Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  “How did I do?” I asked, eager for feedback after I rung them up.

  “Oh honey, just great! And this is your first day? Where is Mr. Hemming?” the older lady glanced around after taking a sip of her drink. I beamed back at her and told them he had a ‘prior engagement,’ and we chatted while a continuous stream of customers piddled about, shopping for souvenirs and hovering around the quarter machine.

  I gazed out the window while cleaning scoops to watch the sun setting over the bay. It was almost time to close, and Mr. Hemming hadn’t returned all day. I fiddled with the glass candy jars behind the counter and decided to sweep. The evening rush of traffic had ended. Overall, the first day of my employment was a success, with only a few hiccups, like overheating the hot fudge, which separated into a goopy, sugary mess. My stomach growled audibly. With no lunch break, I was starving. I idly wondered what Mr. Hemming’s policy was on employee ice cream consumption, when the bell chirped in a familiar symphony. I perked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

  “You may go home now,” the voice wasn’t mean, but it was dismissive. I watched Mr. Hemming take a seat at the counter, anger swelling in my chest. His outfit was different than the one he wore this morning, a slim white button up with dark jeans and brown leather boots.

  “You’re not going to ask how my day went?” I fumed. “Who leaves their new employee by themselves on their first day?” I waited. “You’re seriously not going to say anything? You do know it’s illegal not to give your employee any breaks, right?” I stared. Mr. Hemming moved to the register and inspected the day’s receipts.

  “You have…butterscotch on your breasts.” He readjusted his gaze to the register, and I noticed a slight flush forming in his left cheek. I inspected my situation. Yep, that was butterscotch. I trailed a finger through the golden stickiness and popped it in my mouth, shrugging.

  “I’ve got class tomorrow, ok?...See you Friday, then.”

  “Good night, Miss Fox,” his good-bye hung in the air as I exited.

  Most days at the Soda Fountain played out the same; I’d arrive around ten to get ready for opening, then Mr. Hemming deserted the shop for the day, showing up moments before close to relieve me of my duties. Occasionally, he’d pop in and work in his office, which was located at the back of the store. On Friday, a quarter to eight, I had enough of his withdrawn demeanor and craved real conversation. Questions burned on my lips, but my approach required amending, for I wished not to overwhelm Mr. Hemming with my chatter. Lately, all of my one-sided conversations with him ended in an embarrassing awkward amount of babbling.

  I tiptoed down the hall, approaching his office, hoping I could crane my neck to catch a peek at what he was working on. I caught a glimpse of lamplight reflecting from his desk and into the hallway, and a scribbling pen filled the silent void. The pen’s scribble grew long and slow, eventually halting altogether. I guessed my subtlety was unsuccessful. Mr. Hemming lifted his gaze toward the door as soon as I appeared in the threshold. I gave a small, fake cough. “What is your first name?” I questioned, trying to be casual, conversational.

  He studied me for a lingering moment. The void became vast and deep, with tangible silence and dismissive glances. I thought Mr. Hemming might ignore the question and go back to shuffling through paperwork.

  “Hemming.”

  “And your last name?” I stepped forward.

  “Hemming.”

  “Your name is Hemming Hemming? Like Humbert Humbert? Are you a Lolita fan or something?” I mumbled, wincing at my lack of tact. I busied myself with the array of knickknacks cast along his untidy desk. I picked up a framed photo and began to flip it over, fully expecting a display of Mr. Hemming cozied up with his wife or girlfriend.

  “Just Hemming,” he corrected gruffly, snatching the frame out of my hands before I could snoop further. “Please refrain from fingering the entire contents of my desk.”

  “So…I can drop the Mr.? And just call you Hemming?”

  He didn’t nod or answer. Instead, Hemming reached into a drawer and held out an envelope for me, “Your paycheck, Miss Fox.” I relished in the way my name passed his lips and remained in his throat with a ragged sound. I considered requesting that he call me Kate, but instead, I grabbed the envelope and retreated, delaying by the door.

  “Can I ask you another question, Hemming?” He gave a quick, aggravated nod and watched me fidget with the envelope, as I debated asking a question that had consumed my thoughts for the last few weeks. “Who wrote the Soda Fountain instruction book? Your mother? Your girlfriend? Wife?” I blushed and immediately regretted asking. I felt silly as the words passed my lips, but amusement flickered across Hemming’s face.

