Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans (8 page)

BOOK: Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans
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Chapter Eight

O
n a hot July Saturday, all Lauren thinks about is painting driftwood on the beach, while all she actually does is take summer inventory at Bayside Department Store. But it is a temporary job from the employment agency, and at least it brings in a paycheck. The store is closed to shoppers while the help tickets and inventories the summer merchandise. She uses idle time to collect empty cartons from the storage room. They are perfect for vacation packing, and she thinks she just might toss her paints in one.

At noontime, she settles in her car and directs the air conditioning vent at her face. The store isn’t far from home, and it’s easy to add ten minutes to her lunch hour without much notice to drop off the boxes. Driving down her street, the house looks deserted with no bicycles in the driveway, no kids drawing chalk games on the sidewalk. The drapes are drawn against the sun’s rays and the grass wilts beneath the heat. She lifts the cartons from her trunk and sets them in the garage, keeping them out of the oil that leaked from Kyle’s pickup truck. After neatly stacking the boxes along the back wall, there’s enough time to make a quick sandwich for lunch. When she opens the garage door into the kitchen, Kyle is coming in through the front door carrying a mixed bouquet wrapped in cellophane.

“Hey, Ell. These are for you.”

Lauren leans against the closed door to the garage. “For what?”

“It’s a celebration. We’ll take the kids out for burgers tonight. They’ll love it.” He reaches for a glass vase from the cabinet beside the refrigerator and fills it with water.

“Mom’s got the kids and I’m working till six, so she’s feeding them dinner.” She still leans on the door, not moving in the heat. “What are we celebrating anyway?” Watching Kyle, she thinks that even if he finds a permanent job, it might not help them at this point.

“Sit down.” Kyle slides out a kitchen chair and Lauren sits while he peels off the plastic and sets the flowers into the vase. “Listen to this,” he says as he arranges the flowers. “Jerry’s going away for a couple weeks. To Maine.”

“Maine.”

“His son lives there. Somewhere on the coast. Jerry and his wife are taking a two-week vacation there. And before he goes, he’s taking a few days to finish up some chores around his house. Painting his porch, that kind of thing.” Kyle swings a chair around and sits backward, his hands clasped over the top.

“So?”

Kyle stares at her.

“What?” she asks, hands turned up.

“Come on, think about it. He’s leaving me in charge of The Dockside for almost three weeks. He was never comfortable leaving the diner before and always closed up on vacation. But he wants me to handle it. I’ll be running the whole show.”

Possibilities run through Lauren’s mind: of Kyle turning this stint into another management job, of the money Jerry will pay him. She relents and goes to the refrigerator, pulling out the bottle of wine. Kyle stretches behind him and grabs two juice glasses from the counter. She fills them, feeling him watching as she pours herself only enough for a toast.

“More money?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Well congratulations then. It’s nice to have good news for a change.” They touch glasses and drink the wine.

Lauren tries not to, but still, in the back of her mind, she waits for the bomb to fall. For the refrigerator to break. For the furnace to quit. For the pickup truck to break down. Good news never comes alone into their home. Something always sneaks in on its tail. She looks at the flowers and notices one white daisy has snapped. Its head droops.

“When’s Jerry leaving?”

“Next Thursday. I’ll start Monday so he can show me around the office.”

Her mind calculates that the first two weeks of their vacation, Kyle will be working full days and some nights, what with the food ordering and paperwork. He’ll be exhausted. By the third week, he’ll be done and want to be with them at the cottage. They’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. For now, she plans to go on vacation with or without him. With him for a little while won’t be that bad.

Kyle tops off his glass and takes a long swallow. “Listen, Ell.” He reaches across the table, taking her hand in his. “I know it’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. Let’s celebrate.” He hitches his head toward the staircase, a question on his face.

Lauren reads it. It asks her not to think that he found only three weeks of full-time work. That funds are getting low and he’s feeling nervous. Every line, every shadow on his face comes from that worry. But with a glass of wine downed and Kyle’s attitude filled with optimism, she could give in.

“Come on,” he says. Half standing, Kyle bends over the table and kisses her on the mouth. His hands embrace her neck and lift her hair off her damp skin. She likes that she has no time to think. He just leans over and she can only feel: the warm air in the quiet house, the perspiration beneath her hair, his hands moving down her back, her mouth opening to his. The cicadas buzz outside in the trees and Kyle slips her shirt off her shoulder. As the kiss deepens, he leans closer, knocking over her empty glass so that it rolls off the table, splintering on the floor. Lauren pulls back at the sound.

“Don’t stop,” Kyle says.

“I can’t do this, Kyle.” She glances at her watch. “My lunch break’s up.”

“Who wants to take inventory in this heat? We’ve got a little time,” he says.

Lauren stands and straightens her shirt. It’s probably better to move away from him. If he reaches for her again, if he holds her right, she just might stay. It will take a moment, but she can let him persist, let his mouth cover hers, let his hands slip off her clothes. But then he’ll think everything turned out all right. He’ll think he can stay at the cottage. That they can laugh again. That he can love her all the time. Too much feels wrong for that to happen. She doesn’t know what to think anymore. He needs to turn his energy to meeting the mortgage on time, to finding work. Not loving her. She screws the cover back on the wine bottle and returns it to the refrigerator, then starts sweeping up the glass. “Maybe later,” she says.

Kyle finishes off his wine, watching her silently. “Forget it.”

“Forget what? Money? Bills? Your truck leaking oil all over the driveway? Give me a break, Kyle. There’s so much on my mind, and I’ve got to get back to the store.” The marriage won’t stop unraveling, like a stray thread on a sweater. When they pick at it, at the thread, whether it is money, or sex, or work, a whole row of stitches unwinds with it.

