Gift opening turned out more difficult than candle blowing, but I held myself together. Aunt June procured a large, rectangular package and scooted it my way.
“Now, before you say it’s too much, you need a computer for school,” she warned as I studied my new silver laptop.
Receiving extravagant gifts was uncharted territory for me, on par with speaking Russian. Aunt June had already given me so much: use of the pool house, a debit card that drew from my grandparent’s estate, and their acceptance. “Thank you…I…I love it,” I managed an appreciative smile and moved on to Billie’s presents. The first was a framed photo of us, shot from above, grinning in the pool. I was wearing my black and white polka-dot bikini, while Billie had on a neon pink suit, with a fedora and sunglasses. We could’ve been mistaken for lifelong best friends.
“Maybe you could put it next to your bed or on the mantle in the living room?” Billie offered when I didn’t say anything.
“Yes, of course. Thanks,” I replied, setting the frame down and reaching for the other gift, which was smaller than the last. Inside the petite square box was a familiar gold filigree ring with a large emerald at the center. It slipped on my middle finger with ease.
“Your mother’s ring,” Aunt June said softly.
Everything I thought of saying sounded ridiculous in response to such generous and thoughtful gifts, so I said nothing at all and gave a nod of appreciation and a small smile. The three of us spent the day exploring the little shops in town, which were eclectic and filled with characters. We sniffed goat milk soaps at the Apalachicola Sponge Company, and purchased artisanal chocolates from the confectionary across the street. Billie bought me my first coffee, an iced latte, and we sipped our drinks and nibbled on chocolates as we walked along the dock. It was the best birthday I’d had in a long time.
My first day of classes at Gulf Coast Community College proved to be one of the most stressful days I’d ever experienced. I woke up early and refused breakfast. My stomach was jumble of nerves and dread. Aunt June allowed me to borrow her car to drive to Port St. Joe, saying she was able to walk to her insurance company, where she worked, and admitted she needed the exercise. I hadn’t stepped foot in a real classroom, with qualified teachers, real desks, real printed books, and real discussions in quite some time. My first class of the day was Art 101. Our teacher, Dr. Taylor, a well-groomed man in his early thirties, kept showing us slides of artwork on the projector. He paused on Salvador Dali’s Persistence of Memory, composed of a bunch of melted watches hanging out. Dr. Taylor went around the classroom, asking how the image made us “feel.”
“It makes me feel like time is dragging on, kind of like this class,” said a guy with scraggly hair and big, round black plugs in his ears.
“Life is so temporary, you know,” a blond girl in a short tennis skirt mused, twirling her hair and smacking her gum.
“As though time is arbitrary, right?” Dr. Taylor nudged. “You there,” he pointed directly at me, and I dropped the pencil I was taking notes with, wishing I were invisible. I was a ball of anxiety and could only think in fragments. “How does this painting make you feel?”
“Well, I-I,” I stuttered, scanning the disinterested faces. “Doesn’t make me feel anything.”
“Nothing at all?” Dr. Taylor chuckled.
“Nothing.”
“…Very well, then,” he replied, and I breathed out a sigh of relief. I endured my first college class.
Remedial Math, Math 99, was next on my schedule and passed by without incident. After nibbling on the ham and cheese sandwich I’d packed for lunch, I sat through Science 101, which was dreadfully boring, as the professor had a monotone voice and constant stutter. Finally, the day ended with English 99. Instead of reviewing the syllabus, as we had in the other classes, our professor, Dr. Crawford, dove straight into the lesson. Dr. Crawford was a middle-aged, bald man, with a belly that protruded just over his belt and dark-rimmed glasses he couldn’t stop fidgeting with. When he spoke, he commanded the room’s attention with his passion.
“I hope you’ve all done your summer reading,” Dr. Crawford called out to the class. Some of the students sunk low in their seats, others groaned. A required reading list was mailed out prior to the beginning of the semester, one book being The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne. The professor picked up the class roster and began to call out names: “Daniel….Dewberry? Is that correct?” a stocky boy in the back corner of the class raised his hand.
“I go by Dan,” he grunted.
