Kate Fox & The Three Kings (11 page)

Billie padded down the stairs sometime later, lured in by the smell of fresh cornbread and spicy ground beef. She pulled her long auburn hair into a high ponytail before scooping chili into her bowl and sat down. She fiddled on her phone and waited for me and Aunt June to join her. Billie’s phone vibrated twice, but before she could check her messages, her mother interrupted: “Any gentleman callers I should know about?”

Billie produced a brief snort, shoving the phone into her jean pocket, “None worth writing home about. What about you, Kate?”

Nice deflection, I thought. I should deflect further. I cleared my throat, preparing my mouth for impending southern twang: “We are strong independent women who don’t need no man,” I spoke slowly and with great emphasis, shifting my eyes over to Billie, attempting to remain serious. All three of us exchanged looks and burst into a hoard of giggles.

“Did you hear Kate is going to apply for a job at the Soda Fountain?” Aunt June asked Billie as I smeared a pat of butter over a slice of warm cornbread.

“No, I didn’t catch that conversation,” Billie replied, staring at her chili. A long moment passed before she spoke again. “Mom…did you tell her about Mr. Hemming?”

“What about him?” Aunt June acted as though she had no idea what Billie was talking about.

“Well, gee, I don’t know? Just that he might not be the most…normal boss? That he’s a little strange?”

“Billie! Don’t say that about Mr. Hemming. You don’t know him.” Aunt June silenced Billie.

“What’s wrong with him?” I directed the question at Billie but welcomed an answer from either of them.

Before Billie could pipe up, Aunt June interrupted: “What your rude cousin is getting at, is that Mr. Hemming has an unusual injury and disposition. He’s not the most…affable man in town. He’s rather shy,” Aunt June stopped, but Billie urged her to continue, waving her hands in an impatient gesture. “There is nothing wrong with him, Billie!” she yelled, standing up quickly and taking our bowls from us, placing them in the sink. Billie was mid-bite when her bowl was jerked from her. “He’s just…he just keeps to himself, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with keeping to yourself. Actually, I wish more people would.”

And that was that. Aunt June stormed out of the room after giving her daughter a dirty look. Billie and I took care of the dish washing in silence, and then I departed to experience Mr. Hemming’s strangeness firsthand.  

The sun was setting into a melty orange sherbet when I stepped out onto Aunt June’s front porch. Only a few blocks away from home, after a quick walk down the road, past the historic cemetery, I spotted the familiar vintage Coca-Cola signs hanging in the glass window front. Olde Time Soda Fountain was located at the heart of Apalachicola’s tiny city center. The store was practically an antique, having withstood the test of time in a formerly manufacturing-based town. The effect of the constant salty breeze left its eroded mark on just about everything, including the Soda Fountain’s red exterior. The premise was in the title: the little ice-cream shop and tourist attraction hybrid was a glimpse of the past, with an extended mint green counter lined with red swivel stools that sat in front of the soda jerk and array of creamy concoctions.

As I pushed through the door, a little bell chimed above, announcing my presence, but the place appeared empty. Several tables that adorned the black and white checkered floor were gleaming with freshly cleaned shine, and the only sound throughout the shop emitted from the quarter machine, humming with its slate of quarters pushing forward on constant loop.

“Hello?” I called out when I caught sight of a tall figure, mopping at the back of the store. He jerked his head back to the sound, placing the mop in its bucket. When he spotted me, his dark brow shot up in surprise and chiseled jaw tensed. Instead of asking what I wanted, he redirected his attention to the bucket, picking it up and opening the back door to pour out the slosh. When he returned, he seemed like he was purposefully ignoring my presence, tidying here and there, not speaking to me.

“Look—I saw your ‘help wanted’ sign out front. I need to speak to Mr. Hemming…I’d…I’d like to get an application,” I blurted out, unable to tolerate being ignored. All I could see was his back, his broad shoulders gracing his tall frame; a ripple of muscle protruded from underneath his pale blue button up. I waited for an answer but received none, and then a serious case of verbal diarrhea took its course:

“I can work Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. I’m not particularly religious, so I’m not opposed to coming in on Sundays. I go to Gulf State on Monday and Wednesday. I’m taking four classes, so I’m stuck there from 8-5 on those days. I don’t have any experience in customer service, but I love ice cream…so I’m sure I’ll be a natural.” Well, that was stupid to say. Why did I say that? He still had not turned around. “Is there a uniform? I’ll wear whatever you’d like.” I considered his outfit for a moment. “Khakis and a button up? Conservative footwear?” No response. “A sundress? Cut offs and a t-shirt? Clown suit?” He turned his head ever so slightly with a raised brow, then went back to filling napkin dispensers.

