The Last Days of Summer

by Vanessa Ronan

  Her dark hair smelt like coconut. The real fruit, not store-bought oils. And there was a shimmer in her chestnut eyes that always reminded him of candlelight. Pearly whites with one tooth slightly chipped. And her laughter, like porch chimes blown gently by a passing breeze. Soft like that. And sweetly musical. On the pillow he shakes his head slightly to clear it. Thinks instead of the stars outside. Must keep his mind focused, but in a dream that night he looks down to see blood under his fingernails, and when he wakes his sweat feels cold.

  Lizzie rises early. Sun not yet quite up, but already day’s weight in the thickness of the air. The endless sky lightens above the still dark prairie. Not yet quite light enough to cast sunrise’s short shadows across the lawn, but already the birds are stirring. She didn’t sleep well. Heard his footsteps once in the hall, creaking the floorboards with each careful step. Start and stop. One room to the next, pausing. Then the quiet click of his door closing. Then silence. She didn’t sleep much after that. Didn’t dream. Woke before the sun. And now, standing in the kitchen, something feels wrong, like she’s woken up in a stranger’s home, in a stranger’s life that is not her own, nor will it ever be, nor does she want it.

  Christmas mornings when they were little neither was allowed to go downstairs before the other. It was their own rule, for once, not one of the many inflicted upon them. And that made it all the more sacred. They had to see the Christmas tree together. One morning Lizzie snuck down before Jasper. Crept down the stairs on tippytoe, careful as she could. Didn’t even dare to breathe as she slid past Jasper’s door. Mama and Daddy were still sleeping too, and Lizzie felt like an outlaw as she tiptoed through the darkness, sky already turned a blue grey dawn that in its silence screamed of winter. The tree looked like something on a Christmas card come to life, covered with strands of tiny silver tinsel that captured the pre-dawn light, Santa’s presents a small sea spilling into the room. She sucked in her breath: it looked so pretty. And straight away she wished Jasper was there to see it with her. Later on, she pretended to be surprised as they came down the stairs. She had to. But the moment was ruined. And she felt so guilty that she ’fessed up. And Jasper just laughed at her and said, ‘You think I ain’t done that every Christmas morning?’ And her cheeks had burned hot with anger, bright with shame.

  Somehow, entering the kitchen this morning, Lizzie feels like that girl again, snuck down in the dark. Not that it’s a special day. Not that it’s a holiday. Not that she’s sure she even really wants Jasper there beside her. In fact, she’s fairly sure she doesn’t. Just somehow in this early hour, before the girls are stirring, it feels as though she is the one now sneaking through the house, pausing to look and listen where she shouldn’t. As if it’s still Mama’s house and not her own.

  She makes a cup of coffee. Black. Sits down at the small table and stares into the dark depths of that cup. Too scalding to drink yet. Bobby and she used to wake up this hour Sunday mornings. While she’d lie in bed, eyes adjusting to the lightening room, he’d go down and fetch them coffee and bring the cups back up to bed. Both piping hot and black but his had sugar in it. And they would drink those coffees in silence side by side, burning their tongues to get the liquid down faster. And then in silence, as the sun rose, they would make love. In church later on those mornings, so close to her husband in the pew, Lizzie would remember the feel of him inside her, the taste of the coffee still thick in his mouth, and she would forget sometimes to call out, ‘Amen!’ after the reverend had spoken, would rise delayed to sing the hymns, her mind still tangled in bed sheets not yet remade. And then there was that last Sunday, the day he left. Eyes like stone. Coffee placed on the bedside table, not a word between them. He didn’t crawl into bed. She knew from the cold in his eyes he was leaving. Felt the knowledge deep in her gut. He picked up a bag, already packed. No kiss goodbye. That morning she did not at first drink her coffee. Sat and watched it cool till steam stopped circling the cup. When the sun finally rose, her voice found her again. ‘Stay.’ Silence enough of an answer. Bobby was never the same after Jasper went away.

  ‘Mom?’

  She looks up. Streaks of pink across a golden sky. ‘You’re up early, hon.’

  Katie slides into the chair beside her. Yawns. ‘So are you.’