  “Mabel. She previously owned this establishment. She died some time ago—Dementia,” he frowned and didn’t bother continuing. He shuffled through a stack of papers and went back to work. Hemming and I never discussed my hourly wage, so when I got home and tore open the envelope, I was surprised to find a check for $1,031.19.

  “Jesus tap-dancing Christ!” I squealed.

  7

  Sweet Samhain

  The next day, my paycheck was burning a hole in my pocket, and I itched to go shopping, which fortunately, didn’t take much convincing on Billie’s part. With Halloween only two days away, we were determined to secure our costumes.

  “I think I want to be grapes,” I blurted out after we sang “Eye of the Tiger” at the top of our lungs on the car ride to the Tallahassee mall. “All you have to do is tape a bunch of black balloons over a dark turtleneck and black pants, and you’re set.”

  “What did you just say?” Billie slammed on the brakes last minute for a red light and soccer-mommed me, shoving her arm in front of my chest to lessen the impact of gravity. “You’re joking, right? Halloween is for looking hot, not looking like crudité.” She shot me a disgusted glance and continued, “No. If we’re going to Caper’s party, neither of us can be dressed like a bundle of grapes,” she paused, shaking her head and accelerating when the light turned. “What was Halloween like, back at the crazy farm?”

  “Well…” I thought back to last Halloween, when all of W.H.O.R.E. gathered in the church. We wrote down our most recent sin and anonymously put them in a hat. One by one, we’d pull out a slip and read off a fellow member’s sins aloud. “No one dressed up.”

  “Oh, that makes sense,” Billie mumbled, pulling into the Governor’s Square Mall parking lot. We hurried to the upper floor and located Andromeda’s, a little shop for all kinds of quirky gifts, costumes, and what Billie quickly pointed out to be lowbrow sex toys and many varieties of bachelorette party favors. We giggled at the penis-shaped pasta, and after intercepting a couple of nasty looks from the cashier, finally focused on what we came for—to spend $100 on a tiny, polyester blend loincloth and maybe a mask.

  “Should we do a couple’s costume?” Billie started snatching plastic-bagged costumes off the rack. She froze mid-action and gasped, “We could be Disney Princesses! I’ve always wanted to be Cinderella. Please, Kate. PLEASE!” she begged and held up a bag with a picture of a tanned beauty, legs for days, sporting a bright yellow tutu that fell right below her butt cheeks and form-fitting strapless bodice, priced at $110. The fine print explained that the glass slippers, crown, and white gloves weren’t included.

  I sighed. I couldn’t bring myself to spend over a hundred bucks on something I’d wear once, “Billie, we could make our own outfits for half the price.” She appeared unconvinced and started toward the dressing room, dragging me along, but I knew how to change her mind. “Where does everyone else buy their costumes? I’m guessing here. Do you want to show up wearing the same Cinderella costume as some other bimbo?”

  Billie shook her head vigorously. She grabbed my arm and with an incredibly stern expression said, “Promise me you’ll be Ariel.” She held out her pinky finger, waiting.

  “I’ll lead the way, then,” I sealed the promise with my own pinky.

  A
nd I did lead the way: down the escalator, stopping only for a sneaky snack at the pretzel kiosk, shoveling buttered pretzel bites into our gobs, and finally to bra and panty store, where we tried on various corsets as part of our do-it-yourself, sexy costume venture. After purchasing the centerpieces, we departed the mall to procure the rest of our ensembles. Giddy with excitement when we finally arrived home and got to work, I assisted Billie first, layering yards of light blue tulle for the tutu portion and fastening a bow created out of thick ribbon to secure the waist. The skeleton of Cinderella’s crown was constructed from silvery pipe cleaners and adorned with rhinestones, secured with globs of hot glue. A handful of rhinestones remained, and we plopped the leftovers on the tutu, making for an eye-catching frock. My Ariel costume was a bit more involved. I was able to find an emerald metallic spandex fabric for the fin portion. Billie took my measurements, and we created a somewhat rough, form fitting skirt that hit mid-calf. I drew fish scales with a sharpie on the fabric, and Billie layered green tulle for the bottom of the fin, yielding a flared effect. The final touches were two giant cockle shells glued onto the chest of my nude corset.