“So you do. Dan, why do you think Hester refuses to leave the Massachusetts Bay Colony after receiving the letter, being the labeled the ‘town whore’. It’s not like she’s physically tied there. She has free will. She can leave. She can forget about the past. Why does she stay?” Dr. Crawford asked.
“Because she’s a woman. Women don’t operate with any sense,” Dan replied, and all of the class chuckled except Dr. Crawford.
“I take it you haven’t done the summer reading, Dan,” Dr. Crawford silenced the class. I frowned as my palm twitched. I knew the answer.
“Yes?” Dr. Crawford raised his dark brows, “You look like you have something to say, young woman with the red hair.” The entire class whipped around.
“Me?” I asked sheepishly.
He nodded. “Is Dan correct? Does Hester not operate with any sense because ‘she’s a woman’?”
I shook my head, mustering the courage to speak. “No. If Hester got rid of the scarlet letter, and tried to pretend like her past didn’t happen, she’d, well, lose part of herself. Sin is a part of her life. She’s not going to let Chillingworth or Dimmesdale take that away or determine her identity,” I paused. “Her past makes her who she is.”
“Precisely,” Dr. Crawford beamed at me. “If you haven’t already, please finish your assigned readings before Wednesday. Class dismissed.”
Classes at Gulf Coast eventually fell into the regular swing. The first month of classes were challenging, anxiety swelled in my chest, knowing I’d be forced to participate in each lecture. The worst part was that the rest of the students already had a solid foundation of knowledge from which to draw, but I had only a rocky surface of Biblical teachings. I spent my nights familiarizing myself with the class material, pouring over books and searching the Internet to fill in my blanks.
It took a while, but eventually, I began to feel a sense of confidence and pride in my studies. I raised my hand to answer questions when the professors prompted, and I engaged in class discussions with the other students, not allowing my voice to be lost in the background. Even better, I wasn’t scolded by my professors for sharing my opinion, and though I was a woman, they seemed to genuinely value my input.
I found myself bored and restless in the afternoons, scooting around the pool house aimlessly after my studies. I asked Aunt June if there was anything I could assist with at the insurance office.
“Now why would ya want to subject yourself to such boredom?” Aunt June chuckled at my offer. “Olde Time Soda Fountain is hiring. I saw the sign in the window on my way to the office yesterday. Why don’t you go ask Mr. Hemming—he owns the place — for the job? Run over after dinner. It probably doesn’t pay much, but it’s something to do at least. And free ice cream to boot.” She smiled in her usual easy way and continued to stir the steaming pot of chili, instructing me to fetch the buttermilk and eggs out of the fridge.
“Come here, Katie. A grown woman needs to know how to make decent cornbread. It’s just as important as finding a supportive bra and learning how to drive a stick shift,” she motioned me to take a place beside her.
“First off, you need a good cast iron skillet. This one’s yours now,” Aunt June motioned to the black skillet she was greasing with some oil on a paper towel. Handing the skillet to me, I realized it was much heavier than it appeared, and I popped the empty pan in the pre-heated oven to warm up. After being told that a seasoned cornbread skillet was twice as valuable as gold, Aunt
June mentioned that heating the pan prior to adding the batter yielded a crispy crust, and she doled out the wet ingredients: eggs, oil and buttermilk into a bowl, and I stirred in cornmeal flour, baking soda, a pinch of salt, and a spoonful of sugar for subtle sweetness. As I poured the batter into the heated skillet, the mixture sizzled on contact with the hot surface, bubbling and popping in a satisfying symphony.
Billie padded down the stairs sometime later, lured in by the smell of fresh cornbread and spicy ground beef. She pulled her long auburn hair into a high ponytail before scooping chili into her bowl and sat down. She fiddled on her phone and waited for me and Aunt June to join her. Billie’s phone vibrated twice, but before she could check her messages, her mother interrupted: “Any gentleman callers I should know about?”
Billie produced a brief snort, shoving the phone into her jean pocket, “None worth writing home about. What about you, Kate?”
Nice deflection, I thought. I should deflect further. I cleared my throat, preparing my mouth for impending southern twang: “We are strong independent women who don’t need no man,” I spoke slowly and with great emphasis, shifting my eyes over to Billie, attempting to remain serious. All three of us exchanged looks and burst into a hoard of giggles.