  A sad smile. Tired smile. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  Loose T-shirt and shorts, tangled hair everywhere, no makeup, but Katie still glows beautiful. Sunshine in the still dark room. She shakes her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  She sets out milk and sugar for her daughter. But at least the brew’s still hot and she doesn’t have to make a fresh pot. ‘Where’s Joanne?’

  ‘Sleeping.’

  Lizzie nods. They drink in silence, letting the room grow light around them.

  At length Katie turns to look at her mother square on. A ray of sunlight has fallen through the kitchen window and across her brow. Same transparent colour as a buttercup held under a chin. ‘She’s been askin’ what he done.’

  Lizzie takes a long, slow sip. Holds the coffee in her mouth and lets it cool there before she swallows. Sets the mug back down. A tiny ring of moisture where the mug rested before. Without thinking, she matches the mug into its former spot. ‘You know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You tell her?’

  ‘No.’

  Grosbeaks and orioles call from the shrubs praising the risen sun, jays and flycatchers and wrens soon waking to join their symphony before all is drowned in the harsh cackle of a crow. Lizzie rises from the table and takes their mugs to the sink, rinsing both before setting them upside down on the rack to dry.

  ‘She’ll find out,’ Katie whispers.

  Lizzie grips the edge of the sink with both hands and lets her head fall down between her shoulders, neck stretched long. Stays unmoving there for a spell. The rim of the sink feels damp and cool beneath her palms.Smooth and foreign even though she must have touched it one thousand times. She imagines crumpling down onto the linoleum. Worn-out body concave. She imagines the linoleum cool against her face, imagines pressing her face down into that cool. She straightens. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘He gives me the creeps.’

  She lets out a deep sigh. He does me too, hon. But she can’t say that, can never say that. Aloud. ‘It’s what we don’t know that eats at me,’ Lizzie says at last.

  ‘What’s there not to know, Mom? He’s guilty of what he done.’ Katie looks down at her nails, brow furrowed, fingers fidgeting, entwined. Picks a piece of dirt from under one nail and flicks it to the floor. A strand of blonde hair falls across her face.

  Lizzie watches, saying nothing. The grosbeaks outside have fallen silent but from somewhere a wren still sings.

  At length Katie’s eyes rise to find her mother’s, and as her chin lifts, her hair brushes from her face. A tangled halo in the growing morning light. ‘I saw the photos,’ she says quietly. ‘Of the others. In the paper a few weeks back. They all looked so nice. So happy.’ And then her eyes fall again to hide behind long shadowed lashes.

  Lizzie draws herself up tall, arms crossed. Remembered newspaper faces flash in her eyes. Faces that don’t know trouble’s coming. ‘Don’t believe everything you read. That jury was far from unbiased, ’n’ there’s as many lies printed as truths.’

  ‘What ’bout Eddie Saunders?’

  Lizzie stiffens, surprised. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Word is he ain’t too happy ’bout Jasper comin’ home.’

  She opens her mouth to speak. The faint smell of cigarettes and sweat stops her. The creak of a floorboard in the doorway. ‘Thought I smelt coffee.’ That same Coca-Cola T-shirt. Jeans unbuttoned. Mousy hair in all directions, sunlight catching on the patches of grey. He crosses to the kettle, grabs himself a mug and pours himself a cup.

  Lizzie unfolds her arms, leans her hip now against the sink and can feel the coolness even through the fabric of her nightshirt, heartbeat quickened. ‘You standin’ there long?’ />
  He drinks down to the dregs, then pours another cup. Smacks his lips as he finishes the second and lets out a sigh. And as silently as he appeared, Jasper pads barefoot out of the room and into the quiet of the still sleeping house. The smell of cigarettes lingers.

  The a/c in the diner doesn’t make much difference. Every time the door opens what little cool air there is seeps right out. Old fans still spin up on the ceiling, gathering dust as they try to aid the a/c in circulating the stagnant air, but the a/c just makes the room stuffy and traps in the stench of greasy food and the fans merely circulate the sour odour of customers’ sweat. Mostly truckers stop out this way, exiting I-10 as they drive cargos from New Mexico and El Paso back east, or sometimes the drivers are heading out the other way, across the prairie and into desert country. A man tells Katie he is heading all the way out to California. Truck full of Hoovers from a factory in Detroit. ‘I’ve seen most of the country in that eighteen-wheeler. Yep, that’s right,’ he says, ‘I don’t think there’s a road I ain’t driven.’ Grease stains on his hands. Beard stubble grown past two days. He looks Katie up and down real slow as she refills his coffee. Places his toast, well buttered, back on his plate. ‘You ever seen the ocean?’

