by Ann Tatlock
“Hey, Linda! Another large chocolate malted here, will ya?” The guy that’s hollering raises a hand and actually snaps his fingers, like I’m a servant.
It’s Jimmy Barton, one of the seniors, trying to impress his girl Arlena Jo. She’s got her hair puffed up so high, she’s probably got to duck through doorways, and I bet she found those eyelashes on the sale table at Woolworth’s. She’s never so much as given me the time of day, and I’m thinking it’s because she’s a cheerleader and I’m not. She and Jimmy are two of a kind; both stuck up and probably more in love with themselves then they are with each other.
“And bring two straws, will ya?” Jimmy hollers.
I sneer at him, but he doesn’t see because I’ve already bent over the tub of vanilla ice cream in the freezer.
“He’s a jerk,” Gail whispers in my ear. “And she’s not much better.”
That’s not exactly news to me, but I nod anyway. I toss the ice cream, milk, and chocolate malted powder into the stainless steel cup, and I’m thinking I should maybe add something gross like raisins or cigarette ashes or maybe even spit but I decide not to—only because I don’t want to lose my job.
But never mind. I stick the cup on the milkshake machine and switch it on, and while I’ve got my back to the door, I hear the bell tinkle and Gail says, “Well, hey, Grandpa! Hey, everyone! I was wondering whether you guys were going to come in.”
Yeah, it’s 9:00 and usually the perverts are here by 8:00, drinking coffee and playing checkers. I glance over my shoulder at them and wonder what took the old geezers so long to get here tonight. Maybe they stopped by a bar to try out their luck picking up women or something. Obviously, they struck out. Big surprise there.
I am not in a good mood right now. I feel like I hate everybody.
I carry the chocolate malted with the two straws to Jimmy’s table, and the whole time I’m walking across the shop, I have a feeling someone’s watching me.
“That’s fifty cents,” I say to Jimmy.
He digs around in his pants pocket and pulls out a couple of quarters. “Here ya go,” he says. “Keep the change.” He winks at Arlena Jo, who bursts out laughing.
I glare at them both and decide next time I’m not going to hold back. Chocolate-flavored Ex Lax in their two-straw chocolate malted. See how that plays out at the end of their romantic evening.
Okay, so I’ll admit it. I’m jealous of them, of what they have in each other. I’m jealous because I’m alone. The one I cared about went to war, and now he’s dead.
I’m walking back to the counter when I realize it’s Bim watching me with his watery old eyes. As soon as I get behind the counter, he leaves the table where the perverts are sitting and comes over.
“What can I get you, Gramps?” Gail says.
“Would you mind mixing me up some hot cocoa, honey?” he asks.
“Sure, Grandpa. It’ll just take me a minute.”
Gail gets to work, and I’m standing there wishing another customer would come ask for something because I can see the old man’s staring at my necklace. Just to make him mad, I cover it up with my hand, like I’m doing it without thinking while I’m looking around the shop and not paying him any attention. The bell tinkles again and a couple of married folks come in, and I have to dish them up some strawberry ice cream.
While I’m doing that Bim leans closer to the counter and says to me, “Nice necklace you’ve got there, Linda,” and as soon as he says it I find myself breathing out a bunch of hot air because he’s really annoying me, and I just want him to go away.
“Thank you,” I say without looking up at him, though I want to tell him it’s none of his business, and if he wants to know the story behind it he can just ask Gail. Not that she knows the real story either. Only I do. And Austin. That’s it.
Gail hands Bim his hot chocolate. He gives me one last look before heading back to his table. Good riddance, old man. You can just keep your eyes to yourself.
Two hours until I can go home. I don’t want to be here. Somebody let me out of here so I can go home and cry.
