Claiming Zoey

by J. B. Baker

  “Hey, Zoey. Is that loony still playing your song every morning?”

  I look up from my position by the Formica chrome counter at the Jackson Family Diner that runs down the entire length of the establishment. It’s James Jackson, my favorite patron. “Good morning, James. You’re looking chipper.”

  “Thanks, Doll.”

  I watch James navigate his way through the diner, greeting the regulars as he goes. This same daily ritual always makes me smile. James reminds me of Clint Eastwood in the movie Heartbreak Ridge when he plays this Gunnery Sergeant close to retirement. I can almost imagine Sergeant James Jackson (alias Highway) speaking with that same deep, grating voice when he was still in the marines, “Oh, I’ll pop you a new asshole.” Or “I been pumping pussy since Christ was a corporal. I can tell you, the best-damned poontang I ever paid for was in Da Nang.”

  Of course, James would never do that. He loved his late wife very much. It’s just the image of him I have. When he speaks he is just the same as Gunny Highway, they could be related.

  “Zoey, where the hell are ya!”

  See what I mean. He’s got a voice like a machine gun. Hard, fast and rasping. “Yeah, James. I am coming.” I walk up to where he is standing and still speaking to Jake, the mechanic, who runs the local garage. I wait patiently. To interrupt James when he is in mid-flow would incur his wrath. Even I am not immune to that.

  James and Jake go on about James’s Gran Torino for like forever. Ever since I’ve worked at the Jackson Family Diner, these two men have the same conversation every morning. Jake tries to convince James to sell him his car. The latter never does. Then, Jake shifts to his next tactic (the same as every day). He complains that James never drives the car. To which James responds, “I always did until my dear Bethany passed away, God rest her soul. I never drove the car since. But I can’t sell her either. Reminds me of my gal too much.” And so the negotiation ends until the next day.

  “Zoey, where the hell are ya?” Gunny Highway is back again.

  “Right here, James,” I say, putting on my sweetest smile.

  “Oh, there you are, Darling. I will have my usual. If that wouldn’t put you out any?”

  I giggle. I never really do that because I hate acting all girly, but I know James loves it, and to me, he’s the sweetest man.

  “Your usual is coming right up, Mister Jackson.” I walk away, barely holding back my next little giggle. One, two, three and…

  “Don’t forget my cup of joe with extra sugar and cream, ye hear?”

  I shake my head at the irony of it. Same as every day. “Have I ever, James?” I twirl on my feet in just the way he likes it.“Don’t you think that you should cut down on the sugar, James?” I add.

  He waves his hand dismissively. “No damn way. I have been drinking that stuff like that way longer than you have lived, young lady. So just bring me my damn coffee the way I like it, will ya.”

  I snigger. That’s my James Jackson and just the way I like him. The septuagenarian has the rough exterior of a meteorite but just about the softest core imaginable; that is if you were ever fortunate enough to reach it. I did, and I have not regretted a day since.

  “And don’t forget my usual…” This makes me smile even more. It’s the same every morning. I have been serving the man for god only knows how long and he still tells me how he wants his breakfast. “Eggs – four of ‘em over-easy and with bacon, steak, and tomatoes,” he hollers, as he takes his seat in his usual spot right at the end of the elongated space to wait for his cholesterol bomb.

  I head round to the kitchen. I do not need to pass the order through. Everybody knows James Jackson. First of all, he owns the place and second, the man’s an institution in Fall Creek. He has been living here all of his life. He never left except for his tour in Vietnam. He came straight back after that because he claimed there were Gooks all over the USA and that soon the country would become Korean. He may have spoken like that, but James has a good heart no matter how foul-mouthed he can be.

  I wait for his order by the kitchen. My colleague, Shannon, handles the counter, constantly refilling mugs with coffee or joe as they call it around here and passing on food directly from the kitchen. And me, I am in charge of the tables, always have been and always will, I think. I am a true Fall Creek girl. I will probably live and die here.

  “Here ya go, Zoey. One Jackson special coming up.”