  ‘Me? No.’ She blushes. Laughs slightly. ‘I ain’t seen anywhere, Mister.’ And she turns to walk back behind the counter, coffee-pot heavy in her hands. She would like to see the ocean. Would like to head out on those open highways going beyond the known. And there’ve been plenty of truckers that summer who have offered to drive Katie somewhere. Anywhere. Even up the road. But she knows better than to trust them. She may not have been to a city. She may not have seen the ocean. But working nights in Penny’s Diner, Katie has come to recognize the hunger that clouds a man’s eyes. No food can fill that craving. She takes their orders. Refills their coffee cups. Listens to their stories on the slow nights. But there’s a line between hospitable and friendly, and Katie’s always careful not to cross it. And, anyway, for the most part, she’s happy here.

  ‘Miss.’

  She turns.

  ‘A slice of key lime pie when you’re ready.’ He’s got the non-food hunger in his eyes. A bit of ketchup smudges his lips.

  ‘Comin’ right up.’ She nods and places the coffee-pot back on its burner.

  Katie’s shift starts after the dinner rush when things are slow, and she’s usually the only girl working. Most nights it’s just her, and Tom in the kitchen. She sits, for hours sometimes, refilling the bottles of Heinz, topping up the salt and pepper shakers. Only a handful of truckers stops in at that late hour. Not fun work. But there’s something about the monotony of it that Katie secretly likes. She likes the way when the diner’s quiet and the floors are freshly mopped that the black and white tiles seem to shine. She likes the quiet stretch of the prairie that surrounds them. It comforts her. The vast emptiness reassures. And, anyway, Mom needs her to help make ends meet.

  It was on those quiet nights that Katie first started reading the papers. Was on a headline that she first heard Uncle Jasper was getting out. The caption next to his photograph had read ‘A MONSTER RELEASED: Jasper Curtis, Convict, Shows No Remorse’. In the photo, he was not smiling. She had stared into his eyes for a long time, bottle of Heinz half empty in one hand, screwed-off lid in the other. She had stared at him, and he’d stared back, but she couldn’t tell nothing by looking at him – he just looked pixellated, mass-produced, papery thin. The ink under his name had smudged.

  Tonight Katie’s grateful for the familiar quiet of the diner, though she wishes Key Lime Pie’s eyes wandered less. Patsy Cline sings a sad love song on the radio. Feels good to be out of the house, away from all that’s different. Feels good to be somewhere where it’s possible to imagine things remain unchanged. She brings the man his pie and sets it on the counter. Takes his dirty plate. Catches a glimpse of his eighteen-wheeler parked outside. ‘Thanks, baby,’ he says, his voice low and gravelly, and she doesn’t like him calling her that, but she smiles all the same, nodding towards his pie.

  ‘Everything all right now?’

  He grunts in response and she can feel his eyes on her as she walks away. She leans against the glass of the pie display just to feel the cool. Greasy heat from the kitchen still slides down her back even though right now Tom isn’t cooking. Chances are he’s outside having a cigarette.

  The door opens. A gush of heat sweeps in with it. A tiny bell chimes. She turns to see who’s there. Another table, good, maybe tips will be decent. Then stops short and smiles. ‘Josh!’ Two steps and he’s from the door over to her already, arms around her waist. They kiss. And the taste of him makes her dizzy, clouds her head and sends her floating. The trucker looks up from his pie and grunts. Then looks down again.

  ‘Slow night, huh?’ Joshua’s eyes quickly take in the empty diner, linger on the lone trucker. His half-eaten pie. ‘What time you off?’

  ‘One.’ She makes a pouty face, a face she knows he likes.

  He lets out his breath. ‘You serious? I was hoping maybe you could get off early. Go on a drive for a while.’

  She makes that sad face again. Hopes she looks cute. ‘It’s just me ’n’ Tom. You know I’m stuck.’

  He sits down on one of the stools. Shakes his head slightly. Light brown hair that curls when it starts to grow long. He could use a haircut soon. ‘I don’t much like you working here.’

