“The fastener guy before you, he definitely belonged in the
tinfoil hat crowd. He’d come in talking about conspiracies. The
guv’ment’s
out to get us. Lester told him off one day. You came along a couple months
after that.”
That had been five years ago. That meant that Cheryl had
registered his presence, had mentally tied it to a positive, albeit
inconsequential, change in her life. And in those five years, he’d managed to
become “not some stranger,” but a regular and slightly welcome presence.
“No tinfoil hat for me,” said Martin. “I
want
them to
read my thoughts.”
Cheryl smiled at this, and laughed briefly. And then after a
silence, she asked, “How much do you think a transmission repair costs?”
About a mile south of the co-op, before the pavement ran out,
a tiny cluster of lit windows and porch lights appeared amid the black fields.
Cheryl had Martin rumble across a cattle guard into a gravel court of about a
dozen mobile homes and pull into the third driveway on the left, behind a
beat-up Buick Skylark.
As Martin got out, the door of the trailer opened, and a
large, hunched form filled the aperture.
“What’s going on?” the man called in a gravelly voice, and
then coughed.
“I’m fine, Stewart,” said Cheryl. “The car broke down.
Martin Wells picked me up and drove me into town.”
“FastNCo.?” Stewart asked, leaning over the rail of the
little porch of untreated lumber. Martin stepped into the light so Stewart
could see him. After a strained breath, Stewart greeted him with a begrudging
nod.
“Hello, sir. The car’s about twenty minutes west, up 15,”
said Martin.
“I’ll call Hank, get his rig rolling,” said Stewart.
Martin helped Cheryl carry the tanks into the trailer.
Stewart had settled into an ancient plaid recliner with a phone pressed to his
ear. On a table beside the chair, among magazines and newspapers, a portable
radio played
Beyond Insomnia
. The TV flickered a detective show, muted.
“Why didn’t you do the dishes, Stewart? Or take out the
trash?” said Cheryl. She tutted over the empty Keystone Light cans on the
kitchen table as she took the last of the tanks from Martin.
“Thank you again. Can I give you some money for gas?” she
asked, following him out.
“No, no. It all goes on an expense report,” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
“Good luck with your car,” he said.
The truck was idling, but he’d never wanted to get into the
cab less than he did at that moment. “Cheryl?” he heard himself say. He stepped
back into the porch light. “I know this is kind of out of the blue, but I
wondered if I could take you out sometime.” He almost said more but found the
sense to keep it simple, mature even, wrapped in some shred of confidence.
“That’s very sweet,” she said, “but I don’t think it would
be a good idea.” She wagged a thumb behind her, but whether she meant to
indicate her mobile home, her stepfather, or her life in general, Martin
couldn’t say.
“Okay,” he replied.
“I’m sorry. Thanks again, though,” she said, and left Martin
alone in the driveway.
~ * * * ~
Wake Up to the Perfect GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
Waffle and the Woman Who Rejected You But Still Made You Breakfast!
Step 1:
Eschew self-pity in favor of
masculine self-confidence.
Step 2:
Fill cup to line with GOLDEN
SUNRISE(TM) waffle batter as if nothing were awkward or amiss.
Step 3:
Don’t ask for GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
Griddle Spray, which doesn’t seem to have made its way to the counter this
morning. Trust that your waffle will peel right off the residue of a thousand
previous waffles.
Step 4:
Pour batter evenly onto
griddle.
Step 5:
Close griddle and Flip! Feel
white-hot presence of woman dropping individual yogurts into bowl of ice!
Step 6:
When timer signals, release
INNER CLUTZ(TM) to scrape stuck waffle from griddle with plastic fork. Burn
finger.
Step 7:
Pretend that GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
maple-flavored syrup over your waffle doesn’t taste like the ashes of your
self-esteem.
Caution:
Heating surfaces are
extremely hot. Do not add alcohol. Accidental glances may cause flight
response. You probably should have stayed in your room and finished off the
Pop-Tarts. Cooking time should not exceed three minutes. Is this really the
story of your life?
“Did you get your car towed in okay?” Martin asked.
“I’ve been told as much,” Cheryl replied.
