Hank & Chloe

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “Hey, toots. How about a refill over here?”

  An older man in a business suit sitting at the end of the counter wagged his empty coffee cup in the air in Chloe’s direction. Hank watched her reaction. Just as quickly as that face could open, so could it close, taking the light with it and retreating to a cold corner. Pride wouldn’t allow her to falter, however. Her cheekbones held up even under the blush of the slur. Those bones—what was it about them?—an orthopedic man would probably fall in love with her X rays.

  She poured the impatient man’s coffee. “Here you go.”

  “About time, doll.”

  “Sorry. We’re a little busy this morning.” She smiled at Hank. “I’ll be back to take your order in a minute.”

  “No hurry.” He watched her cash a day laborer’s check and count the money back to him in Spanish. Her accent was reasonably intact, but her grammar, good lord, could blister paint. The man didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He took out his cracked leather wallet and showed Chloe a photograph of a baby.

  “Mi hija,” he said.

  “She’s cute. Bonita.” She handed him his wallet and a cinnamon bun, wrapped in a piece of wax paper. “Adios.”

  Hank watched the diminishing cinnamon rolls get doled out onto other plates. His chances of ordering one were not looking promising. On the television in the corner, he watched the sports recap—miracle—Arizona, after all these years, was coming back from the dead. Now Chloe stood opposite him, only the counter between them. Her back was turned; she looked just as well-put-together from that angle. He watched her firm behind strain against the denim skirt as she measured out fresh coffee into the tall coffee urn. She wiped her hand on the dish towel tucked into her skirt and turned to face him. “I’m telling you, sit quiet in this place and you’ll go hungry. You should have thrown your napkin at me or something. What’ll you have?”

  “What are my chances for one of those cinnamon rolls?”

  She leaned across the counter on her elbows. “We’re officially out of them until tomorrow morning.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because if I say so out loud, half the people in here will walk out and the other half will start a brawl.”

  “They’re that good?”

  She nodded. “One of the county’s best-kept secrets.”

  “Bran cereal, I guess. With skim milk.”

  She sighed and set down her order pad. Behind her, the cook was ringing the library bell like a madman, and there were others waiting to have their orders taken, but she ignored all of that and faced Hank. Up close, she smelled of Ivory soap, the bars he used to carve into blocky animal shapes as a Cub Scout.

  “Let me get this straight. You got dressed to come all the way over here for breakfast and you’re going to let me charge you three-fifty for something you could have eaten at home in your skivvies?”

  “Well, generally I use a bowl.”

  She flushed. “Have you looked at the menu? We cook here. Live a little. Order up.”

  “Eggs, bacon? That kind of thing?”

  “Eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, sausage, omelets, homemade everything you could dream of.”

  “That stuff isn’t supposed to be very good for the heart.”

  She smiled, the chipped front tooth catching on her lower lip. “Name something in life that is.”

  “Clean living?”

  She laughed. “More die of heartbreak than heart disease, I’m willing to bet money.”

  Hank watched as she stretched her arms above her head and twisted her neck to the side to stretch out the kinks. He could hear vertebrae releasing in little pops. He couldn’t get his neck to do that. It just stayed stiff, and the muscles hammered at him like coiling wire when he got tense. “So tell me what to order.”

  “This one time,” she answered, “I’ll put together a breakfast for you. But next time you order it yourself.”

  “Sure. This one time.”

  She pencilled the order, clipped it to the rotating chrome spinner and sent it back to the kitchen. While she was there, she picked up four more plates and went across the room to deliver them, having forgotten him already. It was a living, but what a way to make a living. She had strong arms, Hank noted, and that was her saving grace. Her shoulder muscles were visible through the cotton material of her T-shirt, and they were developed. Not sinewy, exactly, not body-builder material like those gleaming amazons on the cable network who looked as if they could crack ribs with one serious squeeze, but significant parts contributing to the whole of her attractiveness. He looked at her calves. They had muscular definition. Maybe she did lift weights. In a gym in one of those spandex leotards. Wouldn’t that be nice? He unfolded the newspaper and tried hard to be interested in Charles Keating, but Mr. Keating’s shenanigans couldn’t hold a candle to the waitress.

  His breakfast arrived in parts. Buttermilk biscuits and a cup of gravy on one plate. Next, five sizzling circles of what looked like homemade sausage—one bite and he could tell it was—then plain scrambled eggs on another. She tossed three packets of marmalade down and poured him a tall glass of juice.

  “Papaya,” she said. “You don’t look like the coffee type.”

  “That’s right. Actually, I quit coffee because it made my heart race.” He turned, but she was halfway across the restaurant, filling ice-water pitchers; three empty ones hooked on her fingers like a string of trout. He took a bite of biscuit and sighed. My arteries are screaming for mercy, he thought. Well, let them. What would she choose for him if he ordered lunch?

  The cook came out of the kitchen and grabbed her shoulder. In his hand he held an order. He shoved it in her face.

  “Just what the hell does this say?”

  She brushed his hand away as if it were a spider. “Short stack, over easy, coffee and orange juice.”

