by Tyla Walker
I can see Andrew get ready to start yelling, but I realize I'm not done with him. The electricity from a night with Hank is coursing through me. I can almost feel his strong, reassuring arms on my shoulders. I lean in and fight back.
"THIRD of all," I say in a low voice, "that pansy cook seemed to handle you just fine in the parking lot. I think he'll do just fine raising Nate."
I can tell that stung him. His face drops, then contorts into bald anger. Here we go.
"Nate is MY son too," he shouts, " and don't you forget that for a goddamn second. I see how you've got him sitting in here, day after day. He's got nothing but books and schoolwork and gossip from you and a bunch of the other hens in here to keep him occupied. He's gonna grow up a pansy, and I won't have it!" he shouts, causing conversation in the whole place to stop.
This whole situation is getting way out of hand. Guests are staring openly, and I can feel the blood rising in my cheeks. It’s embarrassing, and knowing Andrew it's only going to get worse from here. I have to do something to get this under control. I keep my voice low and try to get him out of there.
"Listen Andy, if we're gonna do this, let's at least do it away from the guests? You're ruining everybody's lunch," I say.
"I don’t give a goddamn about everybody’s lunch,” he says, barely restraining himself from shouting, “I’m here to talk about my son.”
"I got that, Andy, but do we have to do this now? And do we have to do it here?”
"Oh we're gonna do this," he says, "and I don't care where the hell we are when we do."
"Great!" I say, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Then follow me."
I don't give him a chance to argue. I practically bolt out into the parking lot, passing Ashley along the way. Andrew's close behind, dogging my footsteps. I give Ashley the look that we both know, the look that means "I'm about to deal with some nonsense, check on me if I'm gone too long."
Ashley nods and whispers good luck. Then she's back in the whirlwind of tables, doing both of our jobs now. I take a split second to thank my lucky stars for a friend like her.
The sun is hot when we step out into the parking lot. It's been beating down on the asphalt for hours now, and there's a shimmering haze rising all around. I hear the rushing sound of cars and trucks zipping by on the road. Then I hear Andy's ridiculous, noisy boots and his angry grunts come storming through the door after me. He picks up right where he left off.
"I'm not gonna let you turn my son into some kind of pansy-ass fairy, Cindy," he snarls. "I grew up like a real man and he's gonna do the same. By the time I was his age I was breaking horses! I was on farms, doing a man’s work every day, not sitting around watching my old lady work!”
"Andy, now hang on a minute..."
"Hell no! You hang on a minute! I'm standing up for my rights as a father. And I have a right not to be the father of a boy who doesn’t know a horse from a handbasket!"
"Andy you're causing a scene," I say, quietly. "And you're not making any sense. Nate's a good kid, and you know he's a good kid. And besides, you left him, and me. Have you thought maybe he doesn't want to grow up to be like you?"
"That's not what we're talking about!" he blusters. His face flares red, and he stamps back and forth like a bronc ready to be released into the rodeo. Sometimes I look at him and think in a past life he probably was one. He sure has gotten wild and mean enough to be one now.
Suddenly, I remember that even a wild animal can be calmed down. I try what I would try with a bronc: soothing voice, slow movements, open hands.
"Andy?” I try to keep my tone even. “I don’t know where this is coming from, but if you’re worried about Nate, I can promise you he’s doing fine. He might not grow up to break horses and run the rodeo circuit, but he is going to grow up to be a good man. Isn’t that what we both want?”
"That’s your opinion,” he snorts, “and clearly what you think of as a ‘good man’ sure as hell isn’t a real man.”
"What do you mean by that?” I reply through my teeth. I clench my fists and try to hang on to a level head. Soothe the horse, I think to myself, even if it’s wild, irrational, mean, and wearing the dumbest pair of cowboy boots I’ve ever seen.
"I think you know damn well what I mean. You think that soft little punk is suitable husband material. You’re getting engaged to a man who wears an apron for a living. That your idea of a good man? A real man? That how you want Nate to turn out?” he almost shouts, hollering over the rushing cars.
