Vinnie's Diner

by Jennifer AlLee

  I claw and kick, but he just laughs. He’s enjoying it. My shirt rips, and a guttural sound gurgles up from somewhere deep in his throat.

  Discouragement weighs down on me, heavier than the weight that already presses me into the couch. It’s useless. I can’t fight him off. In fact, the more I fight, the more he seems to like it. It crosses my mind that, maybe, if I stop fighting, it will take the thrill out of it for him. Maybe he’ll get bored and let me go. So I let myself go limp. And without even meaning to, I pray.

  Please, God, help me. Make him stop.

  But he keeps at it. And I lay there, just wishing for it to be over.

  He doesn’t notice the squeal of the screen door. The scratch of a key in the lock. But I do.

  My mother is home.

  A burst of adrenaline shoots through my veins. Screaming as loud as I can, I flail my arms and bring one knee up hard, catching him in the groin. He grunts and falls forward, crushing me. I turn my head and bite down on his ear. He wails, jerks to the side, loses his balance. His hand flings out, grabbing for something to hold on to. His fingers slide through the chain around my neck, and I feel a hard tug. It snaps as he falls to the floor.

  “What the hell is going on!”

  For years, I’ve tried to erase the image of my mother standing in the doorway, but it’s a memory that has never left me. Her face is white as the china plates she called “the good dishes.” She looks at me, as I clutch the front of my blouse together, knees drawn up to my chest, pushing myself into the corner of the couch. Then she looks at Ethan, pulling himself up from the floor, blood oozing from between the fingers he holds over his ear. Her mouth moves, but no sounds come out. The shock of what she sees has left her speechless.

  With a groan, Ethan gets to his feet and stumbles over to her. “Georgie, sweetheart, it’s not what you think. I can explain this.”

  “Explain?” Her lips form the word slowly, like a foreign exchange student speaking English for the first time.

  It’s no surprise that Ethan tries to throw the blame on me. “She’s been coming on to me for weeks. I didn’t want to say anything because I thought she was just acting out and I could handle it. But she seduced me.”

  Mom knows better. I can see that she does. But I can also tell that she still wants to believe him. She’s desperate for him to say something that makes sense and will explain away what she just saw so she can continue living in happy, marital bliss. And it might have worked. If he talked long enough and said the right things, Ethan might have come up with some way to sway her. But then, when he sees she’s not buying his story, he says the absolutely wrong thing. The thing that seals both our fates.

  “Come on, Baby, I’m just a man. How can you expect me to resist the temptation of someone so young and pretty in my own home?”

  Her face turns to granite, and even though she knows I’m the victim, I’ve also become her enemy on this particular playing field.

  She swears at Ethan. Tells him that if he leaves and never comes back, she won’t call the police.

  Any remnant of Ethan’s nice guy persona disappears. He mutters and swears on his way to the door, throwing some choice words in my direction, as if I’m the one who destroyed everything. Once he’s gone and it’s just Mom and me left in the room, she looks at me for a long time. I clench my jaws together and bite down on the inside of my lower lip, trying not to cry, trying to hold it together. I pull what’s left of my blouse around me. I try to tug down my skirt, even thought it’s already as far down as it will go. And she just keeps staring. Finally, I can’t take the silence anymore. I reach out my hand.

  “Mom.” The word quivers in the empty space between us.

  Now she looks away. She looks toward the kitchen. She looks up at the decorations on the ceiling. Then she looks back at me.

  “Are you okay?” Her voice, cold and hard, doesn’t match the concern in the question.

  I nod my head.

  “Did he . . . ?”

  “No. He tried . . . but no.”

  “Good.”

  She nods her head once. Then she turns and walks quietly into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

  I want my mother to hold me, to tell me everything will be all right. I want her to say that she loves me, that we’ll get through this thing together. But I guess she needs someone to tell her those things, too. Someone other than me.

