Are You Sitting Down? (38 page)

“Is that Ricky?”
I asked
in a whisper,
pointing to the old man
propped on the counter
, when Tate returned with my pie.

“I’m Ricky,” the young man said.

I took a second look at his name tag.
He followed my eyes.

“Ricky Tatum.
Friends and family always call me Tate,” he explained.
“Who are you?”

“Travis White,” I said, sounding like some sort of tre
s
passer.

“Nice to meet you, Travis.
How did you know my name?”

“Peggy sent me,” I said
,
more like a question as if it were some type of secret password.

He laughed.

“You know who Peggy is?”
I asked. “From the gas st
a
tion?”

“She’s my mom,” he said.

“Too bad both of you have to work tonight.”

“Nah, we don’t mind.
We’ll spend Christmas together tomorrow.
It’s just me and her
anyways
.”

“You live at home?”

“Hell no!
She’d drive me crazy.
I have an apartment above the men’s store next door.
M
a
m
a
’s got a house over on Hil
l
crest.”

I liked the way he said hill; he drew it out and it sounded like
he-el
.
I liked the lazy drawl of people in town.
No one in my family had it, so I swore up and down we were northern transplants.
Mom said we were all born and raised right here though, her and Dad both.
She blamed the thick-tongued a
c
cents of locals on the lack of education.
I blamed our lack of the sound on too much education.

“My sister has an apartment here on the square som
e
where
,
”
I said for no reason at all but to prolong the conversation with Ricky Tatum.

I
found myself attracted to
his friendly demeanor and would have invited him to sit down if he wasn’t working.

“What’s your sister’s name?”
Tate asked.

“Clare.”

“She got a baby.
Jake.
Yeah, I know Clare.
Her a
par
t
ment is down on the corner.
She works here part time.”

“She does?”

“Yep.
She’s worked here a long time.”

“I never knew that.
”
I knew that Clare worked in a diner, but had no idea it was this one.
“How long have you worked here, Tate?”

“All my life.
Worked in that kitchen back there and as a bus boy since I was fifteen.
Moved up front during my junior year of high school.”

“Where did you go to high school?”
This was my way of hopefully finding out how old Tate was.

“
R
uby Dregs,
of course.
Class of 1998.
What about you?”

“Class of 1993.”
I could see him doing the math in his head.
“I’m 35,” I said.

“Seems weird don’t it?
That means you was born in 76.
I
’s born
in 1980.
I was four years behind you all through school
’n
stuff, but after that out in the real world
everybody’s equal
.
Age don’t matter no more.
Nothing really do
n’t
.”

I liked what Tate had to say.
Nothing really did matter.
The lines were drawn by what grade you were in and how tall you were.
School yard teams were divided by how good you were at playing sports.
You rode the bus or drove the car your parents bought you.
You were a jock or a prep.
You were college bound or destined to be a high school dropout.
After you threw your mortar board and tassel in the air, it was all down
he-el
from there.
You had to go to college or struggle to find a job.
No matter how you earned your living, it was time to start learning the lessons they couldn’t teach you in school.

“Tate, can I get my check, please?”
t
he old man at the counter groaned.

“Leaving already, Mr. Griffin?”
Tate called out.
“He’s been here since three this afternoon.
I’ll be right back,” he turned and said to me.

Tate
tended to her then
handed Mr. Griffin a hand wri
t
ten tab.
Mr. Griffin didn’t look at it.
He put
two twenty
dollar bills on the counter, and told Tate to keep the change.
Then, he looked over at me and nodded and said Merry Christmas.
I said the same back with a cordial smile and watched him walk out into the snow.
The cow bell gave a clang w
hen
the door closed behind him.
It woke the napping knitting lady.
She shook awake and asked Tate for a last cup of coffee and her check.

Tate took Mr. Griffin’s plate and cup to the kitchen and wiped the counter with a damp rag.
He rang up the sale on the old manual cash register, making change for his tip which he tucked in his apron.
The old cash register’s bell and the slam of the till drawer was so loud it drowned out the carol playing on the radio somewhere in the background.
The phone rang.
It was the cook.
Tate told him Mr. Griffin just left and that there was no one here.

