The Rest of Us Just Live Here (13 page)

“Jeesh, people are cranky tonight,” Jared says, coming over with the coffee pots. “Want anything else, Merde Breath?”

“Fresh cheesy toast?” she asks in a small voice.

Jared smiles. “Coming right up. Mel and Henna just pulled in by the way.” He glances at me. “Nathan’s with them.”

I take the coffee pots from him and walk back to my side of the restaurant. Tina’s already pouring out a Ronald tale of woe to Mel and Henna by the front door. “…and his toenails are like something out of a fable–”

“Hey,” I say. They say “Hey” back. It’s kind of like verbal tag, isn’t it? Hey, here I am, are you here with me, Yes, we are here with you, and everyone feels good because “Hey”.

I tip my head to Meredith’s booth. “She’s worrying. Looking stuff up.”

Mel sighs. “I told her not to, but I’m not surprised.” She heads over to our little sister.

“Staff discount on whatever you guys want,” Tina says. “Make
somebody
happy.”

“Thanks, Tina,” I say. She smiles and just stands there, looking at me and Henna. Then looking some more. Then looking some more. Then finally saying, “Oh!” and heading off to force more cheesy toast on customers.

“You okay?” I ask Henna when Tina’s gone.

“Yeah, you?”

“Good. Weird. Good.”

She smiles. “Me, too.”

I swallow. “Listen, Henna–”

“I know. Unfinished business.” She looks down at her cast, covered in ink by all the signatures. The biggest one is Jared’s. The smallest one is mine, but it’s the only one she allowed on the palm of her hand. “I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Do you remember what I said, just before we hit the deer?”

Oh, shit. “Not really.”

She knows I’m lying, but doesn’t say. “You said you loved me. And I said I didn’t think that was true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I don’t think you know it either, Mikey.” She taps her cast. “I do want to kiss you again, though.”

I half-grin. “In the name of exploration?”

“Three of your tables want their bills,” Tina says, reappearing. “They seem kinda pissy about it, too.”

Henna’s already heading over to Mel and Meredith, who are lengthily pretending to order from Jared. “I thought Nathan was with you,” I say, as she goes.

“Still outside,” she says, shrugging.

And I wonder if she’s kissed
him
in the name of exploration.

I get my three tables their bills. Only one of them leaves me a tip. I seat an angry-looking older couple who are already asking about the senior discount before they’re even in their chairs, and this regular fireman who comes in every Saturday, orders the same thing, and just asks to be left alone as long as the all-you-can-eat shrimp keeps coming. I look back at Meredith’s booth as I punch in their orders.

Still no Nathan.

I check around for Tina, then step outside, wiping my hands on a towel, feeling the pull of a loop that I want to wash and wash and wash them. I don’t see Nathan anywhere, just oil stains, the traffic-resistant pine shrubs that border us, and a big open sky with a full moon beaming down. I head around towards the garbage area, two big bins in a little brick hut that Jared and I are inevitably scheduled to wheel out every Sunday night. They smell unbelievably bad, even after we pour buckets of bleach into them.

There’s no one there either. I keep walking, still wiping my hands – just being near the garbage area would do that to even a normal person – not sure why I’m so curious or what I’m even thinking. I don’t even like Nathan.

I probably wouldn’t want to see him killed, though.

I’m beginning to get properly worried – I’m going to wipe my fingerprints off with this rag – when I turn the last corner and see him, his back against the brick of the restaurant outside the emergency exit. He’s having a cigarette, but he doesn’t look like he’s hurrying.

I stop in a shadow. Still wiping my hands, yes, but trying not to make a thing of it.

Nathan’s got a funny old face when no one’s looking at it. Like he’s almost an entirely different person, the saddest person I’ve ever seen – which is saying something – and sure, he lost his sister and he moves around a lot and he used to be an indie kid–

He used to be an indie kid. The little “mascot”, he said.

And it’s because I don’t like him, albeit just for stupid, jealous reasons, but the first thing I think isn’t:
Maybe we could get him to find out what’s going on from some of our indie kids here
.

It’s:
What does he know that he’s not telling us?

Because he made a joke out of it, didn’t he? He showed up and the indie kids started dying. Someone clever would point that out themselves and say how worried they were that they’d start being blamed, especially if they
were
to blame.

But then, so would someone who really did show up innocently.

He grinds his cigarette out with his foot. Then he picks up the butt and looks around for somewhere to throw it away so he’s not littering, which, okay, is maybe not the action of a killer.

Still.

