Leaving the Comfort Cafe (10 page)

Kerry didn’t understand. When he missed his weekly call to her because he was swamped with hurricane preparations, she called him on his cell.

“Get back on the horse,” she told him.

“What horse?”

“Your graphic novel.”

“My comic book?”

“Your graphic novel. Say graphic novel. It sounds more—”

“—more grown-up.” The words came out sharper than he expected.

“I’m on your side here.”

“I’ve just been busy, Kerry. The town, we’ve got a hurricane coming—”

“I thought that was just a tropical storm.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve always said you were jealous of me coming to New York. Living my dream. Well, then show me you want to live yours. Send your manuscript back out. Business is the enemy of artistry.”

Easy for her to say. Easy for her to say because her day job was waiting tables, walking dogs, the odd jobs that the city easily offers with no commitments, no retirement plans, no penalties for suddenly quitting if a gallery opportunity came up;
no penalties other than a bad recommendation.

“I’ve got to take care of Conyers.”

“I thought you hated Conyers. Besides, isn’t that sort of thing the job of the police and firefighters?”

He wanted to tell Kerry so many things about Conyers…the biking to see the Virgin Mary, the town board meetings rivaling anything on prime time television, and the Snake Lady, well, the Snake Lady was slowly slithering her way into the small sketchbook Austin kept in his briefcase. Week after week, her Medusa tresses would loom larger and larger, biting back their own enemy of catastrophic loneliness. Sometimes he liked to imagine that the snakes would twirl and writhe their way out of his briefcase—the briefcase that used to belong to his father, the briefcase his dad took to all the board meetings, the briefcase his dad used during his failed congressional campaign, the briefcase that had such an immense amount of bad chi that Austin took it only because it was expected that he would, as if his dad was trying to start the briefcase as some type of family heirloom, like a silver serving set or handmade quilt.

He never told her because he didn’t think she would be interested. After all, she was the one who was supposed to tell him about the adventures of her Manhattanites who walked fast, talked fast, and took no lip.

But she never told him her stories. Maybe she was waiting to hear his. He hoped she would ask. She never did.

“It’s not about the town or even about the storm,” he attempted to explain. “Kerry, people here get worked up over this stuff, and when people get worked up, they can panic. Queen says you’ll see some of the craziest people out, like a hurricane gives all these rednecks a chance to try out their ATVs over broken limbs and such. Maybe it’s cabin fever, I don’t know. But I know that right now, this is where I need to be, and the graphic novel can wait.”

But the graphic novel wasn’t waiting. It was twisting and turning into a new story at the bottom of Austin’s briefcase.

“I’ll call you back after the storm. Provided my cell can get through,” he said.

“I hope you weather the storm okay. I’m sure Queen will be able to help you.”

“Queen’s not here. I gave her the day off.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Because I think she needed it. She’s helping raise her nieces and nephews, you know.”

“Call me after the storm.”

“After the storm.”

After the storm. Everything important always happens after the storm.

There was no point staying home. Austin brought his toothbrush and a sleeping bag to the office. Town Hall had a generator, so in the event of a severed power line, his office was more likely to have power than his home. He left his razor at home because he was hoping a few days of stubble might give the impression he was the rugged, hands-on, Indiana Jones-style town manager, and not some computer-jockey. He also brought his sketchbook, mainly to combat boredom and stress.

Though he could draw at home, all his attempts became paled replicas of his earlier failed feature. He still had rejection labels on his coffee table. Open, facing upwards, so that he could always see it. Flat. Predictable. Give us something real. Real. A comic book company asking for something real?

The day before Amy was supposed to hit, Austin’s phone was overflowing with calls from the board, from the mayor, from the police and fire stations just to be sure Austin actually did understand crisis management should a crisis occur. The fax machine vomited a continuous stream of PSAs, information from the Red Cross, speaking points for the media, and how to start up Tower of Babel to get materials and aid from the state. The early afternoon sun didn’t have its regular intensity, and instead of its hearty shine, it eked a pale yellow glow that seemed to cover everything with a nauseating film.

A slamming door bolted Austin’s heart into his throat. He was greeted by a flurry of tangerine tresses wrapped in a tartan scarf. Blythe was trying to pull off her oversized raincoat—the perfect shade of army-issue green.