  I don’t let myself cry until I’m alone in the room. Streamers and balloons move gently on the ceiling above me, swaying from side to side as if sharing in my grief. I have no idea how long I stayed like that, balled up on the sofa, weeping against my knees, but it seems like hours. Finally, when there are no tears left and my mouth is devoid of any moisture, I stand up. I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to go somewhere.

  I take a step away from the couch.

  And I feel something beneath my foot.

  It’s the cross. I bend down and pick it up. The delicate chain hangs from the top of it, limp and broken. I stare at the pendant, at its shiny golden surface reflecting the light. My fingers close tight around it and it bites into the flesh of my palm.

  Why did Ethan do it? Why did he give me a cross? It was supposed to be a symbol of hope. A symbol of love. But for me, it has just become a symbol of depravity and betrayal.

  A scream rises from a pit of white hot anger in my core. I pull my arm back and hurl the revolting thing across the room, into the shadows by the tall entertainment center.

  15

  Vinnie’s Diner

  My head is on the table. I lift it slowly and wait for the diner to come back into focus again. I’m getting used to the process, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the experience. My whole body is quivering, shaking as though it’s encased in ice.

  There’s still a photo pinched between my thumb and forefinger. It’s Ethan, smiling up at me. He looks like the perfect image of a God-fearing family man.

  What a joke.

  I want to spit on the photo, destroy it, grind it under the treads of my dirty tennis shoes. Instead, I tear it in half, slowly, relishing the sound of the paper splitting and ripping. I lay both halves face down on top of the other pictures.

  “That’s the last one,” I say to Vinnie. “She never brought another man home after that. Not until after I moved out to go to college.”

  I push the stack of pictures as far away from me as I can, sending them dropping through the crack between the wall and the table. They cascade to the floor like some kind of dysfunctional waterfall.

  My mother’s voice crackles out of the speakers of the radio behind me.

  “I need to get some coffee.”

  Of course she does. Because ever since that day, she’s found it difficult to be in the same room with me for very long.

  I drop my head and stare at my fingernails. They’re ragged around the edges from me picking at them. I used to be a nail biter, which drove my mom nuts. One day, when she caught me gnawing on my thumb, she’d had enough. “You might think it’s old fashioned, but men notice hands. What are you going to do when you go on a date, and a boy takes your hand and you scratch him up with these things?” She’d held up one of my hands, bending the fingers down so they were practically touching my nose. I was only ten, but I got the idea. Men were important, and men noticed nails, therefore, nails were important. So instead of biting them, I started filing them, painting them, spending extra time on my nail grooming. For years, I had the best looking nails in the school district.

  That day, on my fifteenth birthday, I broke off two of my beautiful, perfectly shaped Pink Pearl colored nails as I scratched and clawed and fought off Ethan.

  I don’t bother with polish anymore. Now I’m a nail picker, and they look worse than ever. But at least I didn’t go back to biting them. Very often.

  “Things between my mother and I were never the same after that.” Pick. Pick. Pick. “Not that they were great before.”

  Vinnie’s hand covers mine
, stilling me. I look up into his face and I can tell. He gets it.

  With a smile, he pats my hand twice, then pulls back. “Tell us about your Aunt Bobbie.”

  This is an unexpected surprise. I was sure he would ask me more questions about Ethan. That he’d probe into the deep recesses of my mind. Want to know how it made me feel to be attacked and rejected all in one birthday afternoon. But instead, he wants to know about my aunt.

  And thinking about my aunt reminds me of the trivia contest.

  “Look, I appreciate your help, but I’ve got to get back to my body so I can get to that contest.” I stretch my arms across the table, holding my hands out to Vinnie, imploring him to help me. “You have no idea how important it is.”

  “And you have no idea how important this is.” He motions around him, and I assume he’s talking about my diner experience.

  My fingers curl in on themselves forming tight fists. “You’re right, I don’t know how important this is. Because no one will tell me.” A little droplet of spit flies out of my mouth and lands on the table. I need to calm down. I slide back in my seat, breathe in, hold it, then slowly let it out. Then I continue.

