Authors: Carolyne Aarsen
I forced myself to calm down while I waited for Amelia. She didn't need to get any more stressed than she already was.
Ten minutes later, I realized that somehow she had snuck past me. No-show.
Now I was out six bucks and I had a package of disposable diapers. Just what every single woman needs on hand.
As soon as I got home, I called Leslie. But she didn't answer and she wasn't at work, and I wasn't about to start working
my way through the Harland phone book to track her down just to satisfy my anger.
I had to calm myself to make up the fruit platter for that night anyway. Anger and knives are a recipe for bloody fingers
and a quick trip to the ER.
Twenty minutes later, I had the fruit arranged on a plate and covered with Saran Wrap and I was on my way again. The walk
calmed me down, and as I walked, my mind spun through the variables of Amelia's life. Rod, who didn't seem supportive, talking
to Leslie, who didn't object when her friend Kathy said Madison should be taken away.
And why do you care? You're not going to be here forever. Don't get involved.
But I couldn't just walk away. Amelia's situation was eerily close to my own.
As my feet pounded out my steady waitress rhythm on the sidewalk, my mind flitted back to something the minister had said
on Sunday.
Atonement.
Maybe I needed to atone for my bad decisions, I thought. Maybe atonement—helping Amelia—would help erase the stupid mistakes
I had made, straighten the wrong turns my life had taken.
Maybe helping Amelia would take away this nagging feeling that my life was heading in the wrong direction. Maybe I could have
a moment of purpose before I moved on.
Who are you kidding? You can't help anyone. You've got a court case coming up—or have you forgotten the reason you've stuck
around as long as you have?
I tried to brush the errant thought away. I had lots of reasons to stay awhile. Leslie. Nicholas. Anneke. I needed to connect
with all of them.
Leslie comes with a whole load of other stuff you aren't ready to take on. Church. Family. Expectations. Everything comes
at a price. Staying with Leslie could cost you more than you're willing to pay.
Leslie was my family. She was all I had.
And what is she going to think once you get hauled through the court system?
I stopped, closed my eyes, and willed the thought away. Ever since I'd been fingerprinted, I had tried to ignore the ignominy
of the situation. My focus had been paying Leslie back. I hadn't given much thought beyond that.
I'd need a lawyer, probably. And how was I supposed to pay for that? Legal aid?
Stop. Stop. You're going to have supper with Cor. Think about that. Only that.
I straightened my shoulders and stepped around the corner.
Jack's silver pickup was parked on Cor's street.
I
stopped so fast the pineapple I had spent so much time working on almost slid off the plate.
I was not ready to see Jack right now.
I still got a faint shiver when I remembered the intensity of his gaze on Sunday, the warmth of his hand on my shoulder.
An aluminum screen door slapped open, and Cor stood on the concrete step of his little stucco house. “Hey, Terra. There you
are.” He waved as if he hadn't seen me in days instead of mere hours. “Come on in.”
I saluted him with the fruit tray, my fate for the next hour sealed.
Maybe Jack had just stopped by to check Cor's hot water tank, maybe put salt in the water conditioner, I consoled myself as
I trudged up the cracked sidewalk, edged by overgrown grass. Maybe he was leaving soon.
“Guess who's staying to have dinner with us?” Cor boomed in my ear as he pulled me close in a hug. “Jack!”
Maybe I was delusional.
“My, isn't that nice.” A tad insincere, but I could be excused for not jumping up and down with paroxysms of jubilation. Jack
was too quickly becoming… interesting.
After I finished my good deeds, I had every intention of leaving Harland and leaving intact. Jack was a complication, and
even though I didn't quite believe Leslie's assertion that he was interested in me, I had no intention of becoming a complication
in his life either.
“Come in, come in. Supper is almost ready.” As Cor ushered me into the house, he looked down at the plate I'd brought and
his smile faltered. “What did you bring me?”
“Some lovely pineapple, some delicious melon, scrumptious orange pieces, juicy grapes, and fruit dip.”
“Well That sounds—”
“Nutritious,” I supplied, then took an exaggerated sniff. “And it smells wonderful in here.” I caught the distinctive scent
of onions, garlic, and something else I couldn't define.