I realize that this isn’t about Nate at all. That this is Andy getting mad that he left and lost out on a good thing. He’s throwing a temper tantrum because I won’t let him waltz back into my life and take over. And he is committed to making this a fight, come hell or high water. In the middle of this sudden clarity, I also realize that he’s still yelling.
"And another thing!” he shouts, “You’re mad as hell I haven’t been a father to the boy. But here I am, down on my luck, and you won’t even give me a red cent to get back on my feet and maybe provide for him. That ain’t right! You’re runnin’ around with some cook and can’t spare a cent or a minute to help the father of your child!”
He’s damn near out of control at this point, and hollering nonsense like it’s h. I’m sick of trying to soothe him, trying to calm him down. Maybe I could soothe a horse, but not a
man who’s committed to acting like an angry baby. All I can do, I realize, is refuse to get walked on. So that’s what I do.
"Andy, you made your decisions. You ran off with Darlene and left me and Nate high and dry. You blew all your money, not me. You blew your shot at being with me and being a father. I didn’t make that happen. You did. So you can yell at me all you want, but deep down you know damn well you’re responsible for how your life looks right now.”
That pulls him up short for a second. The truth is a good weapon in an argument with a liar. I see him waver between quitting and continuing to yell and make it worse. I see him decide to keep hollering, a crazy glint in his eye. This could get ugly.
Twenty-One
Hank
‘No way. Not this again,’ I think as I pull into the lot behind the restaurant. Cindy is
outside with Andrew, and from the looks of their conversation things have gotten heated. ‘Where is everyone?’ I wonder. ‘Why aren’t the guys out here backing her up?’
I throw the truck into park and jump out, slamming my door hard enough that they both see me. I call out to Andrew as I stride towards them.
“This is getting old, Andrew.”
“He was just leaving,” Cindy tells me, glaring at him.
I know she doesn’t want another fight, especially at the restaurant, but seeing her upset makes my blood boil. I can tell she’s just as frustrated with Andrew’s constant visits as I am. We need to find a solution for this. Maybe even get the law involved.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want your woman,” Andrew throws at me. “But the kid is mine. Someone has to teach him to be a man. And believe me, he won’t be sitting around reading comic books with me.”
Cindy comes to stand next to me, and I place a hand between her shoulder blades, trying to soothe her. ‘How many times are we going to have to deal with this asshole?’ I think.
“Nate has me,” I say. “He’s got a man in his life.” I’m almost surprised that it’s out of my mouth, but I can’t deny the connection I feel to the kid.
“A man?” Andrew asks. “Cooking is woman’s work.”
“Now you sound like your father,” Cindy says. Andrew’s face goes red, and he takes a step closer. Cindy has obviously struck a nerve.
“Fuck you,” Andrew yells, but I step in before Andrew can get into Cindy’s face.
“Hey! Don’t talk to her like that.”
“You gonna make me? Or are you gonna run away from a fight like last time?”
“Last time we left you cowering on the ground like a baby!” Cindy says.
This only increases Andrew’s fury. Inste
ad of trying to de-escalate the situation, Cindy’s prodding an angry bull. She saw me knock Andrew down once, and it’s nice to think she has confidence I can do it again. If only I felt that same assurance.
Andrew seems sober today, or at least soberer than his last surprise attack. He’ll be more accurate, better balanced. And anger is on his side. He lost last time, and he won’t want to lose again.
“I let you off easy last time.” Andrew rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and stretches his neck from side to side, making a big show of preparing himself.
“Let’s not fight,” I tell him, holding up my hands for peace. “Cindy and I will talk about you seeing Nathan. We’ll give you a call when Cindy and Nate are ready.”
Andrew swings his fist into my stomach, catching me by surprise. He lands a solid hit into my gut and knocks the wind out of me. I try to regain myself, but in the second it takes to realize what he’s done, he punches my face and connects with my right eye.