***
10:30 p.m. I can’t stop yawning. Sadness wears you out. If I had just one wish, I’d wish I could go back in time and not be so mean to Digger. Regret is always bugging me. It’s like some little animal with sharp teeth gnawing at my brain, so that sometimes all I can think about is how rotten I was to that kid. If I could see him again, I might even tell him I love him, though if I did he’d probably look at me like I’d lost my mind. Who cares? I’d tell him anyway. Just so he’d know. Then maybe that little beast in my head would finally go away.
Thirty minutes till I can get out of here. It’s been a long night. My right arm aches from scooping up ice cream. My head is a dam about to burst. But this isn’t the place for waterworks, Linda. Buck up. No bawling in front of the customers.
I’m wiping down the counter with a rag that smells like ammonia when Bim rises and pushes his chair under the table.
“Goodnight, all,” he says. He shuffles over to the counter. “See you at home, Gail. You’ve got your key, right?”
“I’ve got it,” Gail says. “If you want to wait another half hour I can give you a ride home.”
He shakes his head. “No, I want to walk. The exercise will do me good.”
“All right, Gramps. See you later.”
He nods in my direction. “Goodnight, Linda.”
I lift my gaze only long enough to say goodnight, then go back to cleaning. I sense the old man’s eyes on me, but when I look up again he’s heading out the door.
“Hey, Bim!” One of the perverts hollers, the one named Buford. “Your glasses! Hey, you forgot your readers!”
He waves a pair of dark-rimmed glasses in the air, but the door is already closed, and Bim is passing in front of the plate glass window. Buford bangs on the window, waves the glasses in the air. “Bim! Hey, Austin, old man! Your glasses.”
I look up sharply. Bim acknowledges the glasses with a nod and turns back, but Buford has already moved to the door. He meets Bim in front of the shop and hands him the glasses. Bim tucks them into the pocket of his shirt. The two men nod at each other and go separate ways.
“Gail,” I say. My hand stops making circles on the counter with the rag. I’m following Bim with my eyes. By the time Gail says, “Yeah?” he’s already gone.
“Why’d Buford call your grandfather Austin?”
“That’s his real name.” She shrugs. She’s cleaning the milkshake maker and is too busy to look at me.
“His name is Austin Leland?”
She laughs a little at that. “No, silly. His name is Austin Buchanan.”
I feel like she slapped me, and I’m almost mad. “Are you sure?”
“What do you mean, am I sure? He’s my own grandfather, isn’t he? I ought to know what his name is.”
“But why isn’t his name Leland?”
“That’s my mother’s married name. Before she was married she was a Buchanan.”
“So your grandfather is Austin Buchanan?”
“That’s right. Why? What’s so strange about that? I mean—hey, Linda, where are you going? What—”
But I don’t hear the rest of what Gail’s saying. I’m already out the door and running down the sidewalk. I haven’t even bothered to take off my dirty apron. Waving a hand, I holler, “Wait! Hey, wait a minute, will you!”
Finally, he stops and turns around. He’s standing under the light of a streetlamp, and when I reach him we’re staring at each other, and I’m searching his face for something … something to tell me this is him.
“Austin?” I finally say. “Austin Buchanan?”
He gives one terse nod. “That’s right.”
I squint and lean in closer to inspect his face and, even though the eyes are the same—yes, those are Austin’s blue eyes—still I say, “I don’t believe it. Your name may be Austin Buchanan, but you’re not the one I know.”
He sniffs at that, points to my ne
cklace, and says, “You found that wrapped in a piece of cheesecloth under a stone on the kitchen hearth.”
And when he says that I think I might faint because I know it must be Austin, but I can’t believe this old man is that beautiful young kid I’m half in love with. And anyway, he went off to war and got killed somewhere over in France.
“You can’t be Austin!” I cry. “Who told you about the necklace?”
He holds one gnarled-up fist to his chest. His face looks stern, and he’s frowning like he’s tasting something sour. “I am Austin, Linda,” he says. “I am the Austin Buchanan who gave you that necklace. I’m in here.” He taps his fist to his boney chest and says again, “I’m in here.”
