Step 6: When timer signals, release INNER CLUTZ(TM) to scrape stuck waffle from griddle with plastic fork. Burn finger.
Step 7: Pretend that GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) maple-flavored syrup over your waffle doesn’t taste like the ashes of your self-esteem.
Caution: Heating surfaces are extremely hot. Do not add alcohol. Accidental glances may cause flight response. You probably should have stayed in your room and finished off the Pop-Tarts. Cooking time should not exceed three minutes. Is this really the story of your life?
“Did you get your car towed in okay?” Martin asked.
“I’ve been told as much,” Cheryl replied.
“Good to hear,” said Martin. He gathered his breakfast and took his usual spot, a choice that required an embarrassingly long mental decision tree. In the end, the appearance of normalcy won out over the instinct to hide.
The Great Falls Tribune had a very informative article describing a state utilities commission hearing concerning a new transmission line project. As he ate, Martin focused on becoming concerned, but torn. The proposed electrical transmission line would mean jobs and growth. But property rights and the environment should be protected, too. The in-depth analysis of the hearing melted into gibberish as Cheryl slipped in and out of his peripheral vision. Martin forced the words back into English as she filled a Plexiglas breadbox near the toaster, so close he could have touched her. Then she was at his table. If he’d been taking a sip, coffee might have snorted out his nose.
“Hi,” said Cheryl. Martin wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Stewart says I was rude to you last night, and that I should thank you properly for your assistance.”
“Oh. You don’t…not…”
“No. He’s right. Would you like to come over for dinner some evening?”
“Um…sure…that sounds great…”
“Are you going to be in town tonight?” she asked.
“Yes” would be a lie. He’d have to skip his afternoon appointments, and that would bump the rest of the week. FastNCo. would get back on his case for spending consecutive nights in Brixton. He didn’t want Rick flying out here to evaluate his routing plans, as he’d hinted at during his last phone call. Plus, sounding desperate—bad.
“I doubt I can do it tonight. Let me look at my schedule. You going to be at the store later?” She nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
Martin felt like jogging, or having another waffle, or waffle jogging, an amazing new sport sweeping the globe. If the utilities commission put him in charge, he could have built that transmission line, protecting all the species and becoming a hero to the landowners. Governor declares statewide Martin Wells Initiative. Details at ten.
~ * * * ~
Martin swaggered into Herbert’s Corner with a date, a time, and an actual solid, real plan to share a meal with Cheryl. Not Cheryl of the Brixton Inn. Not Cheryl, cashier at the Brixton Co-op. But Cheryl, host for dinner Thursday evening next. He needed to go to City Vineyard down in Billings and pick up a really nice bottle of wine. Nothing too pretentious, or with too weird a name. Nothing in a box. It should have a real cork.
“Lorie and I were wondering if you’d show your face around here today,” Eileen said as Martin took a stool at the counter. She called to Lorie, the other waitress, who unceremoniously dropped a couple of burger baskets in front of a pair of truckers and scurried over.
“Okay, boy, you need to tell Lorie and Eileen absolutely everything,” said Lorie, matching Eileen’s mile-wide grin.
“Everything,” Eileen agreed.
“What? Oh my god. Don’t people in this town have anything better to do?” asked Martin.
“Not right now,” said Lorie, loud enough for all the other diners to hear. “Milton told us that Laura saw you propose last night on Cheryl’s doorstep.”
“I most certainly did not propose,” said Martin.
“You met Stewart, though?” asked Lorie.
“We spoke briefly about her car.”
“And then you popped the question?” asked Eileen.
“What? No. Can I get a country omelet, hash browns, and sourdough toast?”
“But she turned you down,” said Eileen.
“And a coffee,” Martin said.
“And now you’re going to dinner at her house?” asked Lorie.
“How do you—? Forget it. I don’t want to know,” said Martin. It could have been Brenda at the front desk of the motel, or anyone at the store.
“It’s like that movie,” squealed Lorie. “She’s Reese Witherspoon, and you’re that boy with the sideburns and back muscles.” Eileen agreed enthusiastically.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Martin.
