“Nothing makes you feel closer to God than feeding people,” Mom liked to say as she raised her glass of Sauvignon Blanc, “and nothing makes you feel closer to the devil than my jam cake.”
Phil’s job was to greet the customers; tell them what Mom was cooking that night; announce any birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, etc.; then play Jackson Browne songs on his guitar until the food was ready.
Having just graduated from Owensboro Community College with an associate’s degree in humanities, Miranda was eager to dive into the workforce, but humanities jobs were scarce.
“I’ve never waitressed before,” she told Phil during her interview, “but I have eaten in a lot of restaurants, and I like talking to people, so I’m pretty sure I could do a good job at it.” She smiled in a way that showed all of her teeth and none of herself. If those three pageants had taught her anything, it was how to bullshit her way through an interview question.
Sex was inevitable. They were young, good-looking, and single. In Phil, Miranda saw a dreamy self-starting artist and entrepreneur. In Miranda, Phil saw a hot twenty-one-year-old with a great ass. Their eventual hookup was so unsurprising that when she blew him after her fourth night at work, it was as passionless as the birthday obligation of an old married couple. After he came, Phil dropped a set of keys on the table and grabbed his coat.
“All right, I’m outta here. Marry the ketchups before you lock up. And don’t touch the register. I know exactly how much is in there.” He pointed at her, “This is a test,” then winked.
Joan did not approve. Phil was a full six years older than Miranda, and she thought the whole relationship was obscene.
“He’s a full-grown man and you’re still a baby,” Joan said.
“I am
not
a baby, Mom. I’m a woman! And this is none of your business! I have a college degree and I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”
“I know, dear, but he just seems so … worldly.”
“Are you saying I’m not worldly? I’ve been to Canc
ú
n! Twice! I am totally worldly!”
Five weeks on, Miranda wished she’d listened to her mother. Working with her boyfriend was not the lighthearted Meg Ryan rom-com she had envisioned. It was closer to a Tori Spelling Lifetime movie. When
anything
went wrong at the restaurant, Phil blamed Miranda. If the silverware was dirty, she should have “fucking seen it and replaced it.” If the food was undercooked, she “should have stayed out of the goddamn kitchen and left Mom alone.” If Phil’s guitar was out of tune, she “should have been more fucking careful when you put the goddamn thing away!” Phil’s abuse, while always verbal, had been escalating. The curt, private reprimands had started to become public admonishments, and Miranda was getting the feeling that he got a perverse thrill out of embarrassing her in front of people.
“Miranda!” he called from across the room. “Could you come here for a minute?”
Her chest tightened as she walked across the creaky wooden floor. “What seems to be the prob—?”
“Taste this.” He shoved a drink at her.
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s
supposed
to be a Diet Coke, but this customer says it’s regular. Taste it.”
“Phil, you don’t have to—”
“Taste it!” he snarled, thrusting the glass at Miranda and splashing soda across her shirt.
The customer interjected, “It’s no big deal. I can drink regular Coke—”
“Sir, please.” Phil turned back to Miranda and said calmly, “now.”
Trembling from embarrassment, Miranda sipped from the glass. “It is regular Coke. That’s my fault,” she said, turning to the customer, who was now equally embarrassed. “I am so sorry, sir. I’ll bring you another one right away.”
“Yes. You will!” Phil said, then shook his head in disgust and mumbled, “stupid twat.”
From a table across the room, Ray sat with Christie and watched in stunned silence as the scene played out. Miranda first met Christie in their Global History of 20th-Century Clothing class at OCC. Christie’s dislike of Phil was no secret, and she’d set up this dinner so her nursing school friend, Ray, would see how awesome Miranda was and save her from Phil, the unworthy prick.
Ray was not a confronter. Never had been. If, at a grocery store, he was charged the full price instead of the sale price, he didn’t bring it up. If someone cut in front of him in line, he might mumble a passive-aggressive insult under his breath, but he never told the person to get back. It just wasn’t worth it. If Ray called everyone an asshole whom he felt truly deserved it, he wouldn’t have time for anything else. But this was different. He’d been invited there specifically to meet Miranda, and because of that tenuous connection he felt vaguely responsible for her well-being. It was something akin to a date, albeit with a woman he had never met at a restaurant owned by her boyfriend. So Ray tossed his napkin onto the table, walked over to Phil, and got in his face.