“Good to hear,” said Martin. He gathered his breakfast and
took his usual spot, a choice that required an embarrassingly long mental
decision tree. In the end, the appearance of normalcy won out over the instinct
to hide.
The Great Falls Tribune had a very informative article
describing a state utilities commission hearing concerning a new transmission
line project. As he ate, Martin focused on becoming concerned, but torn. The
proposed electrical transmission line would mean jobs and growth. But property
rights and the environment should be protected, too. The in-depth analysis of
the hearing melted into gibberish as Cheryl slipped in and out of his
peripheral vision. Martin forced the words back into English as she filled a
Plexiglas breadbox near the toaster, so close he could have touched her. Then
she was at his table. If he’d been taking a sip, coffee might have snorted out
his nose.
“Hi,” said Cheryl. Martin wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Stewart says I was rude to you last night, and that I should thank you
properly for your assistance.”
“Oh. You don’t…not…”
“No. He’s right. Would you like to come over for dinner some
evening?”
“Um…sure…that sounds great…”
“Are you going to be in town tonight?” she asked.
“Yes” would be a lie. He’d have to skip his afternoon
appointments, and that would bump the rest of the week. FastNCo. would get back
on his case for spending consecutive nights in Brixton. He didn’t want Rick
flying out here to evaluate his routing plans, as he’d hinted at during his
last phone call. Plus, sounding desperate—bad.
“I doubt I can do it tonight. Let me look at my schedule. You
going to be at the store later?” She nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll let you know.”
Martin felt like jogging, or having another waffle, or
waffle jogging, an amazing new sport sweeping the globe. If the utilities
commission put him in charge, he could have built that transmission line,
protecting all the species and becoming a hero to the landowners. Governor
declares statewide Martin Wells Initiative. Details at ten.
~ * * * ~
Martin swaggered into Herbert’s Corner with a date, a time,
and an actual solid, real plan to share a meal with Cheryl. Not Cheryl of the
Brixton Inn. Not Cheryl, cashier at the Brixton Co-op. But Cheryl, host for
dinner Thursday evening next. He needed to go to City Vineyard down in Billings
and pick up a really nice bottle of wine. Nothing too pretentious, or with too
weird a name. Nothing in a box. It should have a real cork.
“Lorie and I were wondering if you’d show your face around
here today,” Eileen said as Martin took a stool at the counter. She called to
Lorie, the other waitress, who unceremoniously dropped a couple of burger
baskets in front of a pair of truckers and scurried over.
“Okay, boy, you need to tell Lorie and Eileen absolutely
everything,” said Lorie, matching Eileen’s mile-wide grin.
“Everything,” Eileen agreed.
“What? Oh my god. Don’t people in this town have anything
better to do?” asked Martin.
“Not right now,” said Lorie, loud enough for all the other
diners to hear. “Milton told us that Laura saw you propose last night on
Cheryl’s doorstep.”
“I most certainly did not propose,” said Martin.
“You met Stewart, though?” asked Lorie.
“We spoke briefly about her car.”
“And then you popped the question?” asked Eileen.
“What? No. Can I get a country omelet, hash browns, and
sourdough toast?”
“But she turned you down,” said Eileen.
“And a coffee,” Martin said.
“And now you’re going to dinner at her house?” asked Lorie.
“How do you—? Forget it. I don’t want to know,” said Martin.
It could have been Brenda at the front desk of the motel, or anyone at the
store.
“It’s like that movie,” squealed Lorie. “She’s Reese
Witherspoon, and you’re that boy with the sideburns and back muscles.” Eileen
agreed enthusiastically.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Martin.
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Lorie. “Everyone’s known for years
that you’ve had your eye on her.”
“We’ve all been dyin’ to see what you’d do,” said Eileen.
“Oh, have you? Look, it’s a thank-you dinner. She didn’t
even want to do it. Her stepfather suggested it.”
Lorie and Eileen shared a look, then rolled their eyes back
to Martin. “Well, that explains it,” said Eileen.
“What explains what?” asked Martin.
“Stewart knows full well that girl can’t cook,” said Lorie.
“He tells everyone that she’s the worst cook he’s ever known.”
“Summer potlucks, we all just sign her up to bring paper
plates and cups,” said Eileen.