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Lorie. “Everyone’s known for years that you’ve had your eye on her.”
“We’ve all been dyin’ to see what you’d do,” said Eileen.
“Oh, have you? Look, it’s a thank-you dinner. She didn’t even want to do it. Her stepfather suggested it.”
Lorie and Eileen shared a look, then rolled their eyes back to Martin. “Well, that explains it,” said Eileen.
“What explains what?” asked Martin.
“Stewart knows full well that girl can’t cook,” said Lorie. “He tells everyone that she’s the worst cook he’s ever known.”
“Summer potlucks, we all just sign her up to bring paper plates and cups,” said Eileen.
“She’s almost burned that trailer down twice…”
“Until they got that Radar Range…”
“The Radar Range,” Lorie agreed.
“So what does that explain?” Martin asked.
“He is a thick one,” said Eileen. A diner called to Lorie from a booth.
“Hold your horses, Gene,” Lorie called back. “It means that Stewart’s trying to shake you off. Inviting you over for a taste of life with Cheryl taking care of you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” said Martin.
“Well, Stewart’s an old man,” said Eileen, and tapped her hairnet. “Thinks like an old man. And it also means that if you hurt her, her cooking’ll be the least of your worries.”
“Duly noted,” said Martin. “Now, I think we’ve discussed this quite enough. A country omel…”
“One Romeo special coming up,” said Eileen.
The women hurried away. A trucker looked at him from two stools down. “Brixton busybodies,” said Martin, shaking his head.
The trucker lifted his coffee cup in agreement.
Chapter 5
Martin had heard that an ocean once covered Eastern Montana. The water had receded as North America drifted and swelled into roughly its current shape, leaving the sandstone of the Billings Rims and other bluffs and buttes full of seashell fossils. Then for a while, dinosaurs called Eastern Montana home, grazing, hunting, laying eggs. If that dinosaur movie was to be believed, they evolved into Western meadowlarks—squeaky little bastards, but at least they didn’t hunt you in packs. During the last ice age, mile-thick glaciers had crushed and scraped their way into Eastern Montana and then retreated, dropping mammoth carcasses and Canadian rocks as they melted away. And then, in another stretch of geologic time, Martin counted down the week until his dinner with Cheryl. A new age dawned as he knocked on her door.
As he waited on the steps, Martin didn’t see any binocular glints or stirring curtains, but that didn’t mean the neighbors weren’t watching.
“Hi there,” he said, when Cheryl answered the door.
“Hi. Come in,” she said. She’d done something different with her hair, but Martin lacked the vocabulary to explain it. Her red hoodie had been replaced by a blouse. A mouthwatering smell wafted out around her.
Stewart rocked in the recliner where Martin had last seen him a week ago. He lowered the volume on Wheel of Fortune and waved Martin inside. The place had been cleaned up. A vacuum lurked in the hallway leading back to the bedrooms. Countless copies of Awake, the official
companion magazine of the Beyond Insomnia radio program, had been stuffed into a rack beside Stewart’s recliner. The table had been set for three.
Stewart stood with effort, trailing a clear plastic line from a humming, bubbling appliance by the television. He donned a large pair of sunglasses that fit over his prescription glasses, and extended a large, age-spotted hand toward Martin. Stewart had once been a tall man, probably fit, certainly strong, but he had been crushed from below by long hours in the recliner’s gravity. He wheezed as he studied Martin for a long moment. Oxygen hissed from the cannula under his nose. Gray hairs tufted from his ears, which hadn’t shrunk with the rest of him. “Whadja bring us?” he asked, letting go of Martin’s hand.
Martin slipped the bottle out of the brown paper sack and handed it to Cheryl. “I didn’t know what we were having, but they told me that this would go with almost anything. Whatever’s cooking smells good.”
“Thank you,” said Cheryl. “And what are you wearing, Stewart? Take those off.”