  “How the fuck am I supposed to read that cat scratching?”

  “I guess you just have to ask me if you can’t.”

  The cook ripped the order from her hand again. “Learn to goddamn spell!” Then he retreated back to the kitchen, and Chloe was gone, through the back of the restaurant and probably out a back door. Hank craned his neck to see where she had gone and the other waitress came up.

  “Need coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  He was quite sure he was sure. Hank looked down at his silverware. He felt heat spreading throughout his face, across the back of his neck. There was no cause to come down on her like that, but the cook gave every impression of doing just that on a regular basis.

  He finished his eggs, slowly.

  She came back, smoking a cigarette, her eyes red rimmed as if she’d been crying. Behind the counter, she took one last drag of the cigarette and stabbed it out into an ashtray. She fanned her face with the order pad and glared at Hank. “Just what in Christ is your problem?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ever since you walked in here you’ve been staring at me, and I want to know why you’re looking at me that way.”

  “In what way?”

  “Like I owe you money.”

  He pressed his fingertips into the biscuit crumbs on the small plate. It would be gluttonous to ask for seconds, but they were so good he could have eaten a dozen. “You don’t owe me money,” he said.

  She unfolded her arms. “Well, thank God for small favors.”

  “You obviously don’t remember, but the other day, at the college? That was my shirt Phil Green gave you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Right,” he continued, extending his hand, hoping if she didn’t want to shake it she might just take hold of it for a moment. He wanted to feel her skin, make contact. “Hank Oliver,” he said. “Folklore and mythology—the college? Phil Green thinks a great deal of you, incidentally. I apologize if I was staring. Hell, I was staring. I just came to see about my shirt. You do have it?”

  She took his fingers for a mom
ent, then let go.

  The city employees at the large booth were screaming for coffee. The other waitress was busy at the register, peeling the paper back on a roll of quarters.

  “Wait,” she said, then bumped away from the counter with two coffeepots.

  Hank sipped his juice. Papaya? The flowery taste made his tongue tingle, each tastebud standing at attention. It was interesting how attractive she became when she was off guard.

  “All right. Don’t panic, but it’s not here. I only took it home to launder it. You know, to get the blood out.”

  “Blood?”

  “I guess there was still some on me after Phil’s horse…It all came out, good as new. I’m terrific with stains.”

  “But it’s not here.”

  “No, it’s at my house.”

  Hank waited a moment. “Why don’t you give me directions, and I’ll drop by tonight to pick it up.”

  He felt her hesitation, felt her studying him: the crewneck sweater from Land’s End, the shirt collar folded inside—straight arrow on the surface. He knew his red mustache was graying. He looked older than his years. Who from the real world wanted to tangle with a second-rate academic? There was no defense he could offer. He’d grown used to it; outfield in softball, nobody’s best pal, someone women confided in but never fell for. He’d only used one of the marmalade packets; he wasn’t entirely self-indulgent. He wore no wedding ring. But to this woman, was that proof of anything? Maybe all men were potential assholes, like the cook she worked for. Especially if they bought expensive shirts and weren’t forthright about asking for them back.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”

  “Listen, what do I have to say to convince you I’m harmless? Insured. Bondable. A pacifist. Every election I vote, my candidate loses, from McGovern on down.”

  That made her smile.

  He sat back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’d like the shirt back, and if it isn’t too odious an idea to you, I’d like to see you again. Outside of this place. Not that it’s a bad place, just somewhere else, where you can have someone else wait on you for a change.”

  Her smile disappeared. “You mean like a date?”

  “Yes. No. Whatever you want to call it. It doesn’t have to be a date, per se.” He was stammering like a fool now; she’d never say yes.

  She let out a long breath and gave him a smile. “Well, what can I say? Tuesday has sure got Monday beat all to hell.”

  She ripped a ticket off her order pad and drew him a map on the back. “I won’t be there until after seven o’clock,” she said. “I have another job after this one. You’ll have to wait for me at the gate, too, because my landlord goes mental about strangers. And the roads aren’t terrific, so don’t go past the gate, promise? And you can’t stay too long, either, because I’m busy.”

  “Anything else? Permission slip? Résumé?”

  “You current on your tetanus shots?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “That was a joke.”

  He fumbled with his wallet, drew out a bill, and handed it to her. He got up and walked stiffly to the door, leaving his wounded dignity trailing behind him like soiled kite string. A date. Not a date. What in Christ was he thinking? He could feel the tips of his ears, steaming red sirens that shrieked his insecurity aloud.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Rich came out of the kitchen and stood beside Chloe. “So I’m an asshole.”

  She sighed and cleared Hank’s dishes into a basin beneath the counter. “Don’t try to get on my good side.”

  “You could sue me.”

  “Rich, the only thing I hate more than working for you is assisting the legal profession in any way at all.”

  He laid his head down on her shoulder. “Forgive me?”

  “Give me a raise and I might.”

  He lifted his head quickly and snorted. “Give you a raise. I should fire your ass, close this joint, take all my money and send Kit to a fat girls’ camp. That’s what I should do. That’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  Chloe scooped up the money from the counter, looked down at the bill in her hand and howled.

