There wasn’t much else to say on the subject, and he couldn’t demand any more of her time.
“Well, thank you,” he managed. She didn’t know it, and he’d be humiliated if she did, but this was the most normal, human interaction he’d had in months. The last time must have been when his television stopped working and a repairman came to fix it. But that guy hadn’t had long, bouncing blonde hair or candid grey eyes or been attentive to Jeremy’s needs (besides his television). This was something else entirely. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it’s what you or I might know as desire.
As she walked away, he returned to his food demolition. There was always way too much food on those plates. Diners could easily serve half the amount and most people would leave happy, but that might have been Jeremy’s measly 150 pounds talking. Maybe he didn’t know what normal humans wanted and needed. Certainly not this many hash browns. He ate them though, as if it were a quest. After making sure no one was watching, he licked his finger and traced it around the outskirts of his plate to rid it of even the tiniest crumb. He put his cutlery on top of the barren plate, but decided against the crumpling of a napkin. It would be a waste, plus it would hide his clean dish. She might not even see it or realize he had done it for her, to make her life a little easier.
He sat back almost proudly, pushed his plate away and over to the side of the table. Their own special code. Jeremy couldn’t think of anything else to say to her besides asking for his bill, but maybe that would be enough.
As she started to head back over to him, he spotted the cheque already in her hand. Really? he thought. She knew I wanted that? Of course it would’ve been fairly obvious – with not a crumb left on his plate it was evident he was finished his meal, and it wasn’t likely he would be looking for dessert at nine in the morning … But she noticed.
She dropped his bill at the table and had written, “Thanks!” with a smiley face next to it. She had also circled something: her name.
Violet.
He ran it over his tongue, noticing the satisfactory vibration as the “V” hummed against his lips, and the way his tongue tapped his teeth on the second syllable. Such a delicate name. A purple, vibrant name. He immediately wanted to know more, her last name, a nickname. All were valid questions but inappropriate for him to ask right now, he guessed. An irresistible urge to use her name in speech filled him. He wanted to go to a garden and find a whole bouquet of her. Put them beside her bed in a vase. A vase for violets. For Violet.
Ridiculous thoughts, he knew. Is this a crush? He didn’t feel crushed; he felt light and more alive than in a long while, perhaps ever.
There wasn’t much more he could do today, so he left her a tip that consisted of a few more dollars than he’d ever left anyone before, and got up with what he hoped would be perceived as purpose and agility. In reality, he had to untuck his spidery appendages and unfurl his body from around the table. But as he walked away, he passed by her and said, “Goodbye, Violet.”
She didn’t hear him, busy doing a million other little things. But when she went to his table to collect the tip, she looked up in astonishment and searched out the window for a last glimpse of him. He’d been so generous that she wondered if he’d meant to leave her so much. She was no stranger to men trying to buy her attention, so she pocketed the money, smiled, and made a mental note to pay extra attention to him next time.
2
Violet continued to work. She did so despite having been on shift for almost twelve hours; despite her ankle swelling up and reducing her gait to a penguin-like lilt; despite the plans she had made earlier to see friends, which she had to cancel when work told her she was needed. A clever trick, as she’d spent most of her life wanting to be just that – needed by someone.
She felt a slap on her ass, and wheeled quickly to find Karalee giving a smirk and a wink. Violet had never understood the grabbiness of the serving industry. It was a way to show kinship, she had gathered this much, but why something so unpleasant? Every time she felt an uninvited touch, she would flinch and grit her teeth together, bracing for what she’d find when she turned around. Generally, it was someone she might have granted consent to had they asked, but sometimes it was a cook who snuck a squeeze while her hands were too busy and full with plates to object. Rarely, it was a customer to whom she had been nothing but friendly, polite and respectful. But that is where Violet was blind. She didn’t see her friendliness as anything out of the ordinary. She gave out smiles because they were simple, easier than frowning, and because she liked to see them in return. She made a point of ensuring everything tasted as it should, was plated just so, was exactly the way they had ordered it.
It amazed her how often people would ask for her name. Violet, they would often cock their heads and reply. What a pretty name for a pretty girl. They truly seemed to believe that they were relevant to her external life, the shoes she stepped into when she left the restaurant. She couldn’t blame them, she supposed, because she’d seen how gloomy other waiters could be and realized she did shine a little brighter. And sometimes those people were relevant to her life, like sweet Mrs. Simcoe who brought her a fresh oatmeal cookie most times she came to eat, or Andrew, the old lonely fellow with the best memory in the world. How’s home, he’d ask her, remembering exactly where that was and who was in it. Violet wouldn’t be able to make it through shifts like these without people like that.
As her mind trailed off, her body remained active. Autopilot had successfully taken three orders and delivered some food, as well as wrapped up a couple of tables. She shook her head and told herself that being there for so many hours was no excuse to let her head up into the clouds.
When her shift finally came to an end, it was time for side duties; stocking up for the beginning of the next group of workers. In a diner that never closes, there is always a next shift.