Stewart took off his sunglasses and guffawed. “That’s the broasted chicken from the market,” he said. “If Cheryl was cooking it, you’d be reaching for a gas mask.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Mr. Campion,” said Martin.
“What’s this ‘Mr. Campion’? Call me Stewart.”
“Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes,” said Cheryl, and took the wine to the kitchen.
“So, you get much of that rain we had last week?” Stewart asked, gesturing for Martin to take a seat on the couch.
Fifteen minutes later, Martin accepted a foil tray and chose a piece of chicken. He already had a healthy scoop of mashed potatoes and a ladle of gravy. He’d taken a large spoonful of the canned green beans, with every intention of eating them and offering genuine compliments. Cheryl poured the wine into glass tumblers, but Stewart refused, shuffling into the kitchen and returning with a beer.
“So how’s FastNCo. holding up through this economy?” Stewart asked.
“We’ve tightened our belts like everyone,” said Martin. “But we’re well positioned. Not dependent on the big box stores.”
“Good to hear it,” said Stewart.
“What did you do, Stewart? Before you retired. I mean, I assume you’re retired.”
“Look at me. Of course I’m retired. I did whatever I could. A little construction. Worked out at Gephardt’s chicken farm. Stacked lumber for Lester. Even drove the school bus for a while. And took care of baby Cheryl. Poor kid; don’t know how you survived,” said Stewart. “County probably should have taken you away from me.”
“The county should probably take you away from me now,” said Cheryl. Martin sensed an inside joke.
“You know the story of Cheryl’s mother?” asked Stewart.
“Martin doesn’t need that sordid tale,” said Cheryl.
“I’ve heard the basic story,” said Martin.
“Most likely from Eileen and Lorie down at the Corner,” said Stewart.
Cheryl shook her head. “I think we can talk about something else,” she said.
“How’s your car?” Martin asked after a long pause.
“Still waiting for parts from Billings,” Stewart said.
“Should’ve had someone other than Hank work on it, Stewart,” said Cheryl. This was clearly another sore subject. Martin prepared to crawl under the table if the dishes started flying.
“Everything’s really good,” he said, waving at his half-eaten portions with his fork.
“You live down in Billings, Martin?” asked Stewart, breaking another long silence.
“I do. In the Heights,” said Martin.
“Awful long drive. But you’re probably not there much, are you? What with driving all over the state. Do you cover Northern Wyoming, too?”
“I don’t work Wyoming, no,” Martin replied.
“That’s good. I can’t imagine. Sleeping every night in a different fleabag motel. But, boy, I’ve heard some tales from the salesmen who come ’round town. Most of them not fit to tell in front of the lady-folk, eh, Martin?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Stewart,” said Cheryl. “No one wants to hear your lecherous old stories. We’re trying to eat.”
“Just trying to make conversation,” said Stewart.
And shine a harsh light of truth on my job, thought Martin. He hoped that Cheryl could see he didn’t chase women in every port of call. But to openly defend himself might insult Cheryl’s real father—a hit-and-run, up-to-no-good salesman, if the rumor was true—and Cheryl’s mother, who by implication must have been a bit…scarlet.
Cheryl rolled her eyes, and Martin gave her a weak smile. The mashed potatoes were too thin to be anything but instant, the gravy too thick to be anything but canned, and the silences too long to be anything but uncomfortable. Martin groped for some subject, some question to break the frost. Unable to think of anything better, he opened his mouth to ask Stewart if he’d heard last night’s BI when Stewart shoved his half-eaten meal away, drained his beer, and got up with an epic wheeze, dragging his oxygen line into the kitchen.
“What are you…? Stewart?” Cheryl asked.
He opened a cupboard, took out a crinkling package, and shuffled back to the table. He took several Oreos out of the blue wrapping, then tossed the pack in the middle of the table. “Dessert,” he said.
“I got ice cream,” said Cheryl. “You said you wanted ice cream.”
“Maybe I should go,” said Martin.
“Sorry, we couldn’t be better company,” said Stewart, wiping little black crumbs from the corners of his smile. “I gotta get going, too. It’s bingo night at the Grange.”