  “Good morning!” I greeted Hemming on my way into the Soda Fountain on Halloween morning and shoved a piping hot coffee into his hand, momentarily allowing my fingers an indulgent graze across his own. I continued to make coffee for the two of us every day I worked. I’m sure it came off as passive aggressive, as I never saw him drink from the cup, yet I kept forcing the coffee on him. Heck, he could’ve been a tea drinker for all I knew. But I was going to break him. He couldn’t keep up the silent act much longer. I was his only employee, and he eventually had to initiate conversation with me.

  Feeling feisty this morning and in an all-around, peculiar mood, I woke up at precisely 3:28 a.m., starving, which was odd because only seven hours prior, I enjoyed a hearty meal of grilled salmon, wild rice, and a salad. Slugging out of bed, I floated down to the fridge and searched its contents, which were meager. I procured a container of strawberry greek yogurt, a half-empty carton of orange juice, and some spicy hummus. I spotted a tub of peanut butter on the counter that I sneakily dipped Oreos in when no one was looking. My mouth began to water, and I dumped everything in a large cereal bowl, hummus, yogurt, peanut butter, and all. Unfortunately, no Oreos were left, but that didn’t stop me from shoveling the unusual mixture into my mouth like it was my first meal in weeks. I washed the muddle down with the remaining OJ. When I finished, out of breath and panting, I momentarily considered raiding the main house, but deduced my reasoning as nonsense. I needed to go back to sleep.

  I woke up hours later in a cold sweat, having dreamed about tearing into a freshly prepared steak, lightly seasoned and grilled to a perfect medium rare, still a little bloody in the center. I licked the juice off of the plate, lapping it up like milk. Aunt June kindly fixed me a breakfast of over easy eggs, crispy apple smoked bacon, and buttered toasties, which were devoured, followed by two generous cups of coffee. And I might’ve grabbed a couple of blueberry muffins on my way to work, eaten one of them before stepping off the front porch, and the other while I walked past the cemetery.

  I pushed past Hemming, who was looking particularly tasty today, dressed in grey wool slacks, a pressed white shirt with rolled up sleeves and a matching wool vest. I assumed Hemming set the candy bowl out for customers, but I began digging through its offerings as soon as I stepped behind the register. Three snack-sized Snicker’s bars later, Hemming cleared his throat.

  “I know, I know. I’m gonna get fat. I’ve never been this hungry though. I ate peanut butter and strawberry yogurt…and,” I paused, flicking through my list of recent edibles, “Eggs, bacon, toast, hummus, muffins, coffee, and OJ…oh, and snickers.” I glanced up, examining his raised brow and the way he rubbed his long fingers across his ever-present five-o’clock shadow. I reached in the bowl again, feeling around for a piece of candy with some girth. “An neer a reer sherp ly a punkern,” I said through a mouth full of sweet and salty, peanut buttery, chocolatey goodness.

  “What was that?”

  “And now, Reese’s shaped like a pumpkin,” I corrected myself after I finished chewing.

  “Are you not…hmph…well?” Hemming questioned, an air of concern clouding his face, which appeared out of place considering he was anything but expressive.

  I didn’t want him thinking I was sick and needed to be sent home. “No. I’m just—I’m ravenous.” And I was. I was insatiable. My stomach grumbled but my skin buzzed with energy, like trying to disengage sweaters fresh out of the dryer in the dead of winter. I felt my nipples harden when I shivered from a chill extending from spine to toe. Hemming and I held eye contact for a split second, then he turned on his heel, making his usual morning exit.

  My shift was uncomfortable but not impossible to endure. I shoved handfuls of candy corn in my mouth between ringing up customers and attempted not to ladle hot fudge down my throat. I was entertaining the thought of eating butter pecan ice cream straight from the giant tub, when the bell jingled and Hemming stepped through the doorway, cradling a large brown paper bag. He extracted a Styrofoam to-go box, placing it on the counter in front of me and then produced a second box for himself.