The fat lady heaved herself out of her booth
after finis
h
ing off her coffee
.
She gathered up her yarn and things and threw them into a
bright pink
shoulder bag.
Leaving her money and ticket on the counter while Tate was on the phone, I watched her walk out.
The beam from
the
headlights of
her
car glared off the front window
s of the diner and then faded as she pulled away.

“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Tate said hanging up the phone.

“I should go if I’m keeping you.”

“My shift don’t end till six in the morning,” he said poin
t
ing to the clock on the wall.
There was still about three hours left to Christmas Eve
.

“Who owns this place?”
I asked with curiosity.

“Peggy,” Tate answered.

“Your Mom?
And she won’t even close this place for Christmas Eve?”

“Nah.
Where else would Mr. Griffin go?
He’s in here almost every other day, but been coming in on Christmas Eve for well over twenty years.
Spends
less than
ten bucks each time, but leaves a thirty dollar tip.”

“And you accept it?”

“He’d be offended if
I
don’t.
Ask your sister sometime about ole
Griffin
.
Sometimes she gets thirty-five.”

“He has no family
?
”

“Not a one. Neither does Ms. Rose who just left. Never married.
No kids.
I always wonder who she’s knitting for.
She’ll be back in here tomorrow.”

“So, Cozy’s is the refuge for the lonely and desolate
, the
dregs
,
who are just trying to get through the holidays, huh?”

“Is that why you’re here?”
Tate asked.

I swallowed the sip of coffee I had just taken.
It stung
my throat like the truth.
I paused and looked down at my ice cream pooling in the saucer around the brown nutty pie, a sweet glazed mess of holiday confusion which I was going to eat a
n
yway.

“
Indeed i
t is,” I answered.

Ellen

“I feel like this is my fault,” Calvin said to me outside.

Mom and Sebastian had gone back inside shortly after Tr
a
vis left.
I picked up the snowman he had knocked over.
Its bulb was blown.
Then, I just stood there in the yard amongst the n
a
tivity and the waving Santa staring down the road as if expecting for Travis to circle back.
I stood so still I almost felt like one of the ornaments on the lawn, starring blankly out at the black road cutting through the frosty white
, and seeing nothing
.

A car driving by slowed down to look at Mom’s light display.
The passenger, a young girl I recognized from R
a
chel’s class, waved at me.
I waved back,
then
cross
ed
my arms to keep warm.
Calvin came outside.
He said the tension in
the house
was still pretty thick.
Mom wouldn’t stop crying, and he felt he was to blame.

“It’s not your fault.
Travis has been different ever since Justin died.
Justin was his partner.
They were together for about ten years.
I just don’t know why Mom didn’t tell him about you,” I said.

“She tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen,” Calvin explained.

“What?”

“One night
about a
week ago
, h
e had called while I was here.
Your Mom and I were watching television.
She’d got up to go to the
bath
room and the phone rang.
She called out for me to go ahead and answer it, so I did.
It was Travis.
He didn’t ask who I was, only that he’d hold for
Lorraine
.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing.
I said it would be just a minute.
I tried to say he
l
lo but he wouldn’t talk back, so I laid the phone down.”

“Did Mom
say anything
?”

“She tried, but he interrupted her and said he had to go and he’d call her back the next day.”

“If that was just a week ago, he probably didn’t call back.
I bet they haven’t spoken again until today.”

“I’m sorry, Ellen.
Do you know where he might have gone?”

“No.
He doesn’t really know anyone here except Justin’s parents.
He might have gone there, but I doubt it.
Maybe he’s driving back to
Memphis
.”

“I hope not.
I hate that I ruined the holiday for ever
y
one.”

“It’s not ruined.
Don’t worry about it,” I said patting him on the shoulder.

“You knew he was—
,
”
Calvin paused, searching for the right word.

“Gay?
Yeah, we all knew.”

“When did he tell you?”

“Right at the end of his senior year of high school, I think.”

“And you were okay with it
—
are
okay with it
?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been exposed to a lot more than Mom has, so it didn’t bother me as much.”

The truth was Travis had told Mom way before any of us knew.
She had refused to accept it, and forb
ade
him to talk about it.
She didn’t want anyone else in the family to know.
She must have been too overwhelmed with the pain, and with blaming herself, so she eventually told me.
To be fair, I took Travis to lunch one weekend while he was in town and I told him that I knew.
He asked how, and so I told him Mom had told me.
She needed someone to talk to about it, so she came to me.