He headed to the hall, muttering about shoes.
“Dinner really was good,” said Martin.
“You’re kind to say that,” said Cheryl.
Stewart returned, shod in loafers slightly more substantial than his slippers, jingling a ring of keys, and with a portable oxygen tank slung over his shoulder.
“Ready to head out?” Stewart asked.
Martin opened his mouth to answer, but Cheryl spoke first. “Martin’s going to stay. We’re going to have some proper dessert and enjoy the nice wine he brought.”
Stewart looked at Martin, then at Cheryl. Martin looked from Cheryl to Stewart. Cheryl kept her glare on Stewart.
“You run along to bingo,” she said.
“Can’t argue with you any more than I could your mother,” said Stewart. “You all have a pleasant evening.”
At the sound of Stewart’s car on the gravel drive, Cheryl shook her head and blew out a sigh. “You’re not compelled to stay,” she said.
“I’d like dessert,” said Martin. She began to clear the table, and Martin helped.
“I’ll dry,” said Martin, yanking a dishtowel off the handle of the oven, and Cheryl smiled.
“That man drives me absolutely crazy sometimes,” she said. “I’m so sorry. This was supposed to be a simple meal.”
“Simple’s boring,” said Martin. “Don’t worry about it.”
A few minutes later, the dishes done and the leftovers stowed, Martin folded the dishtowel and set it on the counter. “You said you had ice cream?” he said. “Might go good with these Oreos.”
“No,” said Cheryl. “Everything else has been a mess. I’m going to make you a proper dessert. But it’ll take a while. How long can you stay?”
“Long enough to make your neighbors wonder what’s going on over here,” said Martin. Please take that as a joke, he begged silently as soon as it fell out of his mouth.
A mischievous grin slid across her face. “Good.” She turned on the oven, adjusting the temperature precisely, and then dug a huge knife out of a kitchen drawer. “Wait here.” She grabbed a flashlight from a charger by the front door and left. Was this how she’d almost burned down her house? Twice?
Martin peered through the kitchen window but couldn’t make out anything in the night. A few minutes later, Cheryl returned with an armful of t
hick stalks topped with wide, dark-green leaves. Each one looked like the forbidden love child of a celery stalk and a lily pad.
“What is that?” Martin asked.
“Rhubarb,” said Cheryl.
“Is that really a thing?”
“You’ve never heard of rhubarb?”
“I mean, I have. I’ve just never…experienced rhubarb.”
“So you’ve never had rhubarb pie?” she asked.
“I’ve never even seen rhubarb in a store. It’s weird that you can step outside and come back with rhubarb. ‘Rhubarb.’ Even the word is weird.”
“Well, first of all, rhubarb is not weird. And second, who would want to buy rhubarb from a store when it’s best right out of your garden? It practically grows like a weed. Pops right up every spring.”
“In that case, I apologize. By all means, let’s have some rhubarb pie.”
“What you don’t know is that I’m making this pie to spite Stewart,” Cheryl said as she started in on the rhubarb, washing it and chopping away the leaves.
“He likes your pie?” asked Martin.
“Are you kidding? He hates it. My mother used to make it all the time, but he claims I can’t do it justice,” said Cheryl.
“If she taught you, it can’t be that different,” said Martin.
“That’s what I think.”
“So maybe it’s something else. Maybe it reminds him too much of her.” The rhythm of her chopping changed slightly. “Sorry. We don’t have to talk about her.”
Cheryl scraped the rhubarb chunks into a large bowl and added some sugar and flour.
“Oh, we might as well. Before those waitresses at the Corner sink their teeth into you. You said you’ve heard the general story?” Martin nodded. “That she got knocked up by some random dude from out of town?”
“Heard that.”
“That she’d been seeing Stewart at the same time even though he was about twice her age?”
“Figured that.”
“Well, she ran off with said random dude, and Stewart took care of me. But she came back. Showed up one night. No call. No letter. Just walked in.”
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