Leaving the Comfort Cafe (14 page)

He rang Blythe’s doorbell, but either it wasn’t working or the ring was so faint, he couldn’t hear it. The door was slightly cracked. He poked his head inside and gingerly called to her.

“Come in!” she bellowed, as if she were expecting the refrigerator repairman. “I’m just putting the finishing touches on my face.”

Austin hated the choreographed awkwardness that came when he entered a person’s home for the first time. His curiosity drove him to look at everything, every scrap of paper, every little knickknack on the shelves…but he backed away, afraid Blythe would suddenly pounce on him and render him as helpless as the two snakes she hoed to death.

Plastic fruit magnets crowded her refrigerator door. There were mangoes, bananas and even a few types Austin had never seen before. The only piece of paper they secured was a scrap listing the library’s summer hours.

A pea green sofa that was obviously the bounty of some thrift store—or dumpster—venture dominated the living room. Strangely, the pathetic sofa complemented a large, oversized painting of a farmer leading a white plow horse down a lonely country road, with shades of mountains in the background. The painting was tired and exhausting; Austin sympathized with the farmer. He sympathized even more with the horse.

In the corner of the painting, a small, white label declared: Property of the Suffolk County Library. Austin had no idea where Suffolk County was.

Her coffee table was worn, like the kind you see in the lobbies of public buildings. Austin wondered if it also came from the Suffolk County Public Library. A blue bra was staring at him from underneath the edge of the sofa. Austin decided to ignore it, but it took a good deal of deliberate effort. She had a small TV with rabbit-ear antennas and a rotary phone. Do they even make rotary phones anymore? It was as if the whole world had aged but this house had stayed the same.

Then Austin noticed that there were no framed photos, no books, no posters, not even any junk mail. On the table, a forgotten cup of coffee stood guard over yellowed newspaper clippings. The coffee was starting to form an interesting bacteria culture. Trying to get his mind off the bra, he removed the cup and examined the articles. One featured a photograph that was obviously one of those senior high school glamour shots. Was that Blythe? Looks too sophisticated to be Blythe. Looks too refined to be real. Must be the photography or something. It is a senior portrait after all.

The article:

Suffolk County Student Gets Perfect Score on SAT

“Blythe Shelley, 16, the daughter of Hunter and Selma Shelley, made a 1600 on the Scholastic Aptitude Exam, a standardized test required of all students who plan to enter college.”

Austin’s curiosity found a ravenous hunger that burst out of his control, forcing his hands to shift through the other articles on the table. One featured a bespectacled teen in a cap and gown.

Pinchot High School Senior Nets Ivy League Scholarship

Student sets her sights on Cornell

There was also a church newsletter, featuring a picture of a mountain stream and BLESSED BE THE LORD in all capital letters superimposed on the water.

“Hearts and prayers go out to Blythe Shelley as she starts at Cornell this fall…”

Why sling hash at a mom-and-pop’s when you had a free ride to study at Cornell?

“Blythe is planning to study art history and photography.”

Maybe it was a joke; maybe it was a mismatched parody someone wrote of what they hoped their life would be. Like one of those ninth-grade English assignments they give you when they want you to write down your career goals.

“Blythe wants to become a wildlife photographer and complete an extensive history of the wild ponies of the North Carolina Outer Banks.”

She missed Cornell? Did she go and get kicked out? What was this stuff doing just lying around…or did she mean for me to find it?

“Zip me, would ya, hon?”

Blythe had backed into the room, holding her hair in one hand and pointing to the zipper with the other. She had managed to get the zipper two-thirds of the way up, but it had stalled just slightly above where her bra hooked. Austin was thankful it was not a strapless dress.

“Sure.” He stammered, as if she expected an explanation for why he was going through her things. “I just—you left this coffee cup.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the coffee table. “Oh that,” she sighed and took the coffee cup and dumped its remains in the kitchen sink. “Don’t worry about it,” she called behind her. “It’s nothing.”

He didn’t know if she was talking about the old coffee or the old newspapers.