  “What?”

  She grinned and wagged the fifty-dollar bill in Rich’s face. “That skinny professor doesn’t know it, but he just left me a forty-four-dollar tip.”

  “Money,” Rich said. “Don’t come crying to me when you find out it’s counterfeit.”

  “How did you manage to convince my dad I needed riding lessons?” Kit Wedler asked, her chubby hands locked in a death grip around the reins. “He’s intensely chintzy. Once I saw a moth fly out of his wallet, I shit you not.”

  “Carefully applied guilt.” Chloe adjusted the curb chain on the Kimberwicke bit. Hard-mouthed Elmer wasn’t going to take this one for a ride, no sir. “It. never fails. And don’t cuss.”

  “Why not? You do it.”

  “Kit, when you’re as old as I am, you call me up some Sunday and we’ll discuss it. If you find life as disappointing as I do, then you have my permission to cuss eight ways to Sunday.” The child was dressed for the game, outfitted in stiff new blue jeans, her feet stuffed into a pair of Rich’s old cowboy boots, and trying not to show her terror over the horse. Her flame red hair wisped out from the yellow schooling helmet like a baby’s. Thirteen. She was still a baby, but all her extra poundage wasn’t exactly baby fat. She kept her green eyes fixed straight ahead, staring into nothing, and jabbered a mile a minute.

  “Have you heard that new song by Guns ’n Roses? It’s way cool, but I kind of don’t like Axl Rose, especially since I heard he pierced his nipples. Wouldn’t that hurt? And besides, who would see it if he was wearing a shirt all the time?”

  “Drop your stirrup so I can adjust the length. It’s a little too short for you.”

  Kit didn’t move.

  “Kit, drop your stirrup.”

  “I can’t.”

  That was true. Her leg was frozen solid with fright.

  “Sure you can.” Chloe stepped back and turned her head away to light a cigarette. “Kit, if you want to learn to ride, you have to trust me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

  “And trust the horse.”

  “In English, this substitute read us this poem about a girl getting thrown and breaking her neck. Like they say, shit happens.”

  Chloe took her time and blew a perfect smoke ring. Shit indeed happened, unpredictable and everlasting. “This gelding is twenty-seven years old, honey. The only place he goes fast is to sleep.”

  Kit still didn’t believe her. “Bullshit. What about that senator that got crushed, or that guy who limps around here feeding the goats?”

  “If you’re that sure disaster’s right around the corner, you have no business being up on the horse. Dismount.”

  “Well, maybe I could try it. Maybe.”

  “I’ll just go over here and finish my cigarette. Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”

  Chloe went to the railing of the arena fence and climbed up. She could see Kit’s shoulders squared up around her neck, the tremble in her double chin. Any minute now, there would be a flood of tears and the lesson would be over before it began. She tapped her cigarette ash into the sand. Somewhere along the way, maybe one of her hip mother’s interludes into communal living, thank you, this little girl had been badly scared by something, not necessarily horses. But getting on the back of a thousand-pound beast was one way to bring it to the surface. Whatever it was, she had to wait Kit out. She smoked her cigarette slowly, enjoying each breath.

  Kit hung her head. Chloe climbed down from the fence, stepped back up to the saddle, and reached to stroke the gelding’s neck. He nickered with pleasure. “Old Elmer,” she said. “He’s a fool for neck scratches.”

  “Chloe?”

  “Bend over just a little and pet him.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got me?”

  “Absolutely
.”

  Kit moved her torso forward, and the leg in question slipped an inch. Chloe quickly slid the buckle down three holes and stuck Kit’s toe back into the stirrup and stepped back. “Now ask him to walk.”

  Kit looked down the broad buckskin head with its scraggly, chewed brown mane. “Okay, you can walk now.”

  The gelding cocked a rear leg and dozed.

  “See?” Kit wailed. “What did I tell you? This won’t work. I’m fat, clumsy, ugly as a dog’s butt. Forget the whole thing.”

  Chloe flipped her cigarette into the damp sand and heard it sizzle. Any more rain and this arena would be soup. Her mended boots could barely keep the dampness from her toes. “I can see you don’t speak horse.” She tapped the riding crop she was holding against her boot top, and Elmer perked up. A lesson horse from age twelve on, he knew the cues. He’d come to the stable nameless and overweight, lazy enough to sleep through Chernobyl unless someone stood in the ring holding a riding crop. Three hundred bucks later, Chloe had saved him from the dog food people. She never regretted it; she could put a baby on his back, turn him loose in a field of cranky diamondbacks, and he’d step quietly over them, one at a time, deliver his rider to his chosen destination without so much as an errant footfall.

  She pressed Kit’s heel into the gelding’s barrel. “We start with lesson one. This tells him he’s got the green light.” Next she made a kissing noise. “That tells him to step on the gas.”

  They moved forward. Elmer was wiser than he looked. He knew who he could fake and who would call him on it. But the two of them were moving forward, and Kit was starting to get the smile back.

  “Chloe! Look at me! I’m making him go! I’m riding!”