The walk-in fridge was a monstrous abyss that swallowed up boxes and spit them out in places of its choosing. Things were never in the same place twice. On hot days, it was a sweet relief to cool your forehead on a big vat of mayo, or sneak a bottle of salad dressing onto the small of your back. But today, Violet hugged herself and shivered as she searched for the salsa.
When in that fridge, she hoped to be left alone. That’s why she sighed inwardly as the sticky door swung outwards and Rafa walked in. Rafa was a cook known for his malodour and roaming hands. His were a pair that Violet did not want anywhere near her ass, but they somehow found themselves there quite frequently. She never felt more like an object than when in his presence, as if she were a blow-up doll for him to grab and shove.
She searched harder for the damned salsa, but heard Rafa muttering about how hard she’d been working, how tired she must be.
“You need a kiss,” he said. Not a question, because he knew what her answer would be if it were.
“That’s sweet, Rafa,” she smiled. “But I’m all sweaty, no one wants to kiss me right now.” It amazed her how easily she could mask her disgust. She knew she had every right to be short with him, to refuse his advances forcefully, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It wasn’t only that she wanted to stay in his good favour, although that was part of it. Guiltily, she knew she could return back to the kitchen with a rejected plate, open her eyes really wide, and ask for a quick fix. If her body was a weapon she would use it.
But that day, in that fridge, she wanted her body out of the equation. She squirmed as she felt him, smelt him, get closer.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Rafa said. “Just one kiss.”
Violet had been through this enough times to know to duck her head. If she was quick enough, he would get only a cheek, sometimes just an earlobe. Her timing was such that he got her right on the cheekbone this time, and she felt enough force for it to have been a goodnight kiss after a date that had gone well. It was something he should have earned, but he stole it instead.
Normally, that was the worst of it. The hardest part was waiting until he was out of
sight to wipe the residue from her face, the sticky saliva that felt hot enough to brand. Today, he just stood there.
“Come on,” he begged, or something close to it. “One time before I leave here I want a real kiss.”
Violet’s insides roiled and she dreaded the day she would have to deal with that request. But she made the mistake of thinking that the moment was over and done with because before she knew it, Rafa leaned in again, grabbed her by the cheeks with his meat-stained hands and kissed her. Firmly, long enough for her to say, Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god in her head.
He pulled back with a look of such satisfaction; a sly, triumphant smile twisting his forceful lips.
“Mmmm,” he said before finally retreating.
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to scream and say her body, her choice, like she’d been programmed to since the start of her sexuality. But instead, she did nothing. She stood there and waited for him to leave the fridge, which he did without looking back. She raised her forearm and wiped it forcefully across her lips, trying to smear off the stain she felt sure he had left on them.
What if I can never kiss anyone again without thinking of him? She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like if it were an assault with his whole body, not merely his lips and his hands burning on her cheeks.
The second worst part was that she knew she’d never say a word about it to anyone. The worst was that he knew this, too. He knew her for her smile and her kindness, and that she wouldn’t want to make waves. As she walked out of the freezer, she eyed the poster stating the restaurant’s zero tolerance policy for sexual harassment.
She finished her stock-up in a haze, counted her cash-out without even bothering to see how much she’d made in tips. She couldn’t help feeling like it was a payoff. Yes, you’ll be forcefully kissed in dark corners, but at the end of your shift you’ll have some money that’ll make it worthwhile.
As quickly as she could, Violet left, waving a few forced goodbyes. She scoped out her little red Neon, hideous and functional. She fumbled with her car keys before successfully fitting them into the hole, hoping her poor car didn’t feel violated by her force. With her hands positioned at ten and two and her head on the wheel, she took deep breaths.
Some tears came then. Violet didn’t cry often and later she was sure she’d look back on that moment and wonder why she couldn’t have hardened up. It was, after all, just a kiss. But she felt rubbed raw. She worried for her future and how often she would allow herself to be taken advantage of. She worried also for the present. She would be back here tomorrow to do it all over again.
When Violet graduated from high school last May, she threw her cap into the air in her ridiculous gown; she had gotten tipsy with some friends and camped out in a tent in the town park. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? There were a lot of pictures taken, a couple of bruises the next day, a hangover that felt like it went for days, and then that was it. High school was over and done with. Most of Violet’s friends had gone on to university or college. They all seemed to have clear career plans with ideas of where they were headed to and how they would get there.
No such plans existed in Violet’s head. Everyone said she would eventually just know, and she was, after all, only 18. But things didn’t seem to be falling into place so easily. A blurry image wasn’t slowly constructing itself before her eyes; she didn’t feel pulled onto any particular course. For now, the only direction she had was working at the diner, helping her mom out with money wherever she could, and trying not to cry when she heard about all of the great, grown-up dilemmas her friends were getting themselves into all over the country.
A wave of inevitability loaded her shoulders. She felt as if she weighed a ton and wondered how much of her life would feel like this, like she was running around and around on a track that never changed, that never let her change. Those loaded shoulders began to shake, and she felt embarrassed by the display of weakness in the middle of a parking lot. She steeled herself and straightened her back, wiped her tears away almost as forcefully as the kiss. After a few more deep breaths and a headshake, her eyes were almost clear enough to drive. Seat belted, keys in ignition, gear from park to drive, successful autopilot.