  “Thanks, Orlando.” Every time I say the cook’s name, I have to stifle a laugh. He claims his parents named him so because he was conceived in the great state of Orlando. It’s, of course, a pile of crap. Orlando comes from Cuba and used to be called Manuel. But hey, we care what people want around here, so we play along.

  “Your breakfast, James. Just how ya like it.” I place the plate on the table. I arrange the knife and fork wrapped in paper in front of him. “Enjoy, James,” I say before I intend to leave.

  “Hey, sit down will ya?” His deep brown eyes sparkle at me. “If you are good, I might share some of my meal with ya.” He never does. He indicates with his head that I sit opposite from him. When I do, he says, “So, how’s the love life going?”

  I blush. This is different to every other morning. He never asks me such personal things. “Um, well, I guess, not at all,” I blurt.

  He frowns. He takes an eternity to say something. All the while he demolishes his plate like a man in his thirties. “Well, I think it’s about time a pretty girl like you finds a nice man,” he says between mouthfuls.

  I study him closely. James Jackson never says anything without reason. He never once looks up from his plate all the while munching contently and alternating between slurps of his overly sweetened coffee. “You got someone in mind?”

  James looks up, a sly smile playing on his face. He shrugs. “Maybe.” He says no more.

  A smile materializes on my face. “Well you better because Fall Creek is not exactly famous for its guys, present company excluded of course,” I say, not wanting to push the matter too much. That never works with James.

  He pops the last bite into his mouth and leans back, scrutinizing me closely. In typical James style, this perusal lasts like forever. “Anyway, I love your new song.” He thinks a moment. “Your ex is a real dick, but his taste in music is the best.”

  This makes me laugh and blush a little at the same time. Sometimes, I think James is my biggest fan. “If only you were a music producer, I’d be filthy rich and famous by now.”

  There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye when I say this. “Mm, I have connections in the business,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I burst out laughing. “Ya do? Ya don’t say.”

  He jiggles his shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “Well, let me know when you can hook me up,” I say getting to my feet.” I pick up his empty plate. All ready for your cherry pie, James?”

  “Sure.”

  I turn to make my way back to the kitchen but stop in my tracks and look back at James. “Ya know, James, if you were younger, I’d marry you in a heartbeat,” I swear I can make out a shimmer of a blush creep up his neck. The rush stops before it hits his face. Yeah, I figured as much, James Jackson is too gung-ho to succumb to full-on blushes.

  “Grandpa, are ya hogging Zoey again. Come on, let the girl get some work done, will ya.”

  James looks around irritably. “Sit down, Hunter, and stop talking out of your ass. We gotta discuss the menu.” The look on James’s face does not broach argument.

  The tall, burly guy, who is also my boss, with the dark hair sits down with a grunt. His face adopts an aggressive mien. “What’s wrong now, Granddad?”

  “Why does there always have to be something wrong when I wanna talk to ya?”

  “Because there usually is,” responds Hunter, looking quite pissed-off.

  James laughs throatily. The sound comes out in deep wheezes and rasps, inviting a look of concern on my face. “Well, this time there is…” he turns his head to look in my direction, �
�how about that cherry pie and some coffee, Doll?”

  “Sure, James…anything for you, Hunter?” Hunter grunts that he would like some coffee, making special emphasis that it should be black. The same as every day – do they all think I am nuts. For me, only James can get away with that play. “Sure,” is all I say in my sweetest voice.

  “Don’t forget the whipped cream with my pie, Zoey,” yells James.

  I wave my hand and have to stifle a laugh again as I make my way to Orlando in the kitchen. “What the fuck, Grandpa. Come on…Burritos are American or Tex-Mex!” Hunter’s irritated voice catapults through the entire diner.

  “I won’t have that Mexican shit served in my diner, kid.”

