Chapter Seven
Company’s Comin’
“I thought you only ate lunch here on Saturdays,” I say, sliding into the booth opposite Preston. The scents of diner food and coffee combine into a familiar smell that makes my stomach grumble.
He tucks his pencil inside, closes his notebook, and slides it to the edge of the table before looking up at me. Gray eyes meet my brown ones, and it’s unsettling how with just a look he seems to pry me open around the edges. His body is stiff, his posture rigid. I try not to take offense to his reaction to my presence.
“Thursdays and Saturdays,” he admits.
I wave the waitress over and order a Coke and a salad. Preston watches me line up my utensils sitting atop a paper napkin.
“I think you’re wearing off on me.” I give him a smile, and he stares blankly. He closes his eyes for a second. His long, dark lashes flutter, and when they reopen, his gaze is intense. He touches his fork, then his knife. Then, repeats the process three more times. I don’t say anything, but I see his unnecessary shame.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be sorry. I could benefit from some order in my life, you know?”
“I know.” Preston looks shocked that those words left his lips, but he doesn’t offer an apology. The fingers of his right hand twitch, and I can’t help but wonder what he wants to do with them.
“So, Preston-who-eats-here-twice-a-week, are you ever going to tell me what you’re writing in that notebook?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug and looks past me to the sidewalk outside. There is a method to conversations with Preston. It is new and foreign to me, but I’m learning to navigate my way through. I want to ask him about the notebook again, but I find the restraint to sit and wait for my answer.
“Thoughts,” he finally says. “A therapy of sorts.”
“So, like a diary?”
His forehead wrinkles, and his lips pull down on each side. “No. It’s poetry. I write poetry.”
This confession takes me by surprise and has my imagination running wild. I want to hear his words, in his voice, spoken only to me. When the waitress appears with our food, I realize I’ve been caught in my own head for a while, never responding.
“There’s an open mic night for poets on Sunday nights at Coffee Call on Madison Street. Have you always written?” I ask.
He lines his three plates up, spacing them out evenly. Today it is green beans with bacon, cornbread, and grilled chicken. When he’s satisfied with their placement, he meets my eyes again. This time there is a question there. He’s searching for my reaction. I offer a smile.
“I started when I was a kid. I used to write short stories. Poetry is more of a challenge.”
I nod and dig into my salad. Silence seems to hold us together in a bubble away from the rest of the bustling diner. It’s not uncomfortable. We both focus on our meals and each other. During my glances, I take inventory of Preston. Still twelve chews, his perfect jaw moving in a hypnotizing rhythm. There’s a stippling of black facial hair along his cheeks and jaw, not long enough to be called a beard. The V of his shirt collar draws my eyes down to his wide chest and shoulders. I’m obsessed with the way the sleeves tighten around his biceps. There’s the ever-present watch on one wrist. His nails are short and clean.
“What about Coffee Call? Would you ever share your work?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I get that. Will you let me read it someday?”
“No,” he answers, shaking his head.
He gives me no excuse. It stings a little. Just when I think I’ve gotten through that wall he’s built around himself, I’m reminded that Preston only allows me to see pieces of him. I don’t know if he’s scared of being too open or if it’s just a defense mechanism to keep him safe. Either way, I wish he’d let me in.
“So, I got a job at The Haystack,” I say as Preston switches out his plates. “I start tonight.”
“That’s good. Maybe you’ll stop hanging out at Vinyl so much.”
I slap my hand over my heart and mouth “ouch” while he gives me that lopsided smirk.
“I don’t think you mind me hanging out there at all,” I say, calling his bluff. I lick my lips and celebrate internally when his eyes flick down to them.
“I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so forward, so blunt,” he says in awe, as if he’s offended.
“It’s easy for me. Like breathing. I don’t know any other way to be.”
“It drives me crazy,” Preston says. I open my mouth to respond, but he stops me by holding up one finger. “But I also find it so damn sexy.”
I try to process what he’s said and form a reply, but nothing comes. He watches me, something new in his eyes that drives me wild. I focus on my salad and stab at cherry tomatoes with a little too much force.
“Very interesting, Wren.” The sound of my name sends me into a tailspin, and I hesitantly meet his gaze over a table, salad bowl, and two empty plates.
“What?”
“Looks like you can’t handle a taste of your own medicine.”
I put down my fork and wipe my mouth with a napkin. With both hands on the table’s edge, I lean closer to him. He stays pressed against the back of the booth.
“That may be true. But I think you’d love to find out how good my medicine can be.”
Preston drops his fork. It clatters to the table, flips over the edge, hits the seat, and finally falls to the floor. Without looking away, I motion for the waitress to bring him a new one. He sits quietly as I dig some cash from my pocket and leave it on the table.
