Part 3: 5 - The Cafe
2008, check in with Barb twenty years later
Things That Can’t Be Broken is a novel presented as a live draft, one chapter every week.
Last week: Part 3: 4 - Dust Bunnies • 1998, Caleb finds a letter
Part 3 | A Storm Blowing from Paradise
5 - The Cafe
Barb Ames
August 16, 2008
La Mesa, California
When the late afternoon sun hit the glass salt and pepper shakers it spread over the tables in radiants, highlighting every greasy fingerprint, stray bit of french fry, and leftover smear of maple syrup. It was the perfect time of day to tidy up, while the cloud of burger sweat was still settling to the grill between lunch and dinner. Barb’s hands flew across the counter tops, empty tables, and seats, cleaning and drying them in movements as easy as breathing. Every ketchup bottle would soon be freshened. The pink Sweet & Low packets lined up neatly next to the Domino Sugar packets without a thought.
To celebrate her in-between hour accomplishments, Barb squatted and reached under the counter. Behind the boxes of disposable creamer cups was a mayonnaise jar labeled “silver polish”, just like the one she had found tucked under the kitchen sink after Mom died. She unscrewed the top and took a quick swig, the burn of the gin a guilty comfort.
Barb was only eighteen when she first filled Mom’s work shoes at The Coffee Cup, literally to begin with, though they were a bit tight on her feet. She earned enough money as a waitress, along with Dad’s garnered contribution, to pay the rent. She had worn down the vinyl floors between these booths for twenty years since then. She never planned to be there so long, but she wasn’t Maeve Allen after all, so she didn’t plan otherwise either.
Barb had to count on Charlie to keep an eye on Mom when she first came home from the hospital, but that didn’t last. He was so young, easily distracted, and one afternoon Charlie was out skateboarding when he was supposed to be watching her. Mom tried to get a drink of water, fell, and spent hours sprawled across the bedroom floor. Barb had laid into him that day. She cringed at the memory. She had called him a “useless spoiled brat,” which she immediately regretted. He was just a kid. But the damage was already done. They were never as close after that.
Looking back, it was Aunt Helen Barb had to thank most. She was there as often as she could be between her own work and family. Her cousin, Ed, had even spent a few hours a week at the house, until the feeding tube happened. Mom couldn’t swallow after the second stroke. From there on out her meals looked like pea soup and travelled straight to her stomach through a tube—up her nose. To this day, Barb couldn’t look at pea soup. Mom didn’t last more than a couple months after that.
Poor Mom. Maybe if I had started working sooner, if she hadn’t had the stress of two jobs. . . Maybe Dad was right all along about her.
Nah.
She would never concede to that man.
Not long after Mom passed, Charlie went to live with Dad full time. Barely nineteen, and having just lost Mom, Barb couldn’t fight it, didn’t have the will to try. She had to let go of the house, so she stayed with Aunt Helen and Uncle Bill for a few years until she met Sergio.
Serge.
You would think with a name like that he’d be a bundle of energy. What had she seen in him? His curly black hair? His perfect skin? His sad eyes? He was company. And he needed her in ways she hadn’t experienced before. Not that he was ever a ball of fire in the bedroom, but it was something. And he did bring in some rent money for a stretch every now and then.
Serge’s son was also Sergio but he went by Bubba. They had him almost every other weekend. Barb liked the boy fine, though she could never get many words out of him. When he came away from the video games, he was always polite, if quiet.
Tonight would be one of those nights Serge let Bubba bring a friend over to spend the night, so Barb could expect two adolescent faces glowing in front of the screen, handsets raised and clicking madly. She decided to hit the 7-11 on the way home for a gallon of milk and a box of powdered donettes for breakfast. Kids love those things. Maybe she would go next door and pick up a bottle of something at the liquor store for herself, too.
