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second in a series of letters (fiction)
| Passions in Prose |
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second in a series of letters (fiction) |
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7 Member
since 2000-04-26
Posts 113Amherst, MA, USA |
Dear Hazel, You turned the corner of that building that has the bank and the library in it during the millisecond of time that I continued to hold Claudia’s arm after Toby had released his hand from her shoulder. I watch the scene from where you were standing and you’re right, it looks like Toby was just standing there as I grabbed a young girl in a harsh and inappropriate manner. Maybe you thought that Toby and I were partners in crime. Or that he was the one stepping in to help your daughter. Or, the possibility farthest from the truth, that he had no idea who Claudia and I were, that he played no part in our lives whatsoever. I’ll explain how Claudia and I met Toby in another letter. This one will focus on the moments leading up to the scene you, I’m sure, will never forget. Saturdays in October are only busy when it’s raining. It poured all morning, but by noon the downpour had exhausted itself and shrunken to a drizzle. The islanders who had slept away the morning or put off their errands for a break in the clouds had just started to trickle in. They stomped their feet, pointlessly, on the sopping wet mat in front of the door, then shook off the rain they’d gathered on their walks from their houses to their cars, from their cars to the Southwest Harbor post office, from the post office across the street to Javafiction. Without looking, and sometimes with their eyes closed, the regulars selected their coffees from the seven pots, trusting that I hadn’t placed them on the burners in a different order than usual, trusting that their favorite flavor was draining into their twelve- or sixteen- ounce paper cup, trusting that the decafs and regulars had not traded spots for the day. They smacked plastic lids on their beverages (the less environmentally-concerned slipping cardboard sleeves over the slightly hot cups), sipped urgently, and exhaled with relief. The occasional customers paced back and forth between the counter and the tables, surveying the menu on the blackboard behind me, hoping to find the item that would become their “usual.” The first-timers wandered slowly from the door to the drink coolers to the register to the pastry counter to the coffee pots – touching everything - and back to the register, where they asked some variation of the question, “Am I supposed to get my own coffee?” narrowing their eyes in confusion, as if they’d never been in a self-serve coffee shop before. The coffee-experimenters hesitated on the rain-soaked mat, not moving their heads as they took in their surroundings, then navigated delicately through the clumps of regulars (who had right of way) to the register, where they asked some variation of the question, “So, what’s even the difference between coffee and espresso anyway?” raising their eyebrows in self-satisfaction, as if no one had ever asked that question before. Claudia could probably have answered for me by then, since she’d listened to my espresso monologue countless times, each time with less interest. This time she was either lost in the pastel drawing she was working on or pretending to be lost in it so she could listen to Toby as he lied to the locals. “Actually, they’re not all that different,” I would normally reply. I revised my opening statement a few days later when Ezra told me it probably convinced people to choose coffee over espresso, which was more expensive. I was only telling what he told me when I asked the same question. “Espresso is just a specific kind of coffee bean. It’s roasted more precisely so it can attain the rich, powerful flavor that gives lattes and cappuccinos their creamy punch.” If I was bored, which I wasn’t that day, I would have continued with, “And did you know that coffee actually has more caffeine than espresso? If you’ll take a look at these,” I’d have said, lifting the lid off the espresso grinder and scooping up a handful of beans, “they’re wicked dark, right? And almost black in this crack down the middle.” I’d lay the greasy beans out on the counter and turn to the shelf behind me, tapping on one of the plastic bean containers, one of the light roasts, maybe Café Monteverde or Kenya (our two least popular flavors, because everyone thinks they don’t have as much caffeine as the dark roasts). “See how light these are? That’s because it hasn’t been roasted as long, and beans, like other foods, get darker the longer they cook.” “But isn’t dark coffee stronger?” the know-it-all customer would inevitably have replied. “Nope. Because, get this, as you roast a bean the caffeine and some other stuff starts burning away. I’m not exactly sure why, but it does. At least that’s what my boss says. So lighter roasts actually have more caffeine, even though they don’t taste as strong.” Today I either shrugged in silent apology or pretended I didn’t hear the question. I was trying to communicate with customers in as few words as possible that day, discouraging people from starting conversations with me by announcing the prices of their lattes and cinnamon rolls with an irritated tone. It had advanced to aggravation and was approaching rage by Toby’s seventh rendition of his life story, which varied immensely from the story he’d told me. “I graduated divinity school three years ago,” he began proudly, twisting the buttons on his crisply ironed white shirt. “The church I did my ………. [editor’s note: what’s that thing priests do for like their student priesting?] with offered me a job, and I worked there a few months before I realized I needed a less conservative environment.” The Mainers nodded compassionately. “So I moved back to Portland, where I was born and raised, and asked my old church if they’d let me fill in when the priest needed time off.” He cleared his throat and tugged at his gray tie. “Unfortunately, I worked more and more often as his condition worsened.” Toby squeezed his blond eyebrows together, blinked his dark, misty eyes and angled his face at the ceiling. “The man who performed my baptism, my first communion, and my wedding,” his voice cracked and he closed his eyes, “died three months after I came to the church. Next to