“I don’t know what you’d call it. They were just shooting stars.”
“Showers are named after their radiants. That’s the constellation they fall from. But they’re not really stars, just debris left over from comets going around the sun. Space garbage.” She poured some salt onto one of her French fries and ate it. Then she poured some salt onto another and ate that, too. She kept the shaker in her hand, going through the whole plate, one fry at a time. “Tonight’s called the Perseids, because the meteors look like they’re coming from Perseus. He’s the one who killed the Gorgon. The hero.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I heard it on the radio,” said the girl. “Plus, I have this.” She held out her foot and showed him a spray of tiny stars tattooed around her ankle.
Conversations like this usually made Hawley feel backed into a corner, but the girl had him curious. He thought about the stars getting needled into the skin of her leg. He thought about lifting that same leg and resting it on his shoulder and kissing those stars. And he thought about the meteors he’d seen out West. For bits of garbage, they’d shone awful bright.
The waitress came in from her smoke break and took the coffeepot and brought it over to the truckers and filled their mugs. Then she started cleaning the counter.
“You got milkshakes?” the girl asked her.
“Sure,” said the waitress.
The girl gave a big smile. “I’d like one, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Harry,” the waitress called. “Milkshake.”
The old cook’s face popped up in the window. “What kind?”
“Chocolate,” the girl said.
“Sure,” said the cook and he disappeared again.
“You finished?” the waitress asked Hawley.
He was but he wanted to watch the girl drink her milkshake. “I’ll have some more coffee.”
The waitress took away his plate and filled his mug to the brim. They all listened to the blender going and then the cook set up a tall metal canister and a small glass in the kitchen window and the waitress put them in front of the girl, along with a straw with the paper still on. Then the waitress moved to the other end of the diner and started wiping down a pile of plastic menus.
The girl poured some of the shake into the glass. She opened the straw and stuck it into the metal canister, started drinking and pushed the glass over to Hawley.
“No thanks,” he said.
“Shakes have to be shared,” she said. “It’s a rule.”
“All right,” said Hawley. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had ice cream. The milkshake was cold and slid down the back of his throat, a great creamy dollop.
“You’ve got one more chance,” the girl said.
“I said I’m no good at guessing.”
“Then I’ll tell you.” She took a long sip, her cheeks sucked in, her lips tight around the straw. Then she slid her hand off the icy metal cup, leaned close and touched the tip of his elbow with her frosty fingers. “I’m going to rob this place.”
Hawley checked the mirrors first, the corners, then over the kitchen window. The waitress was still cleaning the menus, the truckers still talking loudly in the corner, the cook nowhere to be seen. He glanced down at the duffel bag and Jove’s satchel, safely tucked between his stool and the counter. Then he turned and caught the tail end of the girl’s breath, coated with milk and ice cream.
“You’re kidding,” he said.
The girl laughed and let go of his arm and Hawley took another drink from the glass, tasting the chocolate syrup. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You believed me,” she said.
“Nope.”
“You did.”
The truckers all got up at once then and moved over to the cash register to pay their bills. They’d asked for separate checks, so it took the waitress a while to ring them up. She counted out the change while the men tipped her. Then the truckers straightened their hats and said their goodbyes and hit the bathroom and strolled out of the diner and climbed up into their cabs and started their semis and eighteen-wheelers and drove them out of the parking lot. All the while Hawley blushed and the girl kept smiling.
“That was the best milkshake I’ve ever had,” she said. “I think I’d like another.”
“We’ve got strawberry,” said the waitress.
“Fantastic,” said the girl.
The cook fired up the blender again. The waitress looked the girl over. “You coming from a party or something?” she asked.
“No,” said the girl. “A funeral.”
“I’m sorry,” said the waitress.
“It’s all right,” said the girl. “I didn’t really know him.”
The cook finished the shake and rang the bell. The waitress collected the glass and the metal canister from the window and put both in front of the girl with two straws this time. Then she gathered the sugar dispensers from the tables and started refilling them in the corner.
The girl opened both straws. She put one in the canister, one in the glass. She poured part of the milkshake and slid it over to Hawley.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m full.”
“I told you, it’s a rule.” She took a sip. “Real strawberries. I wasn’t expecting real strawberries.” Then she put her head down on the counter and closed her eyes. She was wearing lipstick and it had worn away in the middle from eating her hamburger and sucking on the straw, but the edges were still bright.
“Who was it that died?” Hawley asked.
“My father.” She kept her head on the counter, her eyes closed. “I didn’t know where to go after the funeral. It was either this or a bar.”
“Need a drink?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “And no. I’ve been sober for a year. So it’s only milkshakes for me.”
Hawley kicked his bag aside, so there was more room between them. He could feel the bottle of whiskey he had there roll underneath his foot. “You never met your father?”
“He left when I was a kid. But he used to send me singing telegrams for my birthday each year. He never forgot. It made my mom so mad. I used to think I’d get along better with him. I even ran away a few times, trying to find him. And now I have his truck. A giant snow truck, with a plow and emergency lights and everything.”
Hawley didn’t know what to say. His own father had died of a stroke when he was fifteen. Since then Hawley had been on his own, and now he was the same age his father had been when he was born. Thirty. It didn’t seem young and it didn’t seem old, exactly, but it was half a life gone, at least.
Hawley took a long sip from the glass. The girl was right—the cook had used real strawberries. The seeds were there, at the back of his tongue, tangy and fresh and full of flavor. It was as if he’d stepped into a garden, brushed aside the spiders and found a perfect berry, unspoiled and ripened by the sun.