She heard the cafe door swing open. A small woman with long black hair, wearing a simple sundress, walked in with a white-haired old man in a plaid shirt and jeans. The guessing game began in Barb’s head as she grabbed a couple of menus and led them to a booth. The woman had smooth skin, but there were a few strands of gray in her hair, so Barb guessed she was probably in her mid-forties. Once she sat down and Barb had a good look at her face, her features were very familiar. The old man was lighter skinned and tall. He didn’t look like he could be her father, except for his age. They didn’t interact like a couple, either. He had a proper but warm vibe. Minister?
Barb brought them water and took their order. The woman ordered the Ceasar salad.
Her voice. It couldn’t be, could it? It was. Dani’s mom. Mrs. Cartwright. It had to be her.
Barb had a ridiculous urge to duck out the back door. Would she recognize her?
As Barb passed to seat another table, she couldn’t help but listen to Mrs. Cartwright and the old man’s conversation. Mrs. Cartwright said, “I’m so glad you were free tonight. I haven’t talked to Tim for months. I know it isn’t my place to worry anymore, but I do.”
“Well, it’s good to see you Lisa, though there is nothing to worry about. He calls me at least every week or two,” said the old man. “He sounds good. Always busy. I’m sure you’ll hear from him tomorrow for her birthday. He mentioned it last time we talked.”
Gotta be Mr. Cartwright’s father. The Cartwrights must have divorced.
Barb felt a tightening in her throat. She was thirty-eight, so Dani would have been—thirty. Her lips tensed and she shook her head slightly at the thought. The woman whose order she was taking raised an eyebrow and said, “Is the chicken dry? Should I order something else?”
“No, not at all,” replied Barb, realizing she had shaken her head while she was writing down the order. “It’s quite juicy, a very good choice.”
“Let me think some more,” said the woman, not convinced. Her friend ordered a hamburger, then the first woman ordered the meatloaf instead.
Barb’s heart skipped a beat after she passed Mrs. Cartwright’s booth again and heard her, saying, “I really do think I know that waitress from somewhere.”
When Mrs. Cartwright came to the register to pay for the meal, her hands were shaking. Had they been shaking the whole time, or were they shaking now because she knows who I am? As she pulled out cash from her wallet, something yellow flew out onto the floor. Mrs. Cartwright didn’t seem to notice. Barb pointed at the floor and said, “I think you dropped something, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Cartwright. She leaned down to pick up the yellow scrap of paper, inspecting it before she looked up again. “You look familiar. Did you used to live on Amherst?”
“Yes, Barb Ames. Are you Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Lisa,” she said, extending a trembling hand.
They shook hands and Barb did her best to get past her unease with a friendly smile.
“It’s good to see you,” said Lisa. “I hope you’ve been well.”
Was that a flicker of judgement? Nobody is that nice to someone who led their daughter to her death. Barb gave her an awkward, “Yes, good to see you, too.”
The old man held the door and Mrs. Cartwright walked out, still staring at the scrap of paper between her fingers like she had never seen anything so interesting.
“What is it?” said the old man.
“Nothing. An old address. . .” was the last thing Barb heard Dani’s mother say as the door closed behind them.
Barb didn’t sleep well that night. She left the house while Serge, Bubba, and his friend were all still asleep. She hadn’t been out to Blue Haven Lane for years, not since the bridge dedication. She was curious how the place looked these days, maybe it was time to pay another visit. On the way to her car, she plucked a tiny bouquet of fragrant gardenias from the hedge and held them to her nose, sniffing the strong sweet scent before placing them in the passenger seat.
Deep down Barb knew it was bullshit, the feeling that somehow what happened to Dani all those years ago was her fault, but still . . . The feeling was hard to shake, like a big bad dose of karma that just kept giving.
She turned off the highway and drove up the hill to park by the Allen Haven Ranch gate. The road she could see inside the gate was growing wild. Mustard weaved through the the chain on the gate. No one had been driving back there to the house, or not often anyway, and not recently. Last time she had been up here, the road beyond the gate had been clear of weeds, but not anymore.