  I laugh to myself. Hunter has no guile. If he would only serve one to his granddad or better still let me do it, James would love them. I am certain of it. My lips form a straight line. It’s such a shame his grandson is such an ass to James most of the time. Thinking about it, makes me wonder how his other grandson is doing – Noah. I always had a soft spot for the guy when he still lived in Fall Creek. I wonder what happened to him? James hardly ever mentions him.

  CHAPTER 3: NOAH

  “Grandpa, where the hell have you been? We’ve been waiting for ages,” I say.

  My grandfather steps out of his pickup slowly and without a word. I frown. “I swear he has become a lot thinner since the last time I saw him,” I whisper to Glyn.

  “How the fuck would you know? You haven’t visited the poor man in like forever to know any better.”

  I shake my head at his glib remark. I guess I deserved that. “Well, if you knew what he is like then you would run a mile too,” I respond tersely.

  “You always know best, Boss,” is the only shit response I get.

  “Oh, come on, Grandpa…really.”

  “What?” Grandpa lights up his cigarette with the zippo lighter grandma gave him before his tour in Nam.

  I watch him closely. Instead of coming to us, he walks to the garage that is a building separated from the main house, pulls open the double doors and steps inside. What the fu...? What’s he doing now? I look at Glyn, but he is busy on his tablet, tapping away. Instead of following my grandfather, I wait in front of his small-detached house that is situated close to a lake.

  It’s the same as I remember it – wooden boarded and colored in a green that has suffered from the elements. There is a porch that runs across the front facing the lake. Further down, there is a boardwalk, reaching out over the water where grandpa’s rowing boat for fishing is moored. The windows are small, and the place could do with a serious makeover, but I always loved it here when growing up.

  The property encompasses acre after acre of land. Grandpa had added to it every time he had some spare cash. His reasoning being, “I hate having fucking neighbors. And besides, I do it for you and Hunter. Young kids, especially boys, need space.”

  He was right. The endless tours on his land, playing cowboys and Indians until dusk with my brother in the summer were every boy’s dream. In the evenings, the three of us would always sit on that very same porch I am staring at right now, eating burgers or steak or maybe fish we caught in the lake. Each of us had a beer in his hands. I swear, I think my brother and I were the only kids in the country that drank Fall Creek Draft at the age of seven and nine.

  But that was not only it. Grandpa told the most amazing stories. Anything really about the pioneers that populated this land or the wars against the British that nearly destroyed this country granddad loves so much. He spoke of our ancestors, some of the people who founded Fall Creek, and their ordeals against the native Indians and how they survived. Before bed, he would always say, “Boys, us Jacksons are survivors and never let anyone tell ya otherwise.”

  “Why the hell, do you look so damn glum? One might think something got stuck in your ass, Kid.”

  Both Glyn and I look in his direction. Next, to me Glyn instinctively takes a step back. I have to stifle a chuckle. I have never seen my executive assistant look so petrified before. It is certainly different dealing with flouncy pop divas to handling James Jackson that’s for sure.

  “Hey, Grandpa…it’s great to see you,” I say meaning it. Seeing the grizzled old man makes me soft inside no matter how many times I promised myself I would never come back here again. For years, I could never forgive him. Yet, as time passed by, I somehow forgot the reason for all that. I guess I worked too much to think about it really. Granddad eyes me closely. He rummages in his shirt pocket.

  “Damn it, Grandpa. That is so unhealthy. I can’t believe you still smoke like a fucking chimney.”

  He arches his eyebrows, his stone-hard face, weathered by over seventy summers, becoming even more menacing. “Well fuck, Noah. The Marlboro Cowboy would’ve looked like a fucking fag without a Marlboro dangling from his lips.” He promptly lights up again to make his point.

  Next, to me Glyn nearly melts into himself. “Noah, are you sure I am safe here?” he hisses between clenched teeth.

  “Who’s the black ‘pencil pusher’ you got with ya?” asks grandpa with smoke eddying out of his nostrils and mouth. “Another one of those damn pricks who can’t put his damn phone away?”

  “Grandpa, It’s not a phone,” I say, softening again.