He throws it in a trashcan down by a car, then stands looking into the windows of the restaurant. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t wave at anyone or try to catch anyone’s attention, despite having a view of almost all of Jared’s section and definitely the booth where Meredith, Mel and Henna sit.

He looks sad again. Or sad still, whatever. He turns into the night, gazing at the cars driving by, at the stars and moon that still shine there.

What are you waiting for, former indie kid?

With a sigh, he disappears behind the other side of the restaurant, heading towards the entrance. Where, once inside, he’ll no doubt pass the pissed-off seniors and annoyed fireman who are wondering where the hell their waiter’s got to.

I hurry back in, still wiping my hands, wondering what I’ve seen. Wondering if I’ve seen
anything
. I probably haven’t.

But what was he doing out there? And what do we know about him, really?

“And so it is with great pleasure and excitement,” my mom says, standing at the podium, smiling into the bright lights of the cameras, “that I announce my candidacy to represent the people of the Eighth Congressional District of the great state of Washington.”

There’s applause from her supporters and from the party officials gathered around her. She smiles back at us, but just with her mouth, and I realize my dad is the only one of us clapping along. I elbow Mel, and she and I and Meredith start slapping our hands together, looking like the perfect family we totally aren’t. I’m even wearing a suit.

Mom’s satisfied and turns back to the cameras. In truth, there aren’t all that many. There’s one main feed that’ll supply footage to the network affiliates if they want it, one camera from the local independent station that mostly shows reruns, and another supplied by the party itself for internet campaigning. There are some print and web journalists, too, but all in all, I think interested public are outnumbered by politicians and family.

“State Senator Mitchell?” a local journalist asks when the applause has died down.

“You don’t really need the ‘State’ in front of it, Ed,” my mom says, smiling wide.

“What do you have to say about Tom Shurin, your expected opponent?” Ed the journalist continues.

“I say that I welcome a vigorous and clean campaign based on the issues I outlined in my speech,” my mom says, smiling like a president. You may not like politicians much – I don’t – but she’s good at her job. I can’t remember a single one of the issues from her speech, only the vague sense that she really cared about them. Which she once told me is the perfect result. If you’re too specific, people will purposely mishear you so they can be outraged about whatever thing that usually outrages them. You want to get them on your side emotionally, apparently, where they ask fewer questions.

They want us a bit dumb and a bit afraid. Which for the most part, I think we are.

“What about the rest of your family, Alice?” a nastier voice says. I recognize it. It’s this woman who runs a bitter-but-annoyingly-significant little blog about how local politicians are morons for not agreeing with everything she thinks. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the tragedies that scuttled your run for Lieutenant Governor.”

I see Mel’s face set in some fairly unfiltered hatred that I hope the cameras aren’t capturing, but my mom doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a normal American family, Cynthia, and just like any family, we try to face our challenges with grace and dignity. I love my children more than anything in the world, and I would
never
do this if I didn’t have their complete support.”

I wonder if that’s true.

“And,” my mother goes on, her voice actually emotional, “I would take great issue if any press decided to go after my children.” Her voice goes tough, but it’s politician tough, and I wonder again if it’s true. “They’d have one ferocious mama bear to deal with first.”

Her campaign team bursts into spontaneous applause.

“How you holding up, Dad?” Mel asks him as the press conference winds down.

“Hmm?” he says, looking at her vaguely. He’s in a suit as well, of course, and from the smell of him, reasonably sober. He takes a drink of the coffee provided while my mom does a few friendly interviews. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Another year, another campaign.” He pats his pockets, but doesn’t look like he expects to find anything there. “We’ll get by.”

My mom comes over in her power blue dress and her power pearl necklace. “Thank you,” she says, and it’s so genuine, we all feel a little embarrassed. “You did great.”

“You’re welcome,” Mel says, wary as ever. “Mama bear, huh?”

My mom gives a tight smile. “I’m really not going to let them get to you, Melinda. You have my word.”

“You can’t control that,” Mel says, “but thanks. It’s a small race, I don’t think they’ll bother.” My mother stiffens a little at “small race” and Mel immediately closes her eyes. “Not what I meant.”

“I know,” my mom says. “You two will be out of here before it really heats up.”

It’s the first time she’s acknowledged this. She sounds kind of sad.

“We’ll get by,” I hear myself saying. “We’ll get by.”

We’ve taken separate cars to get here; my mom coming up from the capital with her team, my dad under orders to clean up enough to get there for the evening. He can do it, if you push him, and my mom really, really knows how to push him. Who knows what their secret married life is like? I can’t even imagine it, don’t ever want to, and feel like I have less clue about it as time passes. But whatever, it seems to work for them.