When she entered the room, Austin realized his panic over the articles made him overlook that she had dyed her hair jet-black, and he suddenly realized how pale and fragile her complexion was. Blythe fiddled with one strand of hair that seemed determined to rest on the wrong side of her part. Her sapphire blue dress was simple, classy, and low-cut. She had even tamed her nails to a conservative shade of burgundy. Her cleavage showed just enough to be tempting. Austin was just glad he wasn’t introducing her to his mother.

“Your hair…” He tried to disguise the fact that he was staring at her breasts.

“You like?”

“Yes,” he said. The dark curls made her green eyes emit a peaceful glow.

“Glad you like it.” She placed a small tube of lipstick in a tiny, sequined purse. “I think life is simply too short to only have one hair color.”

She briefly fumbled for her keys to lock the door. Austin noticed her hand trembled slightly, as if she had not been on a date in a very, very long time.

He wanted to ask her about the articles, but just before the event was not the right time. He didn’t want her to have any excuse to back out on him. Especially when she looked so beautiful. Blythe had a faux pearl necklace that accented the delicate, almost equine curve to her graceful neck. For the first time, Austin felt as if he were thousands of miles from Conyers.

“Blythe, I—I’m glad you decided to come with me. “

“Yeah, I know. Any time of reunion can be a pain. I mean, it’s better than being poked in the eye with a sharp stick, but not by a whole lot.”

The afternoon chill had melted into a mild night. Seasons and weather fronts meant nothing in eastern North Carolina, mainly because the weather changed every ten minutes, anyway.

For the first time, he noticed how long her eyelashes were.

Austin opened the truck door and helped her into her seat, though they both knew that Blythe didn’t need any help with anything. She glanced at him and gave a schoolgirl smile.

“Blythe, just out of curiosity, what is the natural color of your hair?”

“Whatever Kmart has on sale.”

Radios were God’s gift to those who were not skilled in the art of carrying on a conversation. Austin hoped that instead of finding something witty to say, the afternoon DJ would take care of it for him as his fingers anxiously hit the scan button, trying to get a feel for Blythe’s taste for music by watching her soft eyes for any evidence of a glimmer. She fished something out of her purse.

“Nicotine gum?” she offered, poking one of the cubes from its aluminum square.

“No, uh…I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I.” She gracefully placed the rubbery square between her front teeth. “But this is some damn good gum.”

“I don’t know if you’re supposed to be…”
Don’t finish that. When has Blythe done anything she’s supposed to…don’t make this an evening of supposed to’s.

“Be what?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Blythe, you look beautiful.”

She sighed, taking care not to chomp too loudly. “What was college like?” She stretched her pale fingers behind his neck.

“College was great. I mean, a lot of work, but it was great.”

“And grad school?”

“Maybe not quite as great.”

“Boring?”

“A lot of work…and I was older than most of the students there. I took some time off to work on some sketches, even tried to market a kids cartoon, took a few odd jobs to make the ends meet, but when the ends didn’t meet, I thought about town administration.”

“Why town administration?”

“I don’t know.”
Why did I select town administration? What was I thinking?
“I guess…I guess I thought it would…well, if I couldn’t control the future of my art—”

“You wanted to control other people.”

“Well, not when you make it sound like that. I guess I did it to make my parents proud, you know, something they wouldn’t be ashamed to talk about at cocktail parties when people ask, ‘What does Austin do now?’ Town management. It sounds respectable.”

“Well, prostitution can sound respectable if you say it right. I’m not a hooker, I’m just into public relations.” She made air quotes around the words ‘public relations.’ “So, tell me more about grad school.”

“Not much to tell.”
Dear God, am I that boring?

“Don’t tell me you were one of those who stayed locked in the library the whole time.”

“No,” Austin said. “One look at my grades would tell you that.”

“So when did you meet what’s-her-name?”

“Kerry? Second semester.”
Wait, you’re not supposed to talk about old girlfriends on the first date.

“Come on. Spill it.”