“Lord, but that wind is cold,” she said, carelessly dumping her outer layers of clothing onto the floor: the raincoat and a sweater vest. “When wind has that chill, you know something’s up. You wouldn’t believe the line at the gas stations.” She held her head between her legs and shook her hair, as if to expel imaginary snow flurries out of her permed, re-permed and permed-too-often-again hair.

“What, what are you doing here? W-we’re closed.” Austin couldn’t think of anything better to say.

“No kidding. Everybody’s closed.” She eased into a lobby chair and propped her gray vinyl boots on a cherry wood table that Austin feared was an antique. “I came to bring you something.” She somehow withdrew a Styrofoam tray from the army coat.

“Thanks.”

“Thanks, nothing. The owners and I were the only ones who weren’t battening down the hatches this morning. We got into the Comfort and we’re all braced for these farmers to come in—foul weather brings them in for one last stop before they hunker down—we whip up this mess of bacon, eggs, hash browns, what have you, and find that hardly anyone shows up. Usually, we have a mess of people at the diner in questionable weather. You know, it’s the only place in town where you can get a decent cup of Joe. Even when the power’s off. We can still get you a good cup of Joe.”

“Right.”

“We even put the big pot of coffee on.” She spread her arms wide as if the big pot was some Holy Grail only taken out for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

“Thanks.” He took the to-go plate that was stacked full of scrambled eggs and hash browns with ketchup. Austin didn’t like ketchup.

“Oh, that’s not all.”

“Huh?”

“I got three gallons of coffee in the truck.”

“Three?”

“Yeah. I remembered how you had kidneys of cast iron and you could drink a mess of coffee, so let’s go get it.”

“Let’s?”

“Can’t carry it by myself.” She headed out the door.

Austin knew he had to follow her.

She popped open the hatch of what he could only conclude was a borrowed station wagon because it had a window decal that said, “Member of the Fraternal Order of Police,” and a bumper sticker that read, “Ask Me About My Grandchildren.” She sloshed the gallon jugs into his arms with amazing agility and coordination, tossing her fiery mass of hair over her shoulder to keep it out of the way. Austin noticed she was wearing a mismatched pair of earrings.

“You might have to nuke ‘em a bit,” she said as he followed her back into the town hall. “This is my own special blend of coffee. I gave it a special touch just for you.”

“Really?” He unscrewed a plastic lid and enjoyed a rich aroma that was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. “Hazelnut?”

“Liquor.”

“Liquor? You put booze in this?”

“A little nip gets you warm all over.”

“I can’t have this!” He warbled out a coarse whisper. “This is state property. You can’t have alcohol on state property. I think it’s a felony. I could get fired. Or arrested.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to be sure we drink all of it.”

Blythe hummed a tune that was familiar only to her, shuffling her rear in rhythm to the melody. She hauled the coffee into the empty Town Hall lobby, scanning it as if it were some alien terrain Austin slowly was becoming obsessed with the song she was humming. He hated that he couldn’t place the tune. She was a siren. She was a singing mermaid that would lure those without control to their deaths on the rocks. The scene stretched out before him like a comic strip panel: Hurricane Amy sprawled across the page in a panicked primary red and blue, the wind somehow lifting Blythe above the chaos where she can see things clearly…where she can see so far ahead that she can see tomorrow…she can see next month…she can see the storms that would hit the coast next year.

“Hey, you okay?” She raised one eyebrow, looking as if she were afraid he might pass out.

“Look, Blythe, you can’t do that. You—you just can’t.”

“Do what?”

“Blythe, you can’t be coming in here—I mean, we’re closed. And you can’t bring spiked coffee and expect me—”

“I didn’t mean to get you all bent out of shape. I was just being neighborly. Meant no harm. Come to the diner if you’re bored. Still got a mess of bacon, if you’re interested.” She poured some of the coffee into a cup at the lobby coffee station. Austin caught the full, rich, Colombian aroma of the coffee, tinged with a hint of alcohol that promised to clear up his sinuses and maybe put him in a better mood.

“Blythe?”

“Yeah,” she turned around, but seemed only slightly interested.

“Why are you nice to me?”

Pause.