I grew more impatient with each passing moment. His silence caused my stomach twist with embarrassment for even asking about the job, but my anger persuaded me to press forward. I was determined to get this dang job, scooping dairy out of large canisters and blending flavored syrups into delicious concoctions. “I’ll be here tomorrow for training. Great talk,” I shouted, rolling my eyes and heading towards the door to wallow in my embarrassment.

“Mmhm…Be here at ten,” a deep, gravelly voice caught me before I reached the door. I glanced back to flash a smile but stopped when I saw his face, this time, fully illuminated.

That night I lay in bed, wide-awake, mulling over the ice cream shop encounter. I knew I had met the Mr. Hemming Aunt June and Billie spoke of when saw his entire face: the scarring reaching the right side of his throat, speckled across the cheek, meeting an empty eye socket. The left side of his face was untouched.

I strolled out of the house at 9:45 the following morning, examining my reflection before exiting. I selected a black, sheer lace tank top, which fit loosely over a black camisole I had chosen to counteract the sheerness. On my bottom half, I wore indigo dark jeans that clung to every curve, because curve-hugging jeans were the only kind I currently owned. The jeans took approximately three minutes for me to coax on, jumping around and lying flat on the bed to zip. I slipped on stylish moccasins and arranged my wavy mane into a ponytail, tied off with one of Billie’s black ribbons, and grabbed two steaming to-go cups of coffee before leaving for my first day of work.

I knocked on the glass door when I arrived at the Soda Fountain. Technically, the place didn’t open until eleven. Mr. Hemming answered the door after a dreadfully long span of anxiety-filled moments. When my eyes met his face, I briefly allowed myself to explore his features before diverting my gaze. His scars weren’t as severe as I originally thought, but they were certainly his defining feature, competing with his thick, jet-black hair, cut and styled into an undercut with a deep side part, offset handsomely by olive skin. His good eye held an iris with a fascinating mixture of green and brown, like evergreen needles colliding with tree bark, and studied me as I stepped through the threshold and placed one of the coffees in his hand.

“Good morning,” I greeted, slicing the silence in half. Mr. Hemming stared at his coffee wordlessly. I walked past him, squeezed behind the counter and awaited my lesson, but Mr. Hemming remained silent. “I obviously didn’t know how you took your coffee, but there’s cream and sugar in it, ‘cause that’s how I like mine, and—”

He cleared his throat, cutting me off: “Hmph—the instructions are in front of you. Unlock the door at eleven. We close at 8. Mmm..I have a prior engagement, “ his voice was rough and his words were rushed. I wondered if his facial injury made it uncomfortable to speak, but before I completed that thought, Mr. Hemming hurried out the door.

On the inside, I panicked, but reassured myself he’d probably be back in an hour.
No big deal,
I told myself as I gulped down a sip of coffee. A blue binder sat on the counter, containing instructions ranging from how to heat up the hot fudge to a cherry soda recipe. Luckily, the binder included photos of the finished product. Curiously, the notes were in handwriting that I immediately identified as a woman’s: curly, neat lettering with meticulously dotted I’s. I wondered if they were written by Mr. Hemming’s girlfriend, or perhaps, wife. He was definitely old enough to be married, but not old enough to have produced and nurtured literate children. I pegged him at maybe, twenty-eight? Thirty?

I set up shop, pouring containers of hot fudge and sticky caramel sauce into their respective heating receptacles. A wave of relief hit when the majority of syrupy goodness splashed into the containers and not all over the checkered floor. I double-checked that the pumps were stocked with sweet cherry and vanilla syrups, and I memorized the varieties of enticing ice cream and sherbet stocked in the freezers. I hummed with nervous energy as I sipped my coffee and figured out how to work the register before anyone arrived.

