steven considers me and forces a polite smile. “Ginny wants to make me tiramisu, whatever that is.”
I flash my eyebrows, pretending to draw a blank, when what has really caught my eyes has nothing to do with liquor-soaked ladyfingers and everything to do with Chelsea, the kidney stone cat. Hidden behind a bag of confectioners’ sugar and a tub of mascarpone cheese sit several small cans of cat food. These are the antithesis of Chelsea’s vital prescription diet. These are the ones you see on the TV ads, served on a silver platter to a fluff y white Dr. No cat by a white-gloved butler.
“How’s Chelsea doing?”
“She’s absolutely fine,” says Steven, with far m
ore animosity than apathy. “Ginny gets all crazy about her. I mean she’s old. What does she expect?”
“As I recall Chelsea’s ten. Not that old for a cat.”
“Not that young either. Ginny tends to lose her perspective. It’s like a while back when Chelsea needed her booster vaccinations and she didn’t want her to have them. I said, ‘What are you worried about, you think Chelsea will go all autistic on you?’ ”
He cracks up. Waves his list in my face.
“Got to grab some heavy cream. For me, not the cat.”
And with that Steven steers around me and heads for a refrigerator full of dairy products.
Unfortunately, with only one cash register open for business, I come in line behind him as he loads up the conveyor belt.
“Need to see some ID,” says a pimply young man with lunar landscape cheeks as he sweeps the bar code on the Grolsch beer.
Steven runs a thumb and forefinger down his goatee, the two meeting and tugging on the hairs at the base of his chin, as though the cashier himself might want to think about facial hair as a way to spare the public from the horrors of his acne-scarred features.
“You don’t think I look twenty-one?”
“Store policy, sir. Everyone gets carded. Everyone.”
Steven looks over his shoulder at me, shakes his head, digs out his wallet from the front pocket of his jeans, and hands over a driver’s license. The kid takes it, finishes scanning the cream before inspecting the laminated plastic card like it might be a fake.
“Thanks, Stuart,” says the cashier, this time sliding the license across the stationary belt.
Steven snatches it up as if it’s the ace he’s been waiting for.
“Steven’s my middle name,” he says to me. “Hated the name Stuart.”
I’m pretending to be fascinated by a Brad and Angelina article in People magazine. As though I never spied his toxic cat food. As though I couldn’t care less about him preferring Steven to Stuart. As though I wasn’t quick enough to notice how the man supposedly from Manhattan has a driver’s license not from the “Empire State” of New York, but from the “Sunshine State” of Florida.
14