“Lunch is on me. See you later, Preston-who-thinks-I’m-so-damn-sexy.”
…
I pace in the front of the store, checking out all the items in the display window. A young couple walks by in a heated argument. Their voices are so loud, I can hear them through the glass. He grips her arm tightly—too tight. Images of Dylan’s hands on me, leaving marks, punishing me, flash through my head. I suck in a deep breath and turn away, pushing down dark memories.
Bennie sits in her usual spot beside the register, her face hidden behind a romance novel. There are stacks of flyers for Coffee Call’s poetry night and a couple of bands playing in Franklin. I read over them and memorize the times and places for lack of anything better to do. Leaning over the front counter, I hover with my lips just above the surface and blow my hot breath onto it. The glass fogs up in a tiny cloud of condensation and disappears just as quickly.
“Just say what you want to say, Wren,” Bennie calls out from behind her book.
“I’m not a tornado.”
She folds the novel closed and shakes her head. “No. You’re not. I didn’t mean that you were destructive. I just meant that you are this swirling mass of energy and life and people get sucked in toward you whether they intend to or not. It’s your magnetic aura.”
I laugh and lean on my elbows. “You are such a hippy.”
“Whatevs. I’m totes down with the kids.”
I roll my eyes, and they land on a tiny photo of our parents tacked up next to the register.
“I’m thinking about going to see Mom and Dad.”
Bennie is quiet for a few seconds and wrings her hands. “Then I suppose I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to. You just saw them Sunday. Plus, I know you don’t like going.”
“No, I want to. I haven’t been to the house in a while. It’s time. Besides, we’re stronger together.”
I nod.
“Preston,” Bennie yells across the store. “We’re stepping out. Be back in about an hour.”
“I got it,” he says to Bennie, but his eyes stay fixed on me. I offer a small wave, and he nods back.
Bennie and I walk in silence at first, our synchronized steps sounding off in a steady rhythm. I give the water tower a glance when we cut through the park. When the yellow neon sign for The Haystack comes into view, I remember that I haven’t told Bennie about my job.
“By the way, you’re looking at the new part-time bartender at The Haystack.”
“Really? Coach gave you a job, huh?”
“It took some convincing,” I answer. “But all I had to do was mention your name. Coach got a little thing for you, Ben?”
“Well, that’s good. Real good,” she says, ignoring my question.
Bennie seems distracted as we near the house on Houston Street. It’s not that warm out, but she’s sweating around her hairline. Her skin is pallid, and she looks nauseous.
“We should get you outside this summer, Bennie. You need some color.”
She seems to relax a little and nudges my shoulder. “My color is fine. Just dreading this visit.”
“Then why come? Why do this to yourself?”
“Because one day it’ll be too late to visit. Besides, I’m only here for you,” she answers.
“You know I can handle them.”
Bennie nods and looks out at the field to our right. Crops of gold as far as we can see. It would be beautiful if I weren’t so jaded. “I know you can. You were always better at dealing with them than I was.”
“Which is so strange to me. You grew up with them, no guidance from anyone else, no one telling you it was okay to be yourself. Yet, somehow, you found the strength to do that.”
“It was different then. I fit into their mold. I did what I was told,” she answers, her eyes on the street. “I knew I had to make it until I was eighteen, and then I’d be free to be me.”
“You’re so strong.”
Bennie shakes her head and gives me a glance. “I did what I had to do to keep my sanity.”
“Well, if you hadn’t been there for me, telling me that I could be whatever I wanted, I may have lost my mind long ago.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Who says you’re sane now?”
“Shut up, nerd.” I sweep my foot against hers trying to trip her, but she kicks me away. “Anything I should know before we get there?” I ask.
She shakes her head and stares at our shadows on the road in front of us. The shorter, distorted versions remind me of our younger selves, walking this same path between the park and home.
“Nope. Nothing has changed. Same old Bob and Carol. Why the sudden interest in a visit?”
“I don’t really know. I almost feel obligated. Like there is some lingering daughterly guilt that I should let them know I’m alive and safe.”
“Oh. They know that. Daddy asked every time I saw him. I kept them updated when I got a new postcard from you.”
“And Mom?”
Bennie shakes her head.
“It’s funny how everyone in this town connects them to us and us to them, and we couldn’t be more disconnected. Don’t you get tired of it, Ben? Tired of being Reverend Hart’s kids?”
“I suppose I’ve grown used to it in my old age.”
I laugh. “You’re not that old. And I don’t think I would get used to it in three lifetimes.”
My anxiety pushes to the surface when we turn onto my parents’ street. It multiplies with every step toward that seemingly innocent house wearing green shutters. By the time I reach the mailbox with pristine new letters spelling Hart, I am a nervous wreck. Bennie grabs my hand as we step onto the porch and ring the bell.