The pepper tree grabbed Barb’s attention. It always seemed to shimmer from a distance, but when she got up close it was just an ordinary pepper tree. She placed the gardenias on the ground next to the tree in the spot where she imagined they found Dani’s body. A crow cawed above her head, and she looked up. It was sitting there staring at her from a small branch.
“Hello crow,” Barb said.
It clacked lightly and cocked its head as if in response. She put her hand up on the trunk near the branch where it was perched, half expecting it to. . . What? Come sit on her shoulder? It didn’t move away; apparently it wasn’t afraid of her.
“I knew a little girl who was murdered,” Barb said, half to the crow, half to herself. She stared away from the tree toward Allen Haven Ranch. “The flowers are for her. Back then I was just a stupid kid, I thought I could play with horses all my life. She was like me. Big dreams. The Allens couldn’t play with horses all their lives either I guess.”
The crow shifted its feet and flapped its wings when she looked back, but it didn’t make a sound. “It was such a long time ago,” Barb added. “A lifetime. Back then I believed everything the Allens said, all their crazy ideas about following your dreams. I ate up that crap. Even Mom seemed to have higher expectations for me than I ever did. Life is just something you have to get through, isn’t it, crow?”
The crow looked away, bored, Barb guessed.
As she walked back to the car, she caught movement behind her. The crow had hopped down to the ground and was inspecting the gardenias. It took one and flew off. “I didn’t bring that for you,” she said. “But why not? Enjoy.”
She’d heard crows collected things. Maybe this one liked the smell of the gardenias as much as she did. She didn’t think Dani would mind.
Barb half-saluted as she turned away from the tree. “I’m sure I’ll be back. Until next time, Dani.”
Barb thought she might stop at the bridge to take at look a the plaque, but when she got there she passed it by. It was just another reminder that the Allens weren’t coming back. Nothing good was coming back. Life sucked. So what? Get used to it. Forget your childish dreams, keep your head down, and keep moving in your own lane. Otherwise, good people might die.
She arrived early for work; a canvas bag tucked under her arm. Waving hello, she passed the kitchen where the cooks were setting up for Sunday brunch. She went straight for the cupboard under the counter and pulled out the mayonnaise jar. Lifting it to her lips, she took two big swigs before deftly refilling it without ever removing the new bottle from under her sweater in the bag. Probably that too was just like Mom would have done.
Next
Part 3 | A Storm Blowing from Paradise
6 - Hideaway
Behind-the-Scenes Extra
It was hard for me to show you this more negative side of Barb, though I knew I had to do it.
Next week’s chapter includes The Storyteller from Part 1, so I’ve been thinking a lot about storytellers this week between rounds of edits.
To me, there is a distinction between a storyteller and a fiction writer, although a person can be, and often is, both a storyteller and a fiction writer. But a storyteller has a talent for the oral telling of a story, as in, the performance of the story, where a fiction writer writes the precise chosen words.
Every time a storyteller tells a story, the words may not be the same, and even the length of the story and the emphasis may not be the same, depending on the audience. I have admired this ability for most of my life. It’s one of those talents the people who have it don’t always realize.
During my twenties, I was introduced to Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ work by a friend back in the early 90s, not long after my mother passed. I was intrigued by Estés’ interpretation of fairytales, and I would imagine conversations with my mom about them. But more than anything, it turned me onto the author’s audiobooks. She is a beautiful storyteller. Mesmerizing.
I’ve listened to two-thirds or more of her extensive collection. Maybe she also appeals to me because of my Catholic and Slavic roots and the Hispanic roots of my husband’s family. She weaves the old cultures together and uses her voice to make you feel ancient inside—in a good way, as in connected to everyone who has come before.
I own collections of myths and fairytales from around the world, Navajo, Irish, German, Japanese, Russian, Portuguese, Swahili. . . I wish I could say I’ve read them all. I have read many, but fairytales written down are often very dry. They were never meant for reading; they were meant for telling.
I’ll be taking you back to The Storyteller in the next chapter.
I can’t wait to share more from her.