“I’m out of here.” Kyle swings his chair around and topples it over. “I am so gone,” he says as he bends and rights the fallen chair. Grabbing his keys from the table, he walks out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

Kyle heads outside to his truck. He starts it and rolls down the window.

“Kyle?” Lauren follows him out into the sunshine, the dustpan still in her hand. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t take it here anymore.”

“But where are you going?”

“Matt’s.”

“I’m sorry, Kyle.” She sees the way he doesn’t want to talk to her. He won’t meet her eye when he speaks.

“Right. Matt’s got a socket set I’m borrowing to work on my truck.”

She stands there, close, just waiting. “It really wasn’t a good time. Just now.”

“Yeah.”

“What about the kids?”

“What about them?” He looks out at the house, then glances at the rearview mirror.

“Are we taking them out later for burgers? Or an ice cream or something?”

Kyle puts the truck in reverse. “You take them,” he tells her and leaves her standing in the oil-stained driveway. The tires chirp as he switches gears and takes off. Lauren turns away, locks up the house and goes back to work without lunch.

“Maybe the valve covers need to be tightened,” Matt says as he rolls down the passenger window in Kyle’s truck that evening. “Or else the gasket might be bad. You’d have to bring it in then, if it’s the gasket.”

Leaving Stony Point behind them, Kyle eases the pickup into traffic. “I’m down a quart of oil, too.”

“Well, we’ll tighten the valve covers, add the oil and see what we can do. Pull in at the gas station there and pick up a quart.”

Kyle downshifts and turns into the station at the light. “Need anything else?”

“No. I’m good.” Matt spots Jason’s truck across the street when Kyle returns and sets the can of oil on the seat between them.

“Isn’t that Barlow’s truck over at the bar?”

Kyle shifts into gear and carefully crosses the lanes of traffic to The Sand Bar, parking beside Jason’s vehicle. “Let’s have a quick one and see what he’s up to.”

Inside, a lone jukebox stands near the door. Occasionally someone drops in a few coins and plays Jimmy Buffet or a slow Dave Matthews. Booths lining the side wall have high backs, forming deep pockets of privacy. The entrance door is propped open and the hum of passing cars comes in piecemeal with the warm summer air. Someone tuned the television to the evening news, the anchor’s voice filling the room like a thin haze of cigarette smoke.

Jason sits at the far end of the bar, wearing jeans and a ratty college tee, looking like he needs a shower and a shave. He nurses a drink while a short woman with red hair makes small talk beside him.

“It’s not good to drink alone, man,” Matt says from behind Jason, putting his arm around Jason’s shoulder. He takes the empty stool just past him.

Jason turns, eyes Matt and Kyle, and nods toward the woman. “I’m not alone.”

They turn to her. “He a friend of yours?” Kyle asks.

“He’s keeping me company while I wait for my ride. Is it true he’s an architect?” she asks.

Matt leans on the bar in front of Jason. “He told you that?”

Jason watches the television, looking only half interested in the talk around him.

The woman turns to Kyle standing beside her, sizing up all six feet two inches of him. “Well? Is he for real?”

“Oh he’s the real thing,” Matt assures her. “And I’m a Connecticut State Trooper.” He watches her check out his worn jeans, docksider shoes with no socks.

“And I’m a chef,” Kyle adds. Jason glances up at him.

The woman stands and shakes her head. “I think my ride’s here.” She lifts her purse to her shoulder. “Nice talking to you, Jason.”

“Same here,” he tells her. “Take care now.”

“That was easy enough.” Kyle turns and watches her go. A car idles outside the door. “You really need to find someone more challenging.”

Jason motions to the bartender for another drink.

“Make it a pitcher,” Matt calls to the bartender. “He’s buying. We’ll take it over there.” He motions to the booths. “Come on, guy. Let’s grab a seat.” Matt reaches for the basket of pretzels. Kyle leans against the bar until Jason stands. They shift in the booth, getting comfortable until the beer arrives with three frosted glasses. Jason lifts the pitcher and pours a round of drinks.

“Why don’t you get yourself married?” Matt asks him, pulling a glass close. “What the hell are you doing picking up broads in a bar?”

Jason takes a swallow of his drink. “She was picking me up.”

“Well knock it off. Don’t you have yourself a nice girl hidden away somewhere?”

“Nope. No one,” Jason tells them, taking another taste of the beer.

“Maybe you’re better off,” Kyle says.

Matt looks at Kyle. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Paradise, like shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, then finishes off his drink. “If you call no sex, no money, no fun, paradise.”

“Paradise is open to interpretation,” Jason answers.

“Not in my house, it isn’t.” Kyle pours himself another glass. “Something’s got to give. It’d help if a job came up before I have to tap into my severance money.”

“Watch it, Kyle,” Matt says. “It’s easy to piss through that money. All of a sudden you’ll be wondering where it went.”

“A little here, a little there. Next thing you know, nothing’s left,” Jason adds.

“Moving’s not the answer,” Matt says. He doesn’t like the way Kyle is drinking and slides the pitcher to the other end of the table. “It’ll be the same down South. You might get a job and get settled there, lulled into a false security with that overtime cash. But sooner or later there’ll be a fucking pink slip with your check. No warning. Contract’s up, the sub’s built. Only you’ll be a thousand miles away from here. It’s your line of work. Shipyard welding, pipe-fitting. It’s up and down, man.”

BOOK: Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans
8.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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