“She’s almost burned that trailer down twice…”
“Until they got that Radar Range…”
“The Radar Range,” Lorie agreed.
“So what does that explain?” Martin asked.
“He is a thick one,” said Eileen. A diner called to Lorie
from a booth.
“Hold your horses, Gene,” Lorie called back. “It means that
Stewart’s trying to shake you off. Inviting you over for a taste of life with
Cheryl taking care of you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need anyone to take care of me,”
said Martin.
“Well, Stewart’s an old man,” said Eileen, and tapped her
hairnet. “Thinks like an old man. And it also means that if you hurt her, her
cooking’ll be the least of your worries.”
“Duly noted,” said Martin. “Now, I think we’ve discussed
this quite enough. A country omel…”
“One Romeo special coming up,” said Eileen.
The women hurried away. A trucker looked at him from two
stools down. “Brixton busybodies,” said Martin, shaking his head.
The trucker lifted his coffee cup in agreement.
Martin had heard that an ocean once covered Eastern Montana.
The water had receded as North America drifted and swelled into roughly its
current shape, leaving the sandstone of the Billings Rims and other bluffs and
buttes full of seashell fossils. Then for a while, dinosaurs called Eastern
Montana home, grazing, hunting, laying eggs. If that dinosaur movie was to be
believed, they evolved into Western meadowlarks—squeaky little bastards, but at
least they didn’t hunt you in packs. During the last ice age, mile-thick
glaciers had crushed and scraped their way into Eastern Montana and then
retreated, dropping mammoth carcasses and Canadian rocks as they melted away.
And then, in another stretch of geologic time, Martin counted down the week
until his dinner with Cheryl. A new age dawned as he knocked on her door.
As he waited on the steps, Martin didn’t see any binocular
glints or stirring curtains, but that didn’t mean the neighbors weren’t
watching.
“Hi there,” he said, when Cheryl answered the door.
“Hi. Come in,” she said. She’d done something different with
her hair, but Martin lacked the vocabulary to explain it. Her red hoodie had
been replaced by a blouse. A mouthwatering smell wafted out around her.
Stewart rocked in the recliner where Martin had last seen
him a week ago. He lowered the volume on
Wheel of Fortune
and waved
Martin inside. The place had been cleaned up. A vacuum lurked in the hallway
leading back to the bedrooms. Countless copies of
Awake
, the official
companion magazine of the
Beyond Insomnia
radio program, had been
stuffed into a rack beside Stewart’s recliner. The table had been set for
three.
Stewart stood with effort, trailing a clear plastic line
from a humming, bubbling appliance by the television. He donned a large pair of
sunglasses that fit over his prescription glasses, and extended a large,
age-spotted hand toward Martin. Stewart had once been a tall man, probably fit,
certainly strong, but he had been crushed from below by long hours in the
recliner’s gravity. He wheezed as he studied Martin for a long moment. Oxygen
hissed from the cannula under his nose. Gray hairs tufted from his ears, which
hadn’t shrunk with the rest of him. “Whadja bring us?” he asked, letting go of
Martin’s hand.
Martin slipped the bottle out of the brown paper sack and
handed it to Cheryl. “I didn’t know what we were having, but they told me that
this would go with almost anything. Whatever’s cooking smells good.”
“Thank you,” said Cheryl. “And what are you wearing,
Stewart? Take those off.”
Stewart took off his sunglasses and guffawed. “That’s the
broasted chicken from the market,” he said. “If Cheryl was cooking it, you’d be
reaching for a gas mask.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Mr. Campion,” said Martin.
“What’s this ‘Mr. Campion’? Call me Stewart.”
“Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes,” said Cheryl, and took
the wine to the kitchen.
“So, you get much of that rain we had last week?” Stewart
asked, gesturing for Martin to take a seat on the couch.
Fifteen minutes later, Martin accepted a foil tray and chose
a piece of chicken. He already had a healthy scoop of mashed potatoes and a
ladle of gravy. He’d taken a large spoonful of the canned green beans, with
every intention of eating them and offering genuine compliments. Cheryl poured
the wine into glass tumblers, but Stewart refused, shuffling into the kitchen
and returning with a beer.