Travis
was relieved that she was finally opening up about it.
She eventually told Martin, who had no qualms about it at all.
Martin
told Sebastian and Clare.
They both had su
s
pected it all along, and thought it was cool to have a gay brother.

“Don’t you worry about him being around your chi
l
dren?”
Calvin asked.

“Who?
Travis?
No, he’s their uncle.
He’s gay, Calvin.
He’s not a pedophile.
He’d never harm the kids.”

“What about those things he said inside the house?”

“Well, he was angry and he lost his temper.
He didn’t mean it, and he’ll probably apologize for it later.
Besides, I think the kids were too
caught
up in their gifts to be paying a
t
tention to what was being said,” I explained.

Calvin was older and set in his ways.
I couldn’t blame him for not knowing
about
such things.
Mom
was the same way.
She
didn’t have email, and refused to learn how to even use a computer.
The world was moving faster and faster these days, with or without them.
I wondered what Calvin thought of Jake being biracial.
If he knew about my marital problems and S
e
bastian’s stint with drugs, he would probably have second thoughts about wanting to see Mom with such a messed up family.

“Maybe I should go,” Calvin said.

“No, you don’t have to leave.
Let’s go back inside and cheer Mom up and try to enjoy what’s left of the holiday.”

Like Calvin, I believed the holiday was ruined.
For the kids’ sake, I hoped the rest of the evening was quiet, with or without
Travis
.
I was angry, but at no one in particular and I certainly wasn’t mad at
Travis
.
Back inside, Sebastian and Clare were sitting on the sofa with the television on.
The sound was turned down really low almost as if they were eavesdropping on Mom.
She was in the kitchen, still crying, with Martin.
The kids were
o
n the floor, playing with the new toy each of them had opened.
Calvin was right about the apprehension. We went into the kitchen.

I hugged Mom.
She dried her tears with a damp paper towel.
Calvin kept his distance and stood in the doorway like a nervous guest.

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell him,” Mom cracked through sobbing breaths.

“Mom, it’s okay.
What’s done is done,” I said.

Martin lovingly scratched her back.

“Do you know where he went?”
she asked.

“I don’t really know.
He might have gone to see the Blacks.”

“Maybe.
Calvin, are you okay, honey?”
Mom asked looking over at him.

“I’m a little rattled, but I’ll be alright.
Sorry to have u
p
set
everybody,” he said with a little bit of embarrassment
,
like a shy child who had just come into a room full of adults.

“Oh, what’s a White family Christmas without a little excitement?” Mom managed to say with a laugh.

Martin and I grinned and nodded with agreement.
Ca
l
vin looked confused.

“So, you aren’t mad?”
he asked
.

“Mad?
Why should I be mad?
Mad at myself, maybe, because this is really my fault.
I should have been more open with both of you.”

Inside, I knew Mom’s heart was breaking.
I don’t think there had ever been a peaceful holiday with all the kids together since
we were kids.
Since then,
Martin or I were having Christmas with the in-laws
usually
.
Sebastian and Clare
often
work
ed
on Christmas Eve.
Travis stayed in
Memphis
to have a quiet holiday with Justin a few years back.
Justin was sick during Christmas
another
year.
Then, Mark and I were having troubles.

Mark.

I’d forgotten about calling him.
He wasn’t expecting me to call, but it was growing late.
I convinced Mom to go ahead and open a few gifts without Travis.
Calvin and Martin led her back into the living room
where Sebastian and Clare stood up to greet her as if they’d been sitting in a hospital wai
t
ing room.
The four grandchildren raced to her and surrounded her with hugs, each thanking her for their gift and asking if they could open another.

“Ellen, are you coming?”
Mom called out.

“I’ll be right there.
I’m going to step out and make a phone call real quick.”

I put on my coat and stepped out the back door.
A blinking glare from the Christmas lights lit the back yard with a ye
l
lowed glow.
I looked over at the trash can and expected to see Travis still standing there and watching the horizon, as if these last couple of hours had just been a quirky dream.
I sat down on a stiff wicker chair on the back porch
and dialed the nu
m
ber
.
The chair
creaked with the warmth and weight of a human.
It felt wet b
e
neath me.
I rubbed my hands along my pants, but they were only cold to the touch, not damp.