“We took an art class together.”

“So how did you do, Rembrandt?”

“Not as well as Kerry. The instructor thought my art was somewhat…adolescent, as he put it.”

“Well, you do specialize in comics.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Have you drawn any more in your sketch book?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you draw me in the book?”

Don’t tell her. Does she want me to draw her in the book? Is that an invitation? Will she be happy or upset? Change the subject.

“Kerry always had something good to say about my work. No matter what. She was always so positive. Even if the only thing she liked was that I used the color purple in my piece, she mentioned that. After a while, I realized that was a part of her nature. She saw the good in everybody. “

“And what did you think of her work?”

“Her work was so inspired,” he said.” She could take the simplest thing—a crayon, a hand, an arm—and turn it into something that you had never seen before. Her work was abstract, but not so abstract that you couldn’t ‘get it.’ She was amazing.”

“Do you miss her?”

“I miss a lot of things. Kerry even got me going to galleries. I—she even had me pose for one of her sketches.”

“In the nude, I hope,” Blythe said.

“No.” Austin couldn’t tell if Blythe was relieved or disappointed. “My hands, actually. She really liked my hands.”

Blythe held one of his hands and looked it over as if she was trying to create a scientific theorem for what criteria make good hands.

“They are beautiful hands. Pale. But know what could make them prettier? If you got them callused from working outside, had a little dirt under the fingernails and the smell of horses on them,” she said.

“Horses?”

“The prettiest hands I’ve ever seen belonged to a stable boy in Southern Pines. I was researching something for an art project. He had these calluses along the inside of his finger pads from holding the reins. They always smelled like horses. That’s why I loved them.”

“The horses or the hands?”

“Both. Well, the horses, anyway,” she said.

“I didn’t know you loved horses. Do you ride?”

“I used to. But then, I used to do a lot of things.”

Scoffield was a college town of both urban sophistication and Southern gentility, spiced with a reputation as a center of academia. Blythe stared out the window as they passed the stately Southern mansions, most of which predated the Civil War and had small, brown plaques on their front doors, declaring they were on the National Register of Historic Places. In the spring, the dogwoods provided a royal procession for visitors like bridal attendants. In the winter, the bare branches reached for the promise of a warmer time.

“All these homes look like castles,” Blythe said. “Even the ugly ones are beautiful. Castles would be great to live in. The only problem is you can’t get out once you’re inside.”

“Why not?” Austin asked.

“Moats, and…stuff. Moats and stuff.”

“Why don’t you just lower the drawbridge? It’s the only way you can let anyone in.”

Blythe stared out the window. He couldn’t tell if she was forming a response or thinking about drawbridges. “And heating bills of course. Got to be expensive to heat a castle. They’re so cold. So, so, so, damn cold.”

The alumni building was on campus just across the street from the old basketball stadium. The lobby was a lavish display of memorabilia and photographic highlights of the school’s 170-year history. Austin picked up their nametags at the registration table. The woman at the registration desk also gave Austin a silver-plated lapel pin with the school seal on it.

“So what am I, what do I do?” Blythe whispered breathlessly as she pulled him aside, as if for the first time in her life she had no idea how to act.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, what kind of background story do I need to come up with to impress your friends? Am I heir to a tobacco estate? Am I an artist?”

There were a million things he wanted to tell her:
You don’t need a background story because you are not some silly redneck working at a greasy spoon, but an intelligent young woman who could conquer the world if she only allowed herself to be vulnerable. You are not just a waitress. You impressed the Ivy League. You used to ride horses.

Austin relaxed his shoulders and his arms softened as he took her hand. “You’re Blythe. No more. No less.”

It was an answer that seemed to satisfy her as she looped her fingers in the crook of his elbow. “No more, no less…” she mumbled to herself, taking his hand and entering the banquet hall.

Luke jumped on him when they entered the room, with a smile too wide and bear-size hands that engulfed Austin’s handshake in what seemed to be more of a kiss-off from a movie-bound Italian mobster than a greeting to a long lost friend.