I’m shaking all over, and I want to scream until my vocal cords explode because I can’t believe this is happening. I shake my head, trying to understand. “But you’re dead,” I say. “Austin Buchanan is dead.”
He frowns even more, and his head kind of cocks to one side. Then he smiles, and I think he almost chuckles when he says, “I know I might look dead but—”
“But you are. You’re buried over in France.”
“Buried over in France? How’d you get an idea like that? I’m not buried anywhere, Linda. I’m not dead yet.”
“But, didn’t you die in the war?”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “No, I didn’t. I came home. I came back home, got married, had children. And I grew old. That’s all that’s happened. I just grew old.”
Even as he’s speaking, I understand something. “Gail’s your granddaughter and Linda’s your daughter, and I’m thinking … I’m thinking …”
“That’s right, Linda. I named my daughter after you.”
“You never forgot me, then?”
“Of course not.”
“But what did your wife think about you naming your daughter after me?”
“She never knew our daughter was named after anyone. How could I have explained? Should I have told her I named our daughter after a girl I once knew who wasn’t even born yet?”
None of it makes any sense to me, and I just keep shaking my head and thinking, My God, what happens to people? What happens to people? I never knew before that old people really had been young people once because I’ve never known a young person who turned old. The old people I know have always been old and all the young people will always be young and aren’t going to end up old like that and …
“Why did you think I was buried in France?” Austin says, interrupting my thoughts.
“Oh, um.” I keep feeling like Rod Sterling’s going to show up any minute now and start saying, You’ve just crossed over into the Twilight Zone, because I can’t believe Bim has been Austin all this time. I rub my forehead and tell myself to keep talking. “I found your family’s gravestones in the cemetery by the church,” I say. “There was a stone for your mother and father and one for Mac. Mac died as a kid. Mom thought it was probably the flu epidemic that killed him. And since you weren’t there, we figured you had died in the war and were buried over in France.”
“Well, I’m still very much alive, even if that appears questionable to you. And as for Mac, no, it wasn’t the flu epidemic. It was …”
But he doesn’t finish. I’m waiting, but he’s looking over my shoulder like he’s just seen Mac himself walking up behind me. His eyes get wide and his mouth kind of drops open. I turn around to see what he’s looking at, but the sidewalk is empty from where we are to the corner. Nobody’s there. I turn back to him and wait. Finally he says, “I have to go, Linda,” and he starts walking away. I yell after him, “But where are you going, Austin?” He doesn’t answer me. He just walks off into the night, the same way he left me a week ago when he disappeared from my life forever.
54
Meg
Saturday, April 12, 1969
I’VE BEEN BAKING since 5:00 a.m. It’s nearly 7:00 now, and the two circular layers of cake are cooling while I mix up the frosting. Chocolate, of course. Chocolate cake and chocolate frosting. I eye the box of candles on the kitchen counter, and as I stir the frosting, I ask myself again what I’ve been asking myself since I awoke: Why am I doing this? Have I finally completely lost my mind?
But I will frost this cake, and I will put the candles in it. I will do it because of what I’ve resolved. As long as the star shows up, I’ll hold on to hope. When the star no longer appears, I’ll give up. I don’t know what the star means, but it must mean something. And as long as it shines, I’ll know that this isn’t finished yet. There’s something else.
I wonder whether Sheldon remembers. Surely he does. Maybe that’s why he didn’t look well when he came home from work yesterday. Maybe that’s why he went straight to his room and stayed there. When supper was ready I found him lying on his bed with one arm thrown over his face. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry. You go ahead and eat without me.”
“Are you sick?” I asked.
He seemed to have to think about that for a long time. Finally he said, “Yes.” Just that, nothing more.
“Can I get you anything? Some aspirin or Pepto Bismol?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think anything will help. I just need … time.”
“Time?”
“To rest. I’ll be all right.”
I never saw his eyes. He didn’t lift his arm from his face. I closed the door quietly when I left.