“Did you hear Kate is going to apply for a job at the Soda Fountain?” Aunt June asked Billie as I smeared a pat of butter over a slice of warm cornbread.
“No, I didn’t catch that conversation,” Billie replied, staring at her chili. A long moment passed before she spoke again. “Mom…did you tell her about Mr. Hemming?”
“What about him?” Aunt June acted as though she had no idea what Billie was talking about.
“Well, gee, I don’t know? Just that he might not be the most…normal boss? That he’s a little strange?”
“Billie! Don’t say that about Mr. Hemming. You don’t know him.” Aunt June silenced Billie.
“What’s wrong with him?” I directed the question at Billie but welcomed an answer from either of them.
Before Billie could pipe up, Aunt June interrupted: “What your rude cousin is getting at, is that Mr. Hemming has an unusual injury and disposition. He’s not the most…affable man in town. He’s rather shy,” Aunt June stopped, but Billie urged her to continue, waving her hands in an impatient gesture. “There is nothing wrong with him, Billie!” she yelled, standing up quickly and taking our bowls from us, placing them in the sink. Billie was mid-bite when her bowl was jerked from her. “He’s just…he just keeps to himself, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with keeping to yourself. Actually, I wish more people would.”
And that was that. Aunt June stormed out of the room after giving her daughter a dirty look. Billie and I took care of the dish washing in silence, and then I departed to experience Mr. Hemming’s strangeness firsthand.
The sun was setting into a melty orange sherbet when I stepped out onto Aunt June’s front porch. Only a few blocks away from home, after a quick walk down the road, past the historic cemetery, I spotted the familiar vintage Coca-Cola signs hanging in the glass window front. Olde Time Soda Fountain was located at the heart of Apalachicola’s tiny city center. The store was practically an antique, having withstood the test of time in a formerly manufacturing-based town. The effect of the constant salty breeze left its eroded mark on just about everything, including the Soda Fountain’s red exterior. The premise was in the title: the little ice-cream shop and tourist attraction hybrid was a glimpse of the past, with an extended mint green counter lined with red swivel stools that sat in front of the soda jerk and array of creamy concoctions.
As I pushed through the door, a little bell chimed above, announcing my presence, but the place appeared empty. Several tables that adorned the black and white checkered floor were gleaming with freshly cleaned shine, and the only sound throughout the shop emitted from the quarter machine, humming with its slate of quarters pushing forward on constant loop.
“Hello?” I called out when I caught sight of a tall figure, mopping at the back of the store. He jerked his head back to the sound, placing the mop in its bucket. When he spotted me, his dark brow shot up in surprise and chiseled jaw tensed. Instead of asking what I wanted, he redirected his attention to the bucket, picking it up and opening the back door to pour out the slosh. When he returned, he seemed like he was purposefully ignoring my presence, tidying here and there, not speaking to me.
“Look—I saw your ‘help wanted’ sign out front. I need to speak to Mr. Hemming…I’d…I’d like to get an application,” I blurted out, unable to tolerate being ignored. All I could see was his back, his broad shoulders gracing his tall frame; a ripple of muscle protruded from underneath his pale blue button up. I waited for an answer but received none, and then a serious case of verbal diarrhea took its course:
“I can work Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I’m not particularly religious, so I’m not opposed to coming in on Sundays. I go to Gulf State on Monday and Wednesday. I’m taking four classes, so I’m stuck there from 8-5 on those days. I don’t have any experience in customer service, but I love ice cream…so I’m sure I’ll be a natural.” Well, that was stupid to say. Why did I say that? He still had not turned around. “Is there a uniform? I’ll wear whatever you’d like.” I considered his outfit for a moment. “Khakis and a button up? Conservative footwear?” No response. “A sundress? Cut offs and a t-shirt? Clown suit?” He turned his head ever so slightly with a raised brow, then went back to filling napkin dispensers.
I grew more impatient with each passing moment. His silence caused my stomach twist with embarrassment for even asking about the job, but my anger persuaded me to press forward. I was determined to get this dang job, scooping dairy out of large canisters and blending flavored syrups into delicious concoctions. “I’ll be here tomorrow for training. Great talk,” I shouted, rolling my eyes and heading towards the door to wallow in my embarrassment.