“Excuse me. I think you should apologize.”
“Sir, this doesn’t concern you. It’s an issue between me and my employee, and I will handle it. Why don’t you just have a seat and I’ll bring you a free dessert. Okay?”
Ray didn’t move. “I
will
sit down. After you apologize to her and all these people you offended.”
Phil cocked his head and glared at Ray, his eyes turning black with rage. They were the only two people in the world.
“What’s your fucking problem?”
“Well, for one, I don’t like how you talked to her.”
“Is that right?” Phil took a step closer. “Well, I don’t give a shit what you like. How I talk to her is none of your goddamned business.”
Ray felt a warm rush of adrenaline tear through his body.
Holy shit, I’m going to have to fight this guy!
He took a deep, nervous breath but tried to disguise it by drawing it in slowly through his nose and squinting like Clint Eastwood. Diners rose from their chairs and moved to the other side of the restaurant where they secretly hoped the argument would escalate into a full-blown fistfight. Even Mom came out from the kitchen to watch.
Christie went to Miranda who, by this time, was on the floor crying, curled up in a ball by the banister that led to the second floor where Mom lived. Earlier, when Christie first pointed Miranda out, Ray thought she was pretty; now—seeing her whimpering on the cold wooden floor, trying to make herself as small as possible, desperate for someone to protect her—he found her irresistible. No one was going to hurt Miranda Ford ever again. Ray would make sure of that. Nodding to his future wife, Ray tried to tell her this telepathically. She nodded back, pretty sure she’d heard him.
Phil was now snorting hot breath like a cartoon bull. It felt wet on Ray’s face, but he ignored it and met Phil’s eye.
“It
is
my business because I came here to have a nice dinner with my friend, and you’re ruining that by making this young woman cry. Now, either you apologize to her and to everyone else here, or we can go outside and I’ll show you what a twat really looks like.” Summoning every ounce of testosterone in the room, Ray tilted his head and snarled, “I’ll show you
my
twat!” The room went silent.
As soon as the words left his mouth, Ray knew he’d blown it.
I’ll show you
my
twat? Jesus, that doesn’t even make sense.
He stood his ground and waited for Phil to stomp him into a greasy spot. But surprisingly, nothing happened. Faced with having to confront someone of equal or greater strength, Phil backed down.
Nodding toward Miranda, he barked a cursory “Sorry,” then turned to the wildly disappointed diners and brusquely apologized to them as well. Stomping into the kitchen, Phil smashed his guitar on a stack of dishes and stormed out the back door.
Ray grabbed a glass of wine sitting on the nearest table, emptied it in a single gulp, then exhaled for what felt like a full minute.
Getting to her feet, Miranda met Ray in the middle of the room. If it had happened in a movie, everyone else would’ve faded into darkness as a single spotlight illuminated them from above. Her tear-streaked face beamed at the unexpected savior standing in front of her. They would have stood there forever staring at each other if Christie hadn’t finally said something
“Miranda, this is Ray. Ray, Miranda.”
That was thirteen years ago yesterday. Neither of them remembered.
* * *
Ray looked at his phone sitting on the old rag rug that covered the creaky wooden floor. He remembered the days before cell phones, how nice it was being unavailable. Cell phones had made everyone more accessible, which only made the world smaller. Unfortunately, no one realized that the world was already too small to begin with. Now it felt crowded. Bending over would have required more energy than he was willing to sacrifice, so he forgot about his phone and turned his attention to Marvin’s shoe boxes of pills.
“Trouble with the wife?”
Ray jumped. “Jesus Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”
Standing in the doorway was Marvin’s seventeen-year-old granddaughter, Courtney.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to eavesdrop? How long have you been there?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Well … what’s going on with my wife is not any of your business.”
“Sorry. I was just trying to make conversation. How’s Granddaddy?” she asked, smiling sadly toward Marvin. His shallow breathing rattled like a peach pit in a garbage disposal.