  Head still spinning from that kiss, she stiffens. An old argument. ‘You know as good as I there ain’t many jobs in this town ’n’ Penny only needs me nights.’ She pops the top off a bottle of Coke and hands it to him. He reaches across the counter and takes a straw. His daddy’s an oil man so he doesn’t have to work summers. And come this time next year he’ll be packing off to go to college somewhere, no doubt on some football scholarship, Mr All-American. And she? Well, Katie reckons she’ll still be here. Left well and true behind. She shudders, shakes her head to clear such thoughts. Don’t be stupid. Josh loves me. He says something, but she doesn’t hear it. Watches his lips move, just doesn’t hear it. She tries to bring herself back to now. Josh came to see me, that’s all that matters. Head still light and spinning.

  ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘Course I missed you.’ His smile falters. ‘But I came round to see you for another reason too.’

  Here, now, focus. Big blue eyes meet his. ‘Yeah?’ Keep your breath steady.

  ‘I don’t like him in your house.’

  Her breath’s calm, the nearness of him less intoxicating as he frowns. ‘I don’t have much choice in the matter.’

  ‘There’s always a choice.’

  She looks away from him, then back. ‘He’s family, Josh.’

  His fist slams down hard on the counter and the Coke bottle rattles, almost falls, but at the last second rights itself. Key Lime Pie looks over and this time does not look away, nosy eyes prying into them. ‘Goddamn it, Katie, you know what he done! Do you hear what folks round here are sayin’? They reckon your mother’s clear lost her mind takin’ him back in.’

  She struggles to meet his angry eyes. Isn’t even sure she believes the words as she speaks them. ‘He’s done his time.’

  ‘He ain’t done enough.’

  ‘That’s the law’s decision.’

  ‘You serious?’ He laughs. No humour in the sound. ‘Jesus Christ! Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how stupid you sound?’

  Katie bristles.

  ‘He’s a ticking bomb waiting to be set off. It’s just a matter of time. I swear to God, Katie, someone ought to take it into their own hands and set him straight before any more people start turnin’ up missin’.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’

  ‘Like what? I ain’t gonna pussyfoot around and pretend he’s some saint just ’cause you and your lot’s been blinded by y’all’s shared blood.’

  ‘He weren’t convicted of all that, Josh. There weren’t ever any proof.’

  ‘That man ain’t right in the head, Katie. We don’t
need no proof of that.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Do you?’ Hurt in Josh’s eyes she doesn’t expect, isn’t quite sure she understands. Then softly, his voice almost a whisper, ‘What if he hurts you, Katie? I don’t think I could bear it.’

  She reaches out, uncertain, and lays her hand to rest on his shoulder. ‘He ain’t gonna hurt me, Josh. He don’t seem so dangerous.’

  The strain in his eyes frightens her. ‘How do you know?’

  The trucker clears his throat. ‘Miss.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘More coffee, please, ’n’ the bill.’

  Lizzie watches as the hens gather round Joanne’s feet in a swarm of brown feathers. Joanne tries to scatter the feed as far from her feet as possible, but the action makes no difference – seeds still fall down close enough that, standing barefoot out the back, chickens nibble her toes. She dances and prances in place, shrieking as chicken feed scatters around her. Lizzie smiles. It was the same for her when she was young. The occasional hen bite doesn’t sting so bad; it’s more the apprehension of unexpected nibbles that cause the shrieking. Jasper used to laugh at her when she did the feed. Told her she was ‘chicken dancing’.

  Lizzie tears her eyes from her daughter and looks away from the clothesline, pins in mouth, to see Jasper standing in the shadows of the house. It’s hard to see his face clearly, but he seems to be smiling. She follows his gaze. He’s watching Joanne too. She takes a pin from her mouth and fastens a sock to the line. Starts to secure a shirt. One of Katie’s. Jasper turns, as though feeling Lizzie’s eyes on him. Stands still a moment facing her. They are close enough that he could easily call out to her, but he stands in silence. Lizzie can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. He looks like a stranger, standing there in the shade, their daddy’s old clothes hanging loose off his slender frame. She almost calls to him, but something stops her. Maybe it’s the deep shadows crossing his face. Maybe it’s his silence. Jasper raises a hand and waves. A smile lights his face, and Lizzie finds her hand automatically raised in response. Clothespins still in mouth, she does not smile back.