Violet thought she might have escaped the whole scene unseen. She didn’t see the gangly man sitting quietly in the car across from her, nor feel his heart pounding.
Jeremy hadn’t gotten far from the restaurant before he turned around and came back. He wasn’t sure why; it’s not as if he could go back in and say, Oops, I forgot to have some fries while I was here. Round two? He had no real reason to return, and didn’t feel confident enough to stroll in and say what was on his mind, which was, Tell me who you are, Violet. He knew this would be inappropriate. In some fantasy novel it might be romantic, the perfect lover’s meeting, a story that would unfold laughingly and lovingly to an attentive audience wondering how two people could be so happy.
But that wasn’t quite it. He couldn’t define it as simply as that he wanted to love her. He knew next to nothing about her, but when you’re starved enough of something, you hold on tightly to anything that will sate the deprivation. He felt an insane desire to protect her, guard against whatever it was that brought salt to her eyes.
For now he let her be, and watched her drive off to whatever home she had.
3
Autumn crept in quickly that year. The leaves, one day green, mellowed seemingly overnight to their reds and oranges and finally brown. Such a quick death.
Jeremy raked meticulously, stopping every few minutes to wipe his nose on his sleeve. The cool air got his insides running. As he paused, he surveyed the seemingly endless carpet of colours scattered at his feet and all around. What a waste, he thought. So many leaves over so many seasons that just fall to the ground to rot.
He found himself thinking of Violet. About how soon he could see her again.
Headlights and crunching caused Jeremy to jerk his head up and see a car crawling up the driveway. Gravel chunks flew up harmlessly, warning the driver to move forward with trepidation. It was Jeremy’s boss, Johnny O’Connor, a name that fell just short of rhyming. Jeremy forced a smile in his direction. He didn’t appreciate being checked up on, but was thankful to be caught mid-rake.
“Good morning, sir,” Jeremy bobbed his head in feigned respect.
“Jeremy,” his boss replied flatly, like someone stating an item on a list. “How’s the house coming along?”
An old Victorian home like this one was a lucky job to have landed. Working as a general contractor had led to many a tough cleanup. This job was by far the best Jeremy had been assigned since beginning to work for O’Conner & Sons two years earlier.
“Great,” Jeremy said. “Feel silly raking all these leaves when tomorrow a whole new batch will be back, but it’s peaceful out here so I don’t mind.” The wind amongst the trees was just the soundtrack he needed.
Johnny smiled. “Yeah, well, I left my raking for too long last year, and the piles were so deep I found two dead squirrels in ’em.”
Trying not to wrinkle his nose, and wondering why one person would ever share that with another, Jeremy replied humbly, “Well sir, I guess I’ll just have to keep at it then.”
He hoped this would be sufficient because he wouldn’t do his best work with someone looking over his shoulder. Jeremy could sense his arms slowing, could feel the rake grating against rocks he hadn’t felt before. An audience gave him an automatic feeling of clumsiness and inadequacy. The embarrassment from stumbling over a task so simple ruddied his cheeks and salt water filled his eyes, reducing his vision to nil.
Johnny knew this about Jeremy by now. All reports showed he was a good worker, but best left alone. He tried to do that whenever possible.
“Yup, keep at it,” Johnny affirmed. “How’s the porch coming along?”
“Pretty well sir, I did some sanding yesterday and I’ll be priming tomorrow before I start to stain. The boards are all pre
tty stable, it’s a newer addition.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Johnny conceded. “Maybe I’ll make a quick round about the place, and then I’m gone.” To Jeremy, this sounded like a reward for good behaviour, a timeline for salvation.
The old home was nestled deeply down a long gravel road. The owners were property hounds, real estate junkies who snatch up whatever new listings they could find and afford; who evaluate, pillage, and reconstruct before selling to the highest bidder. The saddest part was that they had moved in for a time, had left behind clothes and abandoned the house’s contents, which became like lonely organs left trying to fill an empty body. Heartless, Jeremy thought, to take ownership of something only to tear it apart completely, come up with your own definition of what you think it should be, then discard it for a price.
Jeremy didn’t understand the venture, but was still helping along the way. The insides had already been evaluated by another contractor, some house doctor trained to see which parts were deteriorating and threatening the structure’s wellbeing. Jeremy’s job was just the surface stuff. Painting, general maintenance. He was the plastic surgeon of the place, giving a face-lift here, an extraction there. Not a bad gig for someone who had been tossed from job to job so quickly in the past. This place would be his to work on until someone showed an interest in purchasing it. The owners hadn’t even come to visit; too many other properties to ravage.
The fingers of his rake snagged ruthlessly on anything in their path; branches, stones, patches of grass if he wasn’t careful. He decided to take a break, make sure Johnny had left.
Jeremy walked into the enormous house, past the five bedrooms, sitting rooms, living rooms, dining rooms, rooms he couldn’t even think of a name for. He’d been looking after this place for a few months now.
He headed downstairs to the musty cellar underneath, complete with a full wine rack. The house was built in 1893, and the dust-covered bottles could have been ten years old or one hundred.
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