marrying my wife, I consider working with him the best decision I ever made.” Sensing that none of the four listeners could come up with a response, Dave Walters changed the subject. “Which church did you work at? I lived in Portland for a while.” “St. Vincent’s. On Border Street.” “Border Street?” “Upside of town.” “Upside of town?” Chelsea, the librarian, chuckled at a pitch that did not agree with my ears. “Portland’s not big enough for more than one side.” “Wait, I’m talking about Portland, Oregon. Which Portland are you talking about?” “Portland, Maine,” Dave responded, nodding his bald head. “There’s a Portland in Maine?” The group erupted in laughter, and Claudia looked over enviously from her table by the register. My jaw started to ache. I rubbed the part of my face where my chin met my cheek, which needed a shave. I must have been grinding my teeth for some time. The vacationing “priest” approached the register. He actually had the nerve to wink at me. I shoved my sore jaw forward and uttered an obligatory, “What can I get ya?” If a smaller percentage of the town had been present I would have kicked him out. “Is a refill the same price or cheaper?” “Normally it’s a dollar, but since you’re all the way from Oregon you’re probably not familiar with the Maine Clergy Impersonation Tax.” Cynthia, Dave’s wife, tossed a dollar in the express payment jar. I had sort of wanted her to hear my response to Toby, but I knew she hadn’t when she poked Toby’s shoulder with her purple fingernail and chirped, “Don’t forget about poker Tuesday night!” Toby dropped a dollar on the counter and two in the tip jar. “I like your sarcasm. There are like four paragraphs about that in your Ellipsis Report, whenever you’re ready to face it. I slammed the register drawer and started cleaning up the smoothie station. When I turned back to the register, my jaw clenched more tightly than I knew possible. Toby had sat down at your daughter’s table. I started to leap over the counter at him, but didn’t get off the ground before Chelsea blocked my attack. “Are you going to have pumpkin chocolate chip muffins on Monday?” “Yes ma’am, every Monday.” I peered around her fluffy black hair, straining to hear Toby’s words over the gossiping gaggle of lobstermen by the Snapple cooler. “Well I was wondering if you could save a dozen of them for me.” Claudia giggled and covered her drawing with her hands. Toby leaned back in his chair and pointed at something out the window, something in the sky. I bent over and rolled my head back and forth on the counter, but I couldn’t see what Toby was pointing at. Claudia could. And she couldn’t take her eyes off it. Chelsea crouched down to make eye contact with me. “Are you okay? Caleb? Can you hear me?” I snapped back to a stand. “Yeah. Yep. Yes, we can definitely do a dozen.” “Aren’t you gonna write it down?” Toby handed Claudia his card. I broke the skin on my scalp with my fingernails as she read it. “Yeah. Sure.” I jotted down: “Chelsey 12 pumpkin Monday” on an abandoned receipt. “Actually, it’s Chelsea with an ‘a,’ not a ‘y.’” I tried to scribble over the “a” and ended up scribbling over the rest of her name and the “1”, then I wrote “Ch… a… 1.” “Are you sure Ezra’s gonna be able to read that?” Claudia and Toby’s chairs squeaked in unison. He bowed his head and took four rapid steps to the door. She scampered after him. He held the door open for her. She curtseyed and walked through it, not waving at me through the glass door like she always did when she left the shop. “Anything else I can do for you?” I was already in the kitchen, retreating toward the back door. “Sure. Half-caf double latte, no foam, shot of hazelnut. Wait, make that caramel. On second thought, maybe I do want foam? And I might want it in a bigger--” The door slammed behind me and I sprinted down the alley toward Main Street. I jumped over cardboard boxes, pretending I was in a video game. I lost at least twenty points when I collided with the trash barrel. It followed me out of the alley and sent a storm of napkins and paper plates into the intersection. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my beige Javafiction apron and paced with even steps and increasing anger. The unlikely pair awaited me on the library lawn. “What the --- do you think you’re doing?” “Language, Caleb.” “It’s one thing to recruit adults with no future into your silly little cult, but she is nine years old.” “My birthday was last week.” “Wow, cool! What day?” “Claudia, don’t answer him.” “The twenty-fourth.” “No way! That’s my birthday!” “He’s lying to you, Claudia!” “Really? How old did you turn?” “Thirty-two. I’m getting old.” “That’s not too old. My moms are forty-seven and fifty-three.” “Claudia! Remember how you told me your moms said not to talk to strangers?” “Well if I can break that rule to talk to you why can’t I break it to talk to a priest?” “My birthday buddy has a point, Caleb.” “Come on, Claudia, I’m taking you home.” “I don’t have to be home until dinnertime!” “Didn’t you hear? Dinner and lunch switched places. And breakfast is in the middle of the afternoon now.” “Ow! You’re hurting me!” And that’s when you came along. I didn’t know where Toby was taking her but I couldn’t allow her to go with him. I know you wouldn’t have either. She was screaming at me because she didn’t know she was in danger. Remember that feeling? Like no one could ever hurt you? Like everyone with a nice smile deserved your trust? Like as long as you were friendly everyone would be your friend? That’s the feeling Toby was enticing her with. He promised her a whole room, a whole house, a whole building, a whole town full of people who would never forget that feeling. I know this because he pulled the same [stuff] on me. And it was starting to sound really nice, but the smidgeon of trust I had for Toby vanished when he tried to extend it to Claudia. Best wishes, Caleb -------------------------------- no i will NOT wait three seconds! [This message has been edited by Christopher (10-31-2005 11:28 AM).] |
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| © Copyright 2005 Paula - All Rights Reserved | |||
Larry C
since 2001-09-10
Posts 10286United States |
Yup, it's definitely interesting. Hope you post the rest.  If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, I'd walk right up to heaven and bring you home again. |
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