“Mmhm…Be here at ten,” a deep, gravelly voice caught me before I reached the door. I glanced back to flash a smile but stopped when I saw his face, this time, fully illuminated.
That night I lay in bed, wide-awake, mulling over the ice cream shop encounter. I knew I had met the Mr. Hemming Aunt June and Billie spoke of when saw his entire face: the scarring reaching the right side of his throat, speckled across the cheek, meeting an empty eye socket. The left side of his face was untouched.
I strolled out of the house at 9:45 the following morning, examining my reflection before exiting. I selected a black, sheer lace tank top, which fit loosely over a black camisole I had chosen to counteract the sheerness. On my bottom half, I wore indigo dark jeans that clung to every curve, because curve-hugging jeans were the only kind I currently owned. The jeans took approximately three minutes for me to coax on, jumping around and lying flat on the bed to zip. I slipped on stylish moccasins and arranged my wavy mane into a ponytail, tied off with one of Billie’s black ribbons, and grabbed two steaming to-go cups of coffee before leaving for my first day of work.
I knocked on the glass door when I arrived at the Soda Fountain. Technically, the place didn’t open until eleven. Mr. Hemming answered the door after a dreadfully long span of anxiety-filled moments. When my eyes met his face, I briefly allowed myself to explore his features before diverting my gaze. His scars weren’t as severe as I originally thought, but they were certainly his defining feature, competing with his thick, jet-black hair, cut and styled into an undercut with a deep side part, offset handsomely by olive skin. His good eye held an iris with a fascinating mixture of green and brown, like evergreen needles colliding with tree bark, and studied me as I stepped through the threshold and placed one of the coffees in his hand.
“Good morning,” I greeted, slicing the silence in half. Mr. Hemming stared at his coffee wordlessly. I walked past him, squeezed behind the counter and awaited my lesson, but Mr. Hemming remained silent. “I obviously didn’t know how you took your coffee, but there’s cream and sugar in it, ‘cause that’s how I
like mine, and—”
He cleared his throat, cutting me off: “Hmph—the instructions are in front of you. Unlock the door at eleven. We close at 8. Mmm..I have a prior engagement, “ his voice was rough and his words were rushed. I wondered if his facial injury made it uncomfortable to speak, but before I completed that thought, Mr. Hemming hurried out the door.
On the inside, I panicked, but reassured myself he’d probably be back in an hour. No big deal, I told myself as I gulped down a sip of coffee. A blue binder sat on the counter, containing instructions ranging from how to heat up the hot fudge to a cherry soda recipe. Luckily, the binder included photos of the finished product. Curiously, the notes were in handwriting that I immediately identified as a woman’s: curly, neat lettering with meticulously dotted I’s. I wondered if they were written by Mr. Hemming’s girlfriend, or perhaps, wife. He was definitely old enough to be married, but not old enough to have produced and nurtured literate children. I pegged him at maybe, twenty-eight? Thirty?
I set up shop, pouring containers of hot fudge and sticky caramel sauce into their respective heating receptacles. A wave of relief hit when the majority of syrupy goodness splashed into the containers and not all over the checkered floor. I double-checked that the pumps were stocked with sweet cherry and vanilla syrups, and I memorized the varieties of enticing ice cream and sherbet stocked in the freezers. I hummed with nervous energy as I sipped my coffee and figured out how to work the register before anyone arrived.
My first customers strolled in around half past eleven; an elderly couple who quickly identified themselves as “regulars” when they realized I was new. “The wife will have Black Cow, and I’d like a chocolate egg cream with a pretzel rod, dear,” the old man winked at me and joined his wife at the counter. I had already learned the contents of a Black Cow, which was basically a root beer float: I filled a large mason jar half way with root beer, added two hearty scoops of vanilla ice cream, and delicately topped it all off with a little more root beer, admiring my work as the top mixture turned to foam. I stuck a paper straw in one side of the concoction and a long spoon in the other. The egg cream was pretty simple: seltzer water, whole milk, vanilla ice cream, blended with a drizzle of chocolate syrup, and a pretzel rod placed on top.
Kate Fox & The Three Kings Page 10