  “What’s this?” I breathed, my mouth watering as I admired him spooning seafood gumbo between his full lips.

  “Lunch,” he shoved the box of delicious smelling food closer to me. “Eat.”

  My restraint ended there. I unveiled the contents, bouncing on my feet in excitement. Two, plump Blue Crab cakes, grilled crispy and served with a lemon wedge and pinkish seafood aioli, sitting beside the most alluring cheeseburger I had ever laid eyes on, nestled on top of a mammoth bed of thick cut steak fries, generously salted and glistening with a gleam of fried perfection. I went for the cheeseburger first, but Hemming rattling around in the bag again. A bit of cheeseburger juice dribbled down my chin, and I promptly wiped it off before his eye met my face.

  “Hmmph…if you’re still hungry,” Hemming opened the box for me this time. My heart fluttered, and my eyes widened with unbridled lust. A ribeye was before me, succulently marked, with a tide of red juices pooling at the bottom. I almost blacked out from eagerness, and when I reemerged, all of my lunch had been inhaled. Hemming watched me, amused, and I could only assume, at least slightly impressed.

  “Thank you for lunch. It was delicious, but I’d like to pay for mine. How much was it?” I reached for my purse under the counter and tried to give Hemming a couple of tens, but he pushed the bills back and shook his head. The gesture encouraged pangs of awkwardness in my belly, as I wasn’t familiar with the usual custom between employer and employee. I knew Aunt June bought her insurance office pizza every Friday, so I deduced that this lunch was normal, but certainly not to be expected in the future.

  “What are your plans for Halloween? Are you dressing up?” I inquired, leaning over the counter, grinning. There hadn’t been any customers for the last hour; I attributed their absence to the impending influx of sugar they’d be undertaking tonight, with all of the trick-or-treaters and endless amounts of candy. They obviously didn’t want to cross over into pre-diabetic coma territory by overdoing it at the Soda Fountain.

  Hemming shook his head once more and cleared his throat, “Hmmm—no, I do not participate in such traditions.” I assumed as much. Hemming didn’t seem like the sort of guy to dress up in a gorilla suit or wear a giant diaper for a holiday. I doubted there was a silly bone to be found in his seriously handsome frame.

  His lack of interest in tradition didn’t stop me from filling him in on my plans for the evening. “My cousin and I made our own costumes. I wanted to be a bunch of grapes, but Billie said that’s not how Halloween works. I haven’t done Halloween in a while—well, I haven’t dressed up since I was eleven, so I’m a bit out of the loop, I guess,” I chuckled, mostly to myself because I was rambling. “Anyways, me and Billie are going to Caper’s party tonight—all beach and booze from what I hear. I’ve neve
r met Caper. Hopefully there will be food, too,” I mused, my stomach already grumbling again.

  “Why didn’t you wear your costume to work?” Hemming asked, fiddling with his watch as I wiped down the countertop.

  I turned around and busied myself by refilling a humongous jar with individually wrapped caramels, trying to hide my flushed face: “I wouldn’t consider my costume ‘work appropriate.’’’

  The intensity of his stare pierced my consciousness, but I resisted meeting his gaze. A twisted part of me delighted in the awkwardness, because I knew Hemming was either picturing me in a skimpy number or dressed in a Superman costume with Billie pushing me around in a wheelchair. The latter was the more likely. We said nothing for several moments, until Hemming broke the silence, “Go ahead and leave. I was planning to close early.” He flipped the open sign around to it’s closed counterpart and stalked off to his office, but stopped short: “I’d advise you to stay in tonight, Miss Fox, but I know better,” and disappeared into his office.

  “He said WHAT?” Billie yelled over the blasting music in her room. I relayed the details of my afternoon and my unusual appetite, which had only grown more ravenous as the day continued. We had already slipped into our costumes, but there was time to kill and Billie insisted she paint my nails vibrant shade of violet. While my nails dried, and she explained how to get the most out of one’s cleavage, by using the bend, scoop and lift method. Or was it the bend, lift, and scoop method? Basically, if you desired a fuller appearance, put on a bra, bend over, and literally lift each breast into its respected cup. I thought it was a nifty trick as I studied myself in the mirror. My cleavage looked like it was about to slap me in the face.