Cindy cries out and steps between us, stopping Andrew momentarily. He grabs her shoulders and throws her aside.
But the brief moment Cindy gave me is enough, and I’m ready when Andrew comes at me again. I dodge his punch and counter with my own, throwing a fist into his jaw where I hit him last time. The bruises on his face provide a great target for my blows today.
Andrew staggers back a few steps before charging again. This time I’m not quite fast enough and he clips my cheek, but he’s put his whole body into the punch, and it sends him off balance. I shove him, and he falls to the pavement, catching himself with his hands and knees. While he’s down I kick hard into his stomach and hear his gasp as he tries to regain his breath.
I step back and wait to see if he’s had enough. As I do so I realize Cindy’s not outside anymore. She must have gone into the restaurant after Andrew shoved her.
‘She better not be hurt,’ I think. If she’s hurt I won’t be able to control myself. I begin to imagine a swift kick to Andrew’s ribs. It would be so satisfying to hear a crack. But I restrain myself.
Andrew is slow to get up, and his raging anger seems to be petering out. I watch him stagger up and shoot me a glare when he’s able to breathe again.
“I have friends in this town,” he tells me. “And they don’t take well to strangers stealing things.”
Andrew’s truck is behind him, and I shove him back against the driver side door and press my forearm into his throat. He’s struggling for air again, and I can’t help feeling satisfied to see fear in his eyes.
“Let’s get this straight, Andrew. Cindy can’t be stolen. She’s not an object. No one can own that woman.”
I’m so angry and so intent on giving Andrew this lesson that I don’t notice his left arm reaching into the truck bed. With one final shove I step back, releasing the pressure on Andrew’s throat and airway.
But for the second time today, I’m taken by surprise as Andrew swings a tire iron from the truck bed and hits me hard on the shoulder. I stagger back, pain running up and down my right arm.
“You dirty cheat!” It’s Ernesto, appearing from the back door with Juan right behind him. Ernesto has his Louisville Slugger in hand. They step between us, giving me a moment to recover from the searing pain of my shoulder. But even being outnumbered Andrew isn’t ready to back down. He tries to swing the tire iron again, but Juan grabs it as Andrew is preparing his swing. With a quick twist Juan has the tire iron painfully out of Andrew’s hand.
“Too much of a pansy to fight for yourself,” Andrew yells at me. Meanwhile Cindy and Miguel have joined us outside. Miguel is holding a kitchen knife in his hand as he stands next to Cindy, but he looks terrified. Lucky for him, Andrew seems to be retreating. He understands he can’t fight all of us.
“This isn’t over,” Andrew says to me, but then he turns directly to Cindy, stepping towards her. Despite his fear, Miguel holds the knife out in front of them, warning Andrew not to get too close. “I’ll be calling you about Nathan. I’ll tell you a good time for me to see him. And if you try to deny it, I’ll get the law involved.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all day,” I tell him. The pain in my shoulder has subsided, and I’m able to join ranks with Ernesto, Juan, Miguel, and Cindy. We stand together in a face-off with Andrew who is struggling to find something to say. His face is red, but this time he looks like a child about to throw a temper tantrum.
Juan throws the tire iron on the ground near Andrew’s feet, forcing Andrew to jump aside. The echo off the pavement rings in my ears as we all stare him down.
‘Get out of here. Don’t mess with this family,’ I think.
Andrew scrambles to pick up his weapon and throws it into his truck. He opens his door and slams it closed before starting the engine and backing up. For a moment, I think he might back right into my truck, but he slams on the brakes before putting the truck in drive and revving out of the parking lot.
“No one’s allowed to talk to that guy alone,” Ernesto says to Cindy as Juan pats Miguel on the back and congratulates him for standing up to Andrew. Cindy comes to me and puts a hand on my face, taking me in.
I know Andrew’s left bruises this time. My right eye feels swollen and will probably be a nasty shade of purple soon. But, at least I gave as good as I got.
“Fuck I was worried about you,” Cindy says. She leans in to hug me, and I groan in pain as she squeezes my right arm.