  “I don’t give a shit what it is.” He lurches forward with speed belying his advanced years and grabs the tablet from Glyn’s trembling fingers. He makes to throw it in the direction of the lake.

  “Stop, Grandpa. It’s like paper. We work with those things nowadays. Glyn needs it,” I shout, placing my hand on him before he can execute his threat.

  “Who the hell is Glyn?”

  “That would be me, Sir,” says Glyn with eyes the size of saucers.

  Grandpa eyes up Glyn with his piercing gaze. “I see,” he mutters. “He works for you at that music label thing you started?”

  I nod; surprised that he knows what I do for a living. I never told him. I guess word even got to Fall Creek about my meteoric success. After leaving Fall Creek at the age of eighteen, I first went to New York to find work. However, most of the jobs in my field were in LA. So, that’s where I went. I started working as an office clerk for one of the big labels in LA and never looked back since. The moment I signed my own talent, I upped sticks and headed back east to New York to set up my own firm.

  I hired Glyn a few years later, and my business turned from great to awesome. I must think about offering him a part of my firm – I make a mental note to contact my lawyers when I get back to NYC. He deserves it after all he has done for me. I would hate to lose him as my executive assistant, but he should be my second in command; Glyn needs to progress professionally. My granddad’s rasping voice brings me back to where I am standing.

  “Okay, I guess he can have it back then. But under one condition.”

  “And that would be?” I ask, already hating his rules.

  “The people that stay on my property will show the proper courtesy and talk. I will not have his face glued to this thing the whole fucking time while we are spending quality time together. So tell your boyfriend that he can have it back on probation.”

  “Grandpa…” I try, wanting to stress that Glyn is not my partner.

  But granddad is already walking in the direction of his house. “Are you two assholes coming or what? You and…” He turns around and stares at my executive assistant with fierce dark brown eyes that are almost black.

  “Glyn,” mutters Glyn.

  “Yeah, Glen can share your old room with you, Noah.” Granddad turns and continues walking. “Noah, go grab the coal out of the garage and prepare the barbeque, I’ll go get us some beers,” he commands in marine sergeant style. He walks some more, taking his first step onto the porch. “And, yeah, Glen, you can come with me and help me gut the fish and season the steaks.”

  “Noah, this is not in my job description,” huffs Glyn, almost fainting. “I hate beer; I am a vegetarian and what was that about gutting something.” He ro
lls his eyes so that I can only see the whites. “And what did he say about us sharing a room…there’s no way I am doing that.”

  “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, GLEN?”

  “Coming…” Glyn spins on his feet as he dashes to the house. “I am not sharing a room with you,” he hisses, as he nearly falls over on the step to the porch.

  I chuckle – this is payback, Glyn, for all the shit you gave me on the way over here. I was dreading this moment ever since I got grandpa’s call that he needed to see me. It was so unlike him to ask anything of anybody. In fifteen years, he never phoned once since our acrimonious separation. I just couldn’t figure out what he wanted from me after all of this time. Had something happened to Hunter or is he getting soft in his old age?

  I sigh as I make my way to the garage. I guess I will find out soon enough. Grandpa never says anything until he is good and ready. I shake my head. How can we be preparing the grill now? I look at my watch. It’s barely eleven o’clock in the morning. Usually, grandpa has a big breakfast that would last him until dinnertime. “Some things do change,” I mutter as I grab a sack of coal by the wall in the garage.

  On the way out, I stop. I whistle. Grandpa’s Gran Torino. What a ‘beut.’ Not once did he take us out in it. The car just stood there for years. Of course, he claimed that both Hunter and I had driven in it when we were very young and when grandma was still alive. I never could quite understand why he never drove it anytime after she passed – he never said. I guess I’ll ask him later.

  ****

  “You never grilled a steak before, Glen. Fuck, you are useless. Do ya need one of those oversized phones to show ya how to do it,” hollers granddad.

  “I am a vegetarian, Sir.”

  “A what?”

  “He doesn’t eat meat, Grandpa,” I say, shifting closer to him. “And it’s not a phone but an iPad.”