“Come on in. We're just about ready to eat.” He took the plate from me and led the way, wheezing as he walked, which made
me doubly glad I had brought the fruit.
He led me through a cramped and cluttered living room—papers lay stacked in a precarious pile against a chair; paperback and
hard-covered books blanketed the coffee table. A tattered afghan hung over one arm of a cracked leather chair.
A man's domain.
And then we were in the kitchen. And there was Jack, standing by the stove.
He wore blue jeans again and a loose cotton shirt. The country music wailing out of the radio competed with the sizzle from
whatever Jack was frying. He glanced up at me as Cor and I entered the small kitchen. Gave me a neutral smile, which made
me relax. A little.
“Hi. Welcome to Chez De Windt. Would you like something to drink?” He gestured toward a table decked with a brown and-gold-plaid
tablecloth and three place settings made up of mismatched dinnerware.
Two pitchers, one holding water and the other orange juice, sat on the table, condensation slipping down their exteriors onto
the tablecloth.
I shook my head. My little jaunt here had made me more hungry than thirsty. That, and the fact we'd been so busy at the diner
all day, I hadn't had a chance to grab more than a random bite from a hamburger Lennie had set aside for me.
“It smells good in here,” I said.
“As soon as the Iron Chef is done, we can eat,” Cor announced, giving me an encouraging smile as he pulled open the refrigerator
door and put the fruit platter inside. “Hey, Terra. How do you know you've had an elephant in your fridge?”
“I don't know.”
“You can see his footprints in the butter.” Cor laughed, slapping his knee.
“Can I do anything?” I asked, hoping he wouldn't come up with another joke.
“No. You sit down and let us serve you.” Cor pulled out a chair at the far end of the table and motioned for me to come sit
down.
From that vantage point I could see the entire kitchen. The counter was strewn with vegetable peels and seeds and plastic
bags. Among the detritus of vegetables were nestled two cutting boards, knives resting across them as if waiting for the next
onslaught.
“Jack's a very good cook, you know,” Cor said, plunking a cup of water in front of me.
Very subtle.
“Jack lives on his own place, of course. But sometimes he comes here and cooks for me.” Cor beamed at his son, obviously his
pride and joy.
I gave Cor a careful smile as I balanced my interest between… well… interest and… not interest.
The look Jack directed at me started out as
What can I do?
then changed as our eyes met. His expression started a familiar prickle at the nape of my neck.
Too late I caught Cor's gaze flicking from Jack to me and back again.
“Jack's been fixing his place up himself, you know. He's real handy with a hammer #8230;”
“You can put the rice on the table,” Jack said, tipping his chin toward the pot on the back burner of the stove, stopping
Cor mid-admiration.
Cor scurried over to the stove, grabbed the pot, and dropped it directly on the table with a muffled
thunk.
Lines of brown streaked the sides of the pot.
“You could put it in a bowl, Dad,” Jack muttered. “Or at least put a hot pad under it.”
“Nah. The table can handle it, and a bowl would just give us one more thing to wash up.” Cor rubbed his hands. “What else?”
“Spoons?”
“Right.” Cor yanked open a drawer and rattled through it, pulling out a misshapen spoon with a triumphant grin. “I got one.”
“We'll need two, Dad.”
“Gotcha.”
“Is the salad ready?”
“Not yet.”
For the next few minutes, I watched Jack order an increasingly flustered Cor around.
Cor ran his fingers through his hair, washed his hands, adjusted his suspenders, picked up a knife, cut up some more salad—all
the while his eyes flicking from me to Jack and back again.
I offered to help a couple of times, but each time Cor waved off my suggestion with his knife, which frightened me more than
the erratic chopping did. Cor didn't relax until the food was on the table and we were sitting down. He glanced at Jack again,
smiled, then looked at me. “We usually pray before our meals,” he said.
“Of course.”
I waited until Jack bowed his head, then followed suit.
“Our heavenly Father,” Cor prayed, his voice taking on a deep, reverential tone, “we come before Your throne of grace to thank
You for the blessings You have given us out of Your bountiful hand. We ask You to look upon us, Your children, in Your love
and bless us in our work.”