  “You want to know about my aunt? Fine, I’ll tell you about her. She’s the most important person in my life. She’s more of a mother to me than the woman who gave birth to me. And she’s dying.”

  Joe reaches out and puts his hand on one of my fists. “You’re all dying, Allie.”

  I jerk my hand away. “Yes, I know. But she’s got Parkinson’s. And it’s going to steal everything that makes her who she is. She’ll be dead long before her body goes. But there’s a drug that could give her more productive, happy years. Only it’s expensive and her insurance won’t cover it because they say it’s still considered experimental. That’s why I need to get to the contest. If I win that money, I can pay for her medication.”

  Joe folds his hands together in front of him. “You’re trying to save her.”

  My eyes burn, and I know if I open my mouth I’ll start bawling. So I just jerk my chin up and down in response.

  Joe looks at Vinnie, who nods back. “Allie,” Vinnie barely touches my hand with the tip of one finger, then points at the radio. “There’s something you need to hear.”

  I turn in my seat, angling toward the radio. The volume increases even though no one is standing anywhere near it.

  There’s a knock, like someone rapping on a door. Then a whoosh.

  “Excuse me. Can I come in?” It’s a male voice I don’t recognize.

  “Sure.” That’s Aunt Bobbie.

  “I’ve seen you around the hospital the last few days.”

  Days? I turn to Vinnie. “It’s been days?”

  He points again. “Just keep listening.”

  “Is this your daughter?” the unknown man asks.

  “My niece. But she’s the closest thing to a daughter I’ll ever have.”

  There’s nothing for a moment, then the man clears his throat. “I’m Dr. Hoffman.”

  “Bobbie Burton.”

  Another pause. “I hope I’m not being too intrusive, but as I said, I’ve noticed you, and . . .”

  “And . . .”

  “You have Parkinson’s, don’t you?”

  Aunt Bobbie and I gasp at the same time.

  “How did you know?”

  “From the way you walk. And I noticed the tremors.”

  “You sound like an expert.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. I’m head of the hospital’s Parkinson’s research unit.” His voice is gentle, not at all like some of the doctors I’ve visited with Aunt Bobbie. I wish she’d met this guy a few years back. “We ran the clinical trial here on Betricept.”

  I’m feeling a little light headed. Betricept is the drug I’m trying to get for Aunt Bobbie.

  Aunt Bobbie laughs, but it’s not a particularly happy sound. “The world’s a tiny place, doctor. I tried to get on that drug, but my insurance company refused to pay for it. Said it was too expensive for something that wasn’t proven to be effective.”

  “Really? Well, I guess that’s why I’m here.” She must be looking at him funny, because he makes a nervous laughter kind of sound before going on. “I just felt like I was supposed to talk to you about your condition and . . . well, to cut to the chase, I’m still involved in an ongoing study with Betricept. Even though it’s FDA approved, we want to keep an eye on long-term effects. I believe I can get you into the program, if you’re interested.”

  I nearly jump out of my seat. “Did you hear that?” I whirl around, grabbing Joe by the arm, since he’s the closest. “She might get the drug after all.”

  Joe laughs, hearty and full throated. “Yes, I heard. But there’s more.”

  My jaws ache from the intensity of my smile. But I can’t help it. My aunt might get the help she needs. I look back at the radio, wondering what more this wonderful doctor has to say.

  But it’s my aunt that speaks next.

  “That would be fabulous, but . . .” Her voice trails off, and I hear snuffling.

  “But what?”

  “I just wish we’d known sooner. Before Allie left for that contest. She was trying to win money to pay for my medicine.”

  I press my forehead against the back of the seat. She knew. All this time, I thought it was my big secret, but she knew. And she never let on.

  Aunt Bobbie begins to cry. There’s a rustling sound I can’t identify.

  “This is all my fault.” Aunt Bobbie’s voice is muffled. Is the doctor hugging her? Trying to comfort her?