“Gentle,” I say through gritted teeth. “He got me pretty good there.”
“Oh god. Is it broken?”
“No, no. It’ll just be a nasty bruise.” I’m a bit embarrassed to be so hurt, especially after my heroic performance last time. “I wasn’t expecting him to fight so dirty.”
“I shouldn’t have egged him on,” Cindy says. “Don’t worry. You’re even more handsome like this.” She leans up and kisses me before dropping down to rest her head on my chest. I hear her sigh.
“What am I going to do?” She asks, almost to herself. Ernesto, Juan, and Miguel have made their way back inside, and Cindy and I are alone in the parking lot.
“We’re going to figure it out,” I tell her. “I promise.”
I feel her relax into me again. We take a brief moment to enjoy the calm after the storm, holding each other before we have to go back in.
“Come on,” Cindy says. “Let’s get some ice. We need that shoulder in prime meat-flipping condition to finish out the dinner rush.”
Twenty-Two
Cindy
“Let’s get you inside.” I lead Hank into the back and sit him on a stool. I then head into the walk-in to grab some ice.
“Well done, Hank,” Juan calls from across the room. They’ve all gone back to work after the excitement. Thank god the diners in front seem to be unfazed by the commotion. Only a few more plates to get out, and we’ll be able to close up.
“I’m alright,” Hank says as I come back with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. “Go back to work.”
‘He doesn’t like being the center of attention,’ I think. ‘He’s used to taking care of himself.’
“Just relax,” I say. “And hold this.” I take his left hand and place the bag of ice in it before leading it to his right shoulder.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say. “Ernesto, make sure he doesn’t get up.”
Ernesto salutes me with the tongs in his hand, and I head back towards the dining room.
“I can go back to work,” Hank calls after me.
“Sit down, man,” Ernesto orders before I can even respond. I smile and keep walking.
The last half hour of the day is all about clearing plates, bringing coffee, and closing out checks. For once I’m glad Ashley isn’t here to share the work. I need distraction. I don’t want to think about Andrew, and I don’t want to think about Nate spending time with him. The more I interact with Andrew, the more confident I am that he’s the last person Nate should be hanging out with.
Miguel finishes the dishes as I wipe down
the tables. Juan even steps in to re-fill the salt and pepper shakers and wrap utensils for tomorrow while Ernesto cleans up in the back. I’m so grateful to all of them for today. Fighting my ex-husband is certainly above and beyond their job descriptions.
‘Maybe I’ll bring donuts tomorrow,’ I think. ‘Or should I buy them drinks tonight?’
No, not tonight. There’s someone in the back who deserves a big thank you, and I want that to be an entirely private affair.
I send the guys on their way and head back to find Hank wiping down the prep stations.
“Why are you up?” I ask, and Hank looks up at me. He’s been caught.
“I’m good.”
“Sit down, please.” As I cross to him, I untie my apron and leave it on the closest table.
“Fine,” Hank says. “But only because you asked nicely.” He goes back to his stool and makes a show of sitting like an obedient school child. He props his feet on the lower rung of the stool, knees splayed, and I take the opportunity to slide myself between his legs. The bag of ice is on the table behind him. I bring it up to his swollen face and hear him wince. He closes his eyes.
“You’re such a liar,” I say. “You’re not fine.”
Hank doesn’t respond. With his eyes closed I’m able to really look at him. His hair is longer than when I met him, and it’s hanging down over his forehead. There’s a hint of stubble on his chin. I’m sure he hasn’t had time to shave since the news of his mom in the hospital.
‘Oh my god, his mom!’
“Is your mom alright? I’m so sorry I didn’t ask sooner!” Hank’s eyes open, and I take the ice away from his face.
“She’s fine. Her blood sugar dropped, and she fell. Luckily, she’s not hurt. God, it’s a full-time job making sure she takes care of herself.” He closes his eyes again and brings my hand and the ice back to his face. I feel a pang of guilt.
