I leave to put in Blanche’s order and begin my loop of the room, beginning with the round tables by the windows.
In between What can I get ya? and Would ya like me to top you off?, I keep an ear to the gossip, still mostly ’bout what’s being called Black Tuesday, the day the market fell apart. Most say it started falling apart with the opening bell. Like madmen, people were shouting, “Sell! Sell! Sell!” It’s no surprise over sixteen million shares switched hands. One woman, caught up in the drama, claims it took fifteen thousand miles of paper to record it all. When another woman starts yapping ’bout the investors who jumped from windows, I turn away, and the table in the corner catches my eye.
Clyde and Buck have joined Blanche.
I smile, anticipating Clyde’s smooth voice as he greets me.
He’ll pull me into his lap, and I’ll have to playfully squirm and say, “Let me go. I’m on the clock.”
The whole time, though, I’ll want to find that spot, just south of his shoulder, that God may’ve made for the sole purpose of me resting my head.
Clyde runs a hand along his hairline, and that’s when I’m snapped from my fantasy. His face is etched with concern. I rush over to my friends. “What’s going on?” I ask Clyde.
“Bonnie.” His eyes ain’t as vibrant as usual. “I’m sorry, but I got to go. We just came in to borrow Blanche’s car.”
Blanche’s expression is just as concerned as Clyde’s. I turn back to him. “Why? Are you okay?”
“Just a situation at home,” Buck answers for Clyde.
“Someone tell me what’s going on.”
“I will,” Clyde says, and half stands to sidestep from the booth. “Later. What time are you done today?”
“Now,” I say, lying, and untie my apron. “I’m done now. I’ll tell Marco I ain’t feeling well.”
Clyde studies me, and I hate that I can’t tell what he’s thinkin’. Finally, he says, “All right. Let’s go.”
The four of us pack into Big Bertha, boys in the front, girls in the back. I manage to hold my questions as Dallas passes us by, becoming less populated as we head toward Cement City, not toward the Barrow home. Finally, I whisper to Blanche, “Where’re we going?”
She leans closer. “I reckon it’s better you know what’s going on. Remember that train accident a few years back?”
I strain my memory. “You mean,” I whisper, “when that little girl was hit?”
Blanche nods yes, then toward the Barrow brothers. “I started to tell you before, how Dallas has some bad memories for their family…”
I don’t need her to say more. I also remember how, at the time of the accident, the little girl was the same age as Billie, eight. My heart drops. The situation was, and still is—as Clyde stares out the windshield, motionless—devastating.
Neither of the Barrow brothers has said a word since we left the café. We turn down a dirt road lined with trees, parallel with the tracks, and my chest tightens as I realize we’re going to the spot where their little sister was killed.
I gasp, hoping it wasn’t audible, hoping I ain’t right: today’s the anniversary of that little girl’s death. Blanche squeezes my hand. When Buck slows the car, I stare at my knees, afraid to see what awaits us.
“You can stay in the car if you want,” Blanche whispers.
She reaches for the door handle, and I slowly look up, find a gray-haired man and woman sitting alone, with their backs to us, at the edge of the tracks. The setting is serene: the sounds of the rushing river on the other side of the tracks, splotches of wildflowers lingering into the colder months, the man’s arm ’round the woman.
But all those things somehow make this worse, that something so beautiful could be the setting for something so tragic.
Three car doors close, one after another. A crash of thunder follows, and I notice the darkening skies. Blanche slips her hand into Buck’s, but they move only a few paces from Big Bertha. Clyde walks on alone. I bite my lip, not knowing how to act.
Clyde’s and my relationship is new. Does he like to deal with his emotions alone? Or is he the type of person who wants me there for support? He hesitated before he said I could come along. Why?
I stop torturing myself and get out of the car. But I stop next to Blanche, not following Clyde. He now sits beside his mother.
“She’s down here every weekend,” Buck says in a low voice, his sad eyes trained on his family. “But it’s always harder to get her to leave on this particular day, and with a storm coming … Clyde’s the only one who can ever get through to her.”
“I’m so sorry, Buck.”
He presses his lips together, nods. We stand there in silence, the darkness becoming more prominent with each passing minute. Finally, Clyde and his parents stand, and his ma hugs him, her shoulders shaking. It’s almost as if his daddy needs to be in constant contact with her, shifting with every motion she makes, as they begin walking down the road, away from us and toward an old, beat-up car.
Buck exhales. “We’ll give ’em a few minutes.”
’Til what? I think. Blanche heads back to Big Bertha, and I follow, unsure what’s going on. In the front seat, they exchange quiet voices. I feel out of place in the back of Big Bertha, out of place having witnessed something so private in Clyde’s and Buck’s lives.
When Buck begins driving, I’m happy to be moving, to be doing something. But that relief turns to a jumble of uncomfortable nerves at the sight of the Barrows’ service station. My mouth goes dry at the thought of walking through their door, as if I’m invading something too personal.
“Cumie makes the best food,” Blanche says.
Buck pulls the parking brake, rubs his hands together. “Ya can say that again. Ma’s got the golden touch.”
The shift in their tones, mannerisms, is jarring.
“You’ll see, Bonn.”
“Okay.” The word comes out prolonged, a question mark attached to the end.
My feet are heavy as I follow them to the apartment. Thunder rumbles in the distance, the sky dark. ’Cross the street, Old Jed sits on his stoop and, honest to God, part of me would be more eager to spend time with him than to go inside the Barrows’ solemn home—if Clyde ain’t happy to see me there.
The scent of cinnamon greets me, and I breathe in the comforting fragrance. Embers are fighting to take hold in the fireplace. Everything is neat and tidy, same as I remember it from before. Mr. Barrow sits in an armchair, reading the paper. He glances up and smiles, before wetting his thumb and noisily turning the page, giving it a firm shake to set the new page in place.
It’s as if I’ve walked into another world, even more so when I trail Blanche and Buck to the kitchen. Mrs. Barrow, short and plump, flutters from the stove to the sink to the counter.
“’ey, Ma!” Buck calls.
She turns, her hands finding her apron.
“Oh, Blanche,” Mrs. Barrow says, and rushes over to envelop her in a hug. She then turns to me. “And you must be Bonnie.”
I’ve a face full of breast before I know it, and I stutter out a muffled greeting.