“About the same. Sleeping mostly. Sometimes I think he’ll outlive us all.”
“I wish he would.” Courtney stared at her grandfather for a long time. “He looks so noble. Don’t you think he looks noble?”
“Noble” was not the word Ray would have used to describe the shrunken husk of a man in the bed next to him. “Rotting human jerky” was closer. Marvin’s dark, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks made his skin cling to his face like a gray ribbed condom had been pulled over his skull. Clumps of white, wispy hair turned sickly yellow at the roots sprouted from his head, chin, and ears. And his toothless mouth hung open as if in the middle of a painful, silent scream. Marvin was the closest thing to a real-life zombie Ray had ever seen.
“Sure. Noble,” Ray said unconvincingly. “I can see that.”
“Is he awake?”
“No. He’s been unconscious since I got here.”
Ray pretended not to be bothered by the long silence that followed. Finally, he looked back to Courtney and noticed for the first time that she was wearing a raincoat. “What’s with the coat? Is it raining out?”
“No,” she said, opening the raincoat, revealing her naked body. “But I am pretty wet.”
The coat slid from her shoulders and fell into a pile at her feet just like she’d practiced in the mirror upstairs. Posing against the doorframe, the teenager stared into Ray’s eyes with a self-assuredness that terrified him and turned him on in equal measure. He melted into his chair and took in every inch of her body. A bit of baby fat stubbornly clung to her face and belly, which was soft and smooth like a memory foam pillow. But her breasts … those things were flawless—the perfect size, the perfect shape, symmetrical, proportional, breathtaking. In California she would’ve been considered overweight, but in Kentucky she was perfect. Tiptoeing across the room, Courtney placed her hands on the arms of Ray’s chair and leaned over him, letting her long blond hair cover his face.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
“I, um”—he cleared his throat—“I’ve missed you, too,” he said. “How was that back-to-school dance? Did you go?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. It was fine, I guess. The DJ only played dance music so I left early and got wasted with some friends, so … it was whatever.”
Without realizing it, Ray’s hands had found their way to her hips. He searched his soul for the strength to stop, but his soul was distracted by the perfect teenage breasts in his face. When their lips met, a quivering numbness swept through his body. His breathing stopped and he felt weightless yet helplessly earthbound, a week-old party balloon blown a few inches into the air by an opening door, then settling again with a gentle, almost imperceptible bounce. Why wasn’t there a pill like this?
Okay. This is your last chance,
Ray thought.
Stop now before something—uhp, well here we go.
Courtney slid Ray’s pants down below his knees and straddled the married male nurse charged with helping her last living relative die with dignity. It was not an ideal chair for lovemaking—the ancient upholstery chafed Ray’s bare ass, and Courtney’s long legs barely squeezed through the armrests—but once they got into position, she rocked his world.
It always took a moment for Ray to wrap his mind around the fact that he was having sex with a minor.
I’m smarter than this,
he thought every time, fighting the instinct to run his fingertips down the girl’s bare back. But once he was inside her, and the crime had been committed, he figured he might as well go ahead and enjoy himself.
Their eyes locked for a moment. She bit her lip and smiled. “
You
fuck good.”
Ray blushed and looked away. Talking during sex embarrassed him, especially if the talk was about the sex currently taking place. It was too present for him. Plus, Courtney was really bad at it. Both her word choice and inflection were odd, making her sound like a horny Scandinavian immigrant.
“In
the
spot,” she whispered.
“Mmmmm,” Ray moaned flatly, confused and self-conscious, then turned back to her magnificent breasts and fought his sudden urge to come.
Most men thought of baseball or grandmothers to slow their orgasms, but baseball made Ray think of
Bull Durham,
which made him think of Susan Sarandon, which defeated the purpose. Grandmothers also made him think of Susan Sarandon. So instead, Ray thought about his three hundred sixty-five dead patients. One after the other, their sad, hopeless faces flashed through his head, each one more lust crushing than the last. But not even that was working. Traces of various erectile dysfunction medications were always lurking in his system, making any sustained sexual performance next to impossible.