The cake isn’t quite cool enough to be frosted. I pour myself another cup of coffee and sit down in one of the rocking chairs to wait. I find myself wishing Celeste would show up. It would be nice to talk with her. I find it restful to be with one who is just “spending time.”
I sip the coffee and rock quietly. I shut my eyes and rest my head against the rim of the rocker. Digger’s face rises up in my memory, as real as if he were here. I feel him as though he were solid. Time diminishes nothing. My heart aches with fresh longing, but also with fresh hope. Hope is unseen and tenuous, but at the same time more solid than flesh, stronger than bone. I find it’s what holds me together. More than that, this hope—from wherever it may be coming—tells me everything is happening as it should.
Footsteps approach. I open my eyes thinking I’ll see Celeste but it’s Sheldon. He enters the kitchen still wearing the shirt and slacks he was wearing last night. His hair is disheveled, his face dark with a day’s worth of stubble. He looks as though he hasn’t slept all night.
“Sheldon?” I say.
He sits in the rocker across from me and sighs heavily. He looks down at his hands, clasped together between his knees. I feel my pulse quicken.
“What is it, Sheldon?”
He lifts his eyes to me; they are red-rimmed and bloodshot. “I saw Charlene,” he says.
The cup in my hand trembles so violently, coffee spills over into the lap of my housedress. “Where? When?”
“Yesterday. She just showed up at the lot.”
“Why? What did she want?”
“She had a child with her, Meg.”
“A child?”
“A baby.”
An iciness takes hold of me. I shiver. “What are you saying, Sheldon?”
“She claims the baby’s mine.”
I feel as though I’m falling, though in fact I’m rising and walking, weak-kneed, to the sink. I drop the cup and saucer into it, china clinking against the porcelain. Both hands clutch the edge of the sink for support. “Do you think she’s telling you the truth?”
“Yes.” The rocking chair squeaks as Sheldon rises out of it. “I believe the boy is mine.”
“Boy?”
“Yes, the child’s a boy.”
I hear myself wail, one sharp cry of grief climbing up my throat. It is a year ago all over again, only this time the anger is deeper and the pain is worse. Unfaithfulness is one thing, but a child …
My eyes fall to the cake, the bowl of frosting. With trembling fingers I grasp the spatula and angrily spread frosting over one layer of the cake.
&nb
sp; “I’m sorry, Meg,” Sheldon says, so quietly I almost don’t hear him.
“Do you know what today is?” I ask. Tears are streaming down my face. I keep my back to Sheldon so he doesn’t see.
“Yes, I know.”
“Digger is nine years old.”
“Yes.”
I lift the second layer of cake and put it on top of the first, drop a mountain of frosting on it. “And now you’re telling me you have a son with Charlene.”
He doesn’t answer. I sense him drawing closer, and then his hand is on my shoulder. “Meg,” he says.
“Don’t touch me.” I pull away.
“Meg, please, I—”
“So, now you have someone to take the place of Digger?”
“No, Meg, no. Never.”
The grass outside grows dark with shadow; a cloud must have passed across the sun. I wipe my tears with a dishcloth and take several deep breaths. “What will you do now?” I ask, still not looking at him. “Do you intend to leave me for Charlene, now that there’s a child?”
“No, Meg. I don’t intend to leave you. I’ll pay child support, but that’s all.”
I think about that a moment, consider the strain it will put on our already depleted pocketbook. My anger is a hard knot in my chest. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much will you pay every month?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll have to talk with her lawyer.”
“And what did Charlene say?”
“She … she thought I should know about the boy, but she knows my place is here.”
I swing around, look Sheldon in the eye. “Is it?”
“I hope so, Meg,” he whispers. His eyes are wide and full of fear. “I have no desire to leave. Unless you want me to.”
I turn away, finish frosting the cake. I have nothing to say to him that will take away his fear. Pulling nine candles out of the box, I plant them on top of the cake. “I’ll never forgive you, Sheldon,” I say.