Through the open window, just beyond frilly homemade curtains that shift in the breeze, I recognize Red Foley’s voice crooning from their old record player. It’s a song I know by heart. And though I love his voice, and the wholesome sound of music from the fifties, it stirs something inside me that is made of hate and resentment.
I hear voices inside and the soft footsteps approaching. Memories flood my head along with a sick feeling that I can’t hold down. Bennie squeezes my hand, and it grounds me in the moment, calming my vibrating insides. The door cracks open, and two eyes stare at us through the screen door. They look old and tired and a little more fragile than the last time I saw them. But they don’t look surprised.
“Well, come on in.”
My father props open the door and stands aside. He’s wearing what I call the “Reverend Hart Uniform”—light blue, short-sleeve oxford shirt, gray slacks held up with suspenders, and cowboy boots. I follow Bennie in as he calls out behind us. “Carol, the girls are here.”
“In the kitchen,” she yells.
Bennie and I enter the kitchen, and absolutely nothing has changed. Same gaudy wallpaper, same decor, and the same weathered Bible on the kitchen table. The maroon cover and gold foil letters are worn from decades of use. My mother is sitting in her favorite chair, shucking corn. She places the silk and husk in one bowl and the clean ears of corn in another. She barely looks up when we sit across from her.
“Hi, Mom,” Bennie says.
Her stare holds Bennie for a few seconds before it slides over to me.
“Good to see you again, Bennetta,” she answers. “Wren.”
Bennie scrunches her face up at the use of her given name. My dad comes in, pours himself a glass of water, and sits next to Mom. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he doesn’t offer us a drink. Thanks for the visit, but don’t stay long.
The silence here is awkward. The air is stifling and stagnant and everything I remember it being. The people who sit across from me are strangers. The only things they ever gave me were strict lessons, Bible verses, and DNA. They know nothing about the girl I was or the woman I’ve become. My parents were never physically abusive, but religion and the law of God ruled our home. They always reminded me of what a sinner I was and how, if I didn’t give my life over to the Lord, I’d never amount to anything. They threw words at me instead of love, threats instead of encouragement. They were even worse to Bennie.
“How was your trip, Wren?” Dad asks.
“It was great,” I answer, cautious.
“She was gone for three years, tramping around the country doing Lord knows what. I’d hardly call that a trip,” Mom interjects, never looking up from her shucking.
“Yes, Mother, only the Lord knows what. I can give you a rundown if you’d like. Shall we start with the Rastafarians in Queens or the Whispering Pines Nudist Colony of Clearwater, Florida?”
“No, Wren. I do not need to hear all the sordid details of your travels,” Mom says.
“I’m sure there were good things, too. Right, Wren?” Bennie asks, tucking her hands beneath her thighs. It’s an old habit of hers—one that only appears in this house. “What about the postcard you sent from Austin? Weren’t you volunteering at a homeless shelter there?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “No, I was living in one.”
“My God will cast them away because they have not listened to Him; And they will be wanderers among the nations.”
Bennie’s eyes snap to Mom, and she glares at her. While I learned to grow indifferent to their judgment, Bennie never did. Every time they lay that crap on us, it eats away at her. She lets them poke at her like a bear in the zoo. I’ve been running interference ever since I understood the notion.
“How’s the church, Rev?” I ask, focusing my attention on the newly formed wrinkles cutting into the leathered skin around his eyes.
“Good,” Dad says. “Real good. Biggest congregation yet. We’re thinking of expanding the hall to hold more people. Imagine that. You should come by on Sunday.”
“They all follow your father, a true man of God, to lead them from sin. The lips of the righteous nourish many, but fools die for lack of sense. Proverbs 10:21.”
“Wise men say only fools rush in,” I say. “Elvis Presley, 1972.” Bennie grins and shakes her head at me. “What? I thought we were playing a quoting game. We seem to be incapable of actual conversation.”
“That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” my mother says.
“And I thought it would be my promiscuity and lack of respect for authority figures.” I stand quickly. The chair I am sitting in topples over and hits the floor with a loud thwack. “Well, it was great seeing you. Thrilling, as always. Bennie?”
Daddy gives me a nod, while my mother gives nothing at all.
Bennie stands, and we make our way toward the door. She pulls the front door open and sighs deeply. “Why do we even bother?”
“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you,” my mother calls out from the kitchen.
“Honor this,” I say and flip my middle finger in their general direction. Even though I know they can’t see me, it makes me feel better.
Bennie chuckles and pulls me out of the house. We pass the mailbox and turn left at the corner, never looking back.