Chet

I nod as I pass Hank and Gabe in the living room on my way to hug our mother, Marie. The old wood floor squeaks beneath my feet as I cross into the kitchen. Damn, I need to remember to have Gabe fix that. It’s a tradition for us boys to come together on Wednesdays for supper. After Dad passed, it was Mom’s way of making sure we didn’t scatter to the four corners—an attempt at finding some normalcy, I suppose. It’s not too often the other three make it home to join us, but at least Jack and Frank try when they can. Leo, on the other hand? I’m probably better not knowing his latest excuse. I swear If that boy would stop trying to grab life by the horns, he might realize happiness shouldn’t be so exhausting. Daddy always told us, Life’s not so much about what you have or what you do, but who you have by your side while you’re doing it.

“Henry. Gabriel. Chester. It’s just the four of us tonight. I hope you boys are hungry because I’ve fixed a big pot of stew and there’s plenty of sweet cornbread.” There’s six of us boys in total. Mom likes to joke that she and dad compromised early on. I’ve heard it so many times it’s burned into my brain, He needed men to help him work the land, but I only agreed to give him sons on the condition we raised you to be respectable. I guess she thought peculiar names would be enough to keep us out of trouble; it would probably break her heart to know how many fights I’ve been in because of those goddamned names. That’s the thing about being the oldest, it’s not just what life throws at me, I’ve always had to set the example for the five boys following behind me as well.

To this day, being called Chester by anyone other than my mother, bristles the hair on my neck like nothing else.

We sit down to eat in our normal places with napkins across our laps, hands folded and heads bowed while Mom says grace. We do our solemn best to be proper gentlemen—or as best as we can manage on our mother’s account anyway. When she finishes, a basket of cornbread passes around the table amid the sound of spoons clanking bowls and hot stew being slurped.

“Hank, any idea when you’ll have the bailer up and running? Won’t be long before those fields are overgrown,” I ask.

“Well sir, I don’t see how the bailer is going to be of much use until someone picks up the parts I ordered. They should be in by Saturday.”

Gabe pipes in, “Chet, while you’re in town, make sure to pick up some fence posts.”

“Who decided I was going to town?”

“You are the head honcho around here, aren’t you?” Gabe aims his fork at me.

“Hmmm.” I bite at my cornbread rather than say something inappropriate in front of our mother.

“Boys, that’s enough about work,” Mom interrupts. “Have any of you talked to Leo?”

“Hmmm,” I say, before letting Gabe tackle that subject. He always seems willing to make excuses for the boy. I focus my attention on the table in front of me instead. It’s a massive structure, handcrafted by our father with help from his father. Made from thick oak planks, it was built specifically to accommodate a family of eight with some room to spare for guests. Looking at it now, the dings and dents serve as reminders of old memories, like the time Hank and Gabe attempted to parachute to the ground with an old sheet, or the time Frank fell asleep in his seat and his face went right into the spaghetti. Probably better to eat in silence than to share my thoughts on Leo. A little quiet never bothered me anyway.

* * *

It’s Saturday morning and I’m up and hustling before the sun, making certain I have my chores out of the way before I go into town. I check on Emma and her calf and am pleased to see they have made their way back to the herd. Seeing the two of them reminds me of Christy. Again. Truth is, I haven’t been able to keep her out of my thoughts since she left. I drift back to her words, again and again. There was something off when she described her relationship—not that I’m one to interfere, but if I read between the lines, there’s already trouble in paradise. I need to know more.

I arrive in town a little after nine in the morning and am disappointed to learn the farm supply store doesn’t receive deliveries until lunchtime. I decide to stop in for a cup of coffee at Belle’s while I bide my time. It’s a little diner with a classic Americana stainless-steel exterior that looks like it just arrived from the nineteen fifties. It’s been around as long as I can remember and, as the only restaurant in town, it’s where folks get their meals if not from their own kitchen.

I’m seated at the counter blowing at the steam rising from my cup, when I overhear a muffled argument from one of the booths. Not one to eavesdrop, I don’t pay it much attention at first, but when a hand smacks the table I look up reflexively. I don’t immediately recognize the face, but there’s something familiar about the woman in the booth facing me.

It’s her.

Her hair is down today, it’s long and flowing and spilling over her right shoulder. The blonde diffuses the morning light into a soft glow that outlines her face. The man she’s with has his back to me, but his pink polo and spackled hair tell me he’s not from around here. Her brow is wrinkled and her eyes are watery, and the sight of it tears at me. The man slaps his hand down again, apparently determined to make his point about whatever, crystal clear.

Without thinking, I’m up from my seat and walking back to the booth to investigate. When Christy looks up and sees me approaching, her face changes from stress to embarrassment. I take off my hat. “Morning, Doc,” I say and then extend my hand to the man seated across from her. “Chet Wilde, good to meet you.”

He looks at my hand, then up at me, his expression screaming for me to leave. “Mark,” he says bitterly, before turning his attention back to Christy.

“Everything alright here?”

“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” Mark bites.

“Sounded like the table might be uneven.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Heard you bang down on the table from up at the front. Figure the only reason to do a thing like that in a restaurant full of people would be a wobble in the table. Thought I’d offer a hand, if you need it,” I say.

“That’s very kind of you Mr. Wilde, but we’re fine here. Thank you.” Christy’s eyes never leave Mark.

“Fair enough. But please, call me Chet. Oh, and Doc—you might be interested to know momma and baby seem to be getting on fine. Thanks again for the help. You both have yourselves a good morning.” I knock the table lightly before turning away. “Seems sturdy to me.”

I put my hat on as I take my seat back at the counter. I cannot imagine what that woman could have done to deserve being disrespected over breakfast, but now I’m afraid my presence made things worse for her. I don’t know what is wrong with him, but in my experience a man like that only responds to one thing—a better man.

A few minutes later the two of them pay their check and Mark quickly shuffles past me on his way out the door. Guess where he comes from they don’t know well enough to hold the door for a lady. Christy stops and puts her hand on my shoulder. When I look up, her eyes are still watery, but filled with gratitude. “Thanks for the update on the calf, Chet. Have yourself a good morning,” she manages before hurrying out the door.

I make the most of my time in town and run some errands while I wait for the lunch delivery so I can pick up the parts Hank ordered. Christy’s face remains in my thoughts all morning. Seeing her in distress like that, has lit a fire in me and I feel a need to do something about it.

Imagine my surprise when I run into them for a second time.