  “But if you hadn’t been here, in this hospital, you probably would never have known about the study. I think this is a case of good coming out of tragedy. Besides, I know your niece’s doctor. She’s one of the best in her field.”

  “She is?” Aunt Bobbie’s voice is clear again, and she’s sniffing. The tears are almost done.

  “Yes. Your niece is in very good hands.”

  A long silence, then Aunt Bobbie speaks. “Are you a believer, doctor?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Would you pray with me?”

  “I’d love to, Mrs. Burton.”

  One short, tiny giggle comes out of my aunt. “Miss.”

  “I’d love to pray with you, Miss Burton.” And now, I hear a smile in the doctor’s voice.

  It’s the last thing I’d ever expect. But I think my aunt may have just received medical help and the personal interest of a physician all at the same time.

  16

  Vinnie’s Diner

  I turn back to Joe and Vinnie. They both look rather pleased with themselves.

  “I’m not getting to the trivia contest, am I?”

  “No,” Vinnie says.

  I let it sink in. No contest. No shot at the game show job. No chance of winning the $100,000. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed. I would have liked that job. And if I’d been able to use the money on myself, I could have paid off my student loans. But now that I know Aunt Bobbie’s got a chance of getting her medication, I can get over it.

  Which brings me back to the task at hand: getting out of this diner. And the only way to do that seems to be by doing what my booth mates tell me.

  I tilt my head at Joe. “Where were we?”

  “You were going to tell us about your aunt.”

  As far as I’m concerned, they’ve just heard the most important stuff about her. But I’ll tell them whatever else I can. “Aunt Bobbie is my mom’s younger sister.”

  “Are they close?” Vinnie asks.

  I grin at him. “That depends on the day. They don’t agree on much, and they argue a lot.” Over the years, mom has spent a lot of time on the phone with Aunt Bobbie. When something great happens, she calls my aunt to gloat. And when she’s in the midst of another heart-wrenching breakup, Aunt Bobbie is the one she turns to for comfort. So I guess, when it comes right down to it, Aunt Bobbie is really my mom’s best friend.

  “Yeah, you could say they’re close. But they’r
e nothing alike.”

  “Really? How so?”

  It would probably be easier to tell him what they do have in common, like the crazy custom in our family of naming girls after men. My mother is named for her Uncle George. Aunt Bobbie is named for her Uncle Robert, who had the misfortune of dying of pneumonia before she was born. I, of course, am named after my father, Alex. If Aunt Bobbie had had kids, she probably would have followed right along with the tradition. Not me. I’ve already sworn to myself that if I ever have a daughter of my own, I’ll name her something girly and unmasculine, something like—

  I cut the thought off before my mind can complete it. Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at Joe, wondering if he was following my train of thought. If so, he’s doing a great job at hiding it. I’d better just concentrate on answering his question.

  “How are they different? Well, you already know my mother’s been through her share of men. But Aunt Bobbie has never been married. She says she has too much fun on her own to be tied down with just one man.”

  Vinnie nods. “Then she dates a lot?”

  I have to think about that for a minute. “No, I don’t think so.”

  I shuffle through my memories like CDs in a bargain bin, trying to pinpoint one time when I’ve seen Aunt Bobbie with a date or heard her talking about anyone special. But I can’t. All I can come up with are memories that make me pretty sure she doesn’t much like men, let alone trust them, which makes her tiny flirtation with the doctor by my hospital bed all the more perplexing.

  I remember her saying things like, “Don’t ever turn your back on a man, Allie.” Or, “Most men are only in it for what they can get. And after they get it, they’re gone.” I’ve had some experience with that particular sentiment. Too bad I didn’t pay closer attention the first time she shared it with me.

  I look over Vinnie’s shoulder at one of the movie posters on the wall. Love Me Tender. It’s Aunt Bobbie’s favorite Elvis flick, and the first time I ever watched it was with her.

  “I won a Golden Globe for that movie.”

  Elvis pushes himself from his spot at the counter and walks closer, keeping his eyes on the poster.