My first customers strolled in around half past eleven; an elderly couple who quickly identified themselves as “regulars” when they realized I was new. “The wife will have Black Cow, and I’d like a chocolate egg cream with a pretzel rod, dear,” the old man winked at me and joined his wife at the counter. I had already learned the contents of a Black Cow, which was basically a root beer float: I filled a large mason jar half way with root beer, added two hearty scoops of vanilla ice cream, and delicately topped it all off with a little more root beer, admiring my work as the top mixture turned to foam. I stuck a paper straw in one side of the concoction and a long spoon in the other. The egg cream was pretty simple: seltzer water, whole milk, vanilla ice cream, blended with a drizzle of chocolate syrup, and a pretzel rod placed on top.

“How did I do?” I asked, eager for feedback after I rung them up.

“Oh honey, just great! And this is your first day? Where is Mr. Hemming?” the older lady glanced around after taking a sip of her drink. I beamed back at her and told them he had a ‘prior engagement,’ and we chatted while a continuous stream of customers piddled about, shopping for souvenirs and hovering around the quarter machine.

I gazed out the window while cleaning scoops to watch the sun setting over the bay. It was almost time to close, and Mr. Hemming hadn’t returned all day. I fiddled with the glass candy jars behind the counter and decided to sweep. The evening rush of traffic had ended. Overall, the first day of my employment was a success, with only a few hiccups, like overheating the hot fudge, which separated into a goopy, sugary mess. My stomach growled audibly. With no lunch break, I was starving. I idly wondered what Mr. Hemming’s policy was on employee ice cream consumption, when the bell chirped in a familiar symphony. I perked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“You may go home now,” the voice wasn’t mean, but it was dismissive. I watched Mr. Hemming take a seat at the counter, anger swelling in my chest. His outfit was different than the one he wore this morning, a slim white button up with dark jeans and brown leather boots.

“You’re not going to ask how my day went?” I fumed. “Who leaves their new employee by themselves on their first day?” I waited. “You’re seriously not going to say anything? You do know it’s illegal not to give your employee any breaks, right?”  I stared. Mr. Hemming moved to the register and inspected the day’s receipts.

“You have…butterscotch on your breasts.” He readjusted his gaze to the register, and I noticed a slight flush forming in his left cheek. I inspected my situation. Yep, that was butterscotch. I trailed a finger through the golden stickiness and popped it in my mouth, shrugging.

“I’ve got class tomorrow, ok?...See you Friday, then.”

“Good night, Miss Fox,” his good-bye hung in the air as I exited.

Most days at the Soda Fountain played out the same; I’d arrive around ten to get ready for opening, then Mr. Hemming deserted the shop for the day, showing up moments before close to relieve me of my duties. Occasionally, he’d pop in and work in his office, which was located at the back of the store. On Friday, a quarter to eight, I had enough of his withdrawn demeanor and craved real conversation. Questions burned on my lips, but my approach required amending, for I wished not to overwhelm Mr. Hemming with my chatter. Lately, all of my one-sided conversations with him ended in an embarrassing awkward amount of babbling.

I tiptoed down the hall, approaching his office, hoping I could crane my neck to catch a peek at what he was working on. I caught a glimpse of lamplight reflecting from his desk and into the hallway, and a scribbling pen filled the silent void. The pen’s scribble grew long and slow, eventually halting altogether. I guessed my subtlety was unsuccessful. Mr. Hemming lifted his gaze toward the door as soon as I appeared in the threshold. I gave a small, fake cough. “What is your first name?” I questioned, trying to be casual, conversational.

He studied me for a lingering moment. The void became vast and deep, with tangible silence and dismissive glances. I thought Mr. Hemming might ignore the question and go back to shuffling through paperwork.

“Hemming.”

“And your last name?” I stepped forward.

“Hemming.”

“Your name is Hemming Hemming? Like Humbert Humbert? Are you a
Lolita
fan or something?” I mumbled, wincing at my lack of tact. I busied myself with the array of knickknacks cast along his untidy desk. I picked up a framed photo and began to flip it over, fully expecting a display of Mr. Hemming cozied up with his wife or girlfriend.

“Just Hemming,” he corrected gruffly, snatching the frame out of my hands before I could snoop further. “Please refrain from fingering the entire contents of my desk.”

“So…I can drop the Mr.? And just call you Hemming?”

He didn’t nod or answer. Instead, Hemming reached into a drawer and held out an envelope for me, “Your paycheck, Miss Fox.” I relished in the way my name passed his lips and remained in his throat with a ragged sound. I considered requesting that he call me Kate, but instead, I grabbed the envelope and retreated, delaying by the door.