“Why? Has there got to be a why?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Austin embraced the coffee’s aroma again. “Generally, there has to be a why.”

“Is there a reason I should not be nice to you?”

“I guess I’m just trying to say thank you—I mean for everything. I just never quite feel like I fit in this town.”

“Nobody feels like they fit in here. That’s why we all stick together.”

The air between them suddenly became lighter, as if something broke a spell cast upon them by an evil spirit that comic book authors delicately sculpt into the city skyline or sunset—something dangerous buried deep enough that it isn’t noticed during the first reading, but upon closer examination, it becomes powerfully obvious. Blythe seemed to sense it. She glanced at the ceiling, tracing the tiles as if she half-expected for them to come loose and rain around her. She scuffed her feet on the carpet as if carefully planning what to say next.

“Who was she?” Blythe asked.

“Who?”

“The girl who ditched you,” Blythe said. “Who was she?”

“She didn’t ditch me.”

“Are you sure?”

“How do you know this? Did you see the picture on my desk? Did Queen tell you?”

“No.” She gingerly walked up to him, as if, like the ponies they saw earlier, he would shake his head and dart to the far end of the pasture. “I can see it in the way you hold your coffee. The way you hold the sides of the cup and then wrap your other hand around the bottom, like you’re afraid the heat is going to melt away the bottom and spill onto the floor. Like you don’t want to let it go, but it’s too uncomfortable to hold.”

“Maybe I just like my coffee.” Austin awkwardly poured some of the coffee out of the gallon jugs so he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

“It’s also in the way you drink your coffee. See, you keep it so close, but then you only just sip it, really slowly, really slow sipping, like the kind ladies do at bridge club meetings…it’s like you’re afraid to really take it all in at once.”

“Maybe I just like to take my time.”

“Maybe so.” With a massive flurry of arms she grabbed her sweatshirt and put her coat back on. “You think too much. The whole problem with life is that people either think too much or think too little. You think too much. You need to go home and take a nap. All that thinking makes you tired.”

“Well, I’ve got my hands full here. I’ve got to rearrange the garbage schedule and schedule a street cleaning—you know how the saying goes—the trains have to run on time,” he said.

“Why do the trains have to run at all?”

“Because…” Austin thought he had an answer, but it wasn’t there. “Because they’re trains. That’s what trains are supposed to do. Run on time. “

“You need some new underwear,” Blythe retorted.

“Excuse me?” Austin discretely checked his fly, wondering if he was showing.

“When I think too much, I find that usually putting on a sexy piece of underwear solves the problem. There’s a MegaShoppe down the road. It’s like Walmart on steroids. You can get everything there except a Pap smear. Get your keys.”

“Keys?”

“You’re driving.”

“I’ve got things to do here. “

“You need to mix and mingle with the locals. You know, get in touch with the constituents. And you might as well get some fancy underwear while you’re at it.”

The MegaShoppe was the Mecca of discount stores. Its broad, bold letters and wide aisles could put Kmart or Walmart to shame. Some believed if you played your cards right, when you went to heaven, God placed you in a special section of paradise where there was nothing but deep discounts, deep pockets and shopping, praise the Lord, shopping, shopping and shopping.

Blythe hated it. She hated it as if it were an affront to humanity and all that was holy. Not because the MegaShoppe allegedly benefited from sweatshops in the third world countries, but because at its very heart, she found something about the MegaShoppe to be unrepentantly pretentious.

“I mean, they even spell the Shoppe with that Old English P-E. Like, who are they trying to fool into thinking that this is some place sophisticated?” she said. “If we wanted shopping sophistication, we wouldn’t be in Conyers. It’s like we’re a herd of cattle, we are.”

Blythe grabbed a shopping cart and made a long, loud “mooo.”

“Yep. They think we’re a herd of cattle. Nothing but a buch of moo!” she shouted.

The shopping cart she picked had all four wheels in working order, but Austin discovered there was something in the bottom of the child’s seat that was brown and sticky, like the remains of a leftover sucker. Or spilled cola. Or chewing tobacco. Or maybe some type of prehistoric ooze that had somehow lingered into modern times and could bestow evil powers onto anyone who dared touch it. Austin reeled in his imagination and decided to think it was cola and just not look at it any more.