In spite of the formal tone and the religious language, his words created a space that sounded well visited, a path well trod.
I could imagine that this God he was talking to could well be the same God that Father Sam spoke of when he talked of consolation.
A connection, as thin and insubstantial as a spider's web, anchored them together as Cor's prayer showed me his relationship
with God.
Intrigued, I followed along as his voice ebbed and flowed. I was surprised to hear the love and connection to God in his voice,
his tone. A love that seemed at once utterly foreign and utterly desirable as he referred to God as Father.
I thought of Cor's comment about my oblivious father, and for the second time that day, my emotions trembled.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull myself out of the insidious snare Cor wove with his voice and his conviction as he
named each of his kids and prayed for them in turn. Even Jack, who was sitting right beside him.
“And, Lord, we pray for Terra…”
My heart jumped.
Me?
He was bringing my name before this God he was speaking so intimately with?
No. Not a good idea. I preferred to stay out of God's line of sight, thank you.
“Be with her in her work, and give us a good time together this evening.”
Well, that sounded innocuous enough. “Help her feel Your presence in her life. Give her comfort and encouragement…”
I bit my trembling lip against the swell of yearning that his innocent words brought up.
G
ive me your plate and I'll scoop you up,” Cor said, holding his hand out.
“She can help herself.” Jack placed the pot of rice beside me.
“Look how skinny she is. She needs good food,” Cor protested.
Jack let his eyes drift upward in a “Help me” moment, then lifted the lid off the pot. “Here you go. Help yourself to some
china.”
“What?”
“Oh, c'mon. I thought that was diner slang for rice.”
“You've been doing your homework,” I said, trying to regain some of my shaken equilibrium.
“I like to keep up.”
“Not hard to do with me when I'm on foot most everywhere I go.”
“You check out my car after,” Cor said as he spooned a mound of soft, fluffy rice onto my plate. “It's a good car. A Shadow.”
“Of its former self.” Jack passed the stir-fry spoon. “That thing has been around the world. Twice.”
“Don't exaggerate.” Cor grabbed the spoon and dropped a huge pile of steaming vegetables and chicken on top of the rice. “It
only has a hundred and eighty-seven thousand miles on the odometer.”
“My bad. Seven and a half times. It's ready for the junk heap.”
“What do you mean? I drove that car until I got my truck.”
“You've had your truck for four years, Dad.”
“Only two.” Cor filled a small bowl with salad, poured a liberal amount of dressing on it, and pushed it my way.
“You bought it when Harland put that right-of-way through to the interstate. That was four years ago.”
I ate, and they argued. But their argument held no rancor. It was as if they both felt obligated to spar and parry. I got
a sense that beneath the surface bickering lay a relationship that had depth and roots. A relationship not easily shaken.
I didn't mind not having to participate, content in my role as spectator. The food was good, spicy with a hint of ginger.
The house was cozy—as worn and lived in as an old sweater. It had that early sixties look with its turquoise Arborite countertops
and blue-and-brown-striped wallpaper. A few of the pale green tiles on the backsplash were missing. The varnish around the
curved brass handles of the kitchen cupboards had been worn away by countless hands opening their doors. This house had history,
I thought, taking in the scuffed line and pencil marks by the door, marking off the heights of the various DeWindt progeny.
I wondered how often Cor's other kids came home. I wondered if they knew that Cor prayed for them. Every day, I was sure.
Did they just assume that would happen, or did they really appreciate it? Did Jack?
“I'm sure Dan could fix it up for you if there are problems. Right, Terra?”
With a start I pulled myself away from my contemplations and back into the conversation.
“Does the car have problems?”
“I don't know. I haven't run it for”—he raised his eyebrows toward Jack—“four years, according to my know-it-all son. But
if you bought it, you wouldn't have to hitchhike everywhere. It would be much, much safer for you, girl.”
He sounded so excited about the prospect, I hated to rein in his enthusiasm. “That would be pretty cool, but I can't afford
to buy a car and then spend money on repairs.”