Trying the Knot (7 page)

“Sure did,” Thad answered, “maybe it’s a
family curse, or something.”

“Did she ever talk about him?” Chelsea
asked.

Ben said vaguely, “He was half Indian and
played the bongos.”

“A Native-American Ricky Ricardo?” Thad
wondered.

“Not. Vange always told everyone her drunken
mother drove him over the edge,” Ben said, tossing his leather coat
aside.

“Didn’t you wear that in high school?”
Chelsea asked.

“Yeah, so.” Ben changed the subject back to
Vange, “Her mom once had this boyfriend who shot up the
Thanksgiving turkey – blew the bird right off the table.”

“He flipped the bird,” Thad said.

“When he yelled and beat the shit out of
Shayla, Vange hid under her bed and jammed her bedroom door shut
with butter knives.”

In a small town such as Portnorth, diverse
social classes are able to sit comfortably and intermingle freely
without pretense. For those with a clue, social climbing was
considered a pointless pastime above the Forty-fifth Parallel.

The Derry Kafe was owned and operated by the
extended Derry clan, and even after sixty years of business it was
doubtful whether they had an inkling of the misspelling. The brains
behind the operation belonged to white-haired Uncle Carey, who was
commonly referred to as “Scary Derry” or “Derry Queen” by local
teenagers. He lived in a big country farmhouse filled with a group
of young strays and borderline delinquents. He provided ‘the boys’
with safe harbor under his protective wing, and in return they
tended his strawberry fields and cruised town shirtless all summer.
Meanwhile, back at the diner Uncle Carey employed an endless
succession of Derry girls, who ritually multiplied before
completing the eleventh grade. The whole operation was a family
affair.

A fourth generation Derry breezed up to the
table. Her swollen belly, fried ginger hair and bowed legs gave her
lineage away. Dutifully, she asked, “More coffee?” The trio nodded
in unison, and she asked, “You folks from around here?”

“Yup, graduates of PHS, Class of 1986,” Ben
exclaimed with mock pride.

“Whew, yous guys are older than you look.”
She treated them like curious oddities, for they did not exactly
resemble ordinary clientele. Portnorth natives who failed to become
long lost expatriates generally entered their Twenties, married or
not, with children and outdated, unflattering hair styles.

“Hey, I seen you before,” the girl said.
“You’re the track star, Kelsey Morris.”

“Chelsea Norris,” she corrected as the
teenage waitress dragged her pigeon feet away.

“Whoa, your star is dimming,” Ben said.

“Oh, please.”

Thad guessed the server was a member of the
Skoal Squaws, who were a group of renegade, tobacco chewing female
vandals who continually threatened to beat up his sister, Alexa.
She warned him to listen for their Skoal Squaw squawk, which was
their special, members-only trademark greeting. Thad thought it
strange the waitress should suffer no social repercussions for
being a pregnant teen. If Alexa or Vange, for that matter, ever
attempted to traipse pregnant through the streets, they would be
shunned, called names and spat on. It had always been like that –
one set of low expectations for one group, and another rigid set of
rules for those higher on the social order. Thad pointed to the
scrawny waitress, whose sister they had bumped into earlier at the
hospital, “She’s the one pregnant with her sister’s boyfriend’s
baby.”

“Grotesque. I don’t even want to know,”
Chelsea said feeling queasy. “Incestuous trailer park love
triangles make me want to barf.”

“Inbreeding – a true test of family values,”
Thad laughed.

“Their family tree is a wreath,” Ben
added.

Repulsed, Chelsea squirmed in the aquamarine
booth. The dead pheasants mounted on the wall above her head made
her nervous. “Remind me why we come here?”

Ben pointed to the entrance, and Thad and
Chelsea turned and faced the bobcat lurching above the entranceway,
ready to pounce on the next unsuspecting patron. Inevitably, their
eyes trailed to a mounted shellacked Pike suspended above the ice
cream stand. Near the cash register waddled a goose standing guard.
From all angles, from one stuffed carcass to another, sets of
glassy eyes patrolled their every move.

“I simply love the fact I’m dining with every
road-kill slaughtered within the city limits for the past
half-century,” said Chelsea. The staunch vegetarian had not eaten
meat since the dawn of her high school career.

She grimaced as Thad wiped an index finger
down the wall. “Five decades of grease, gossip and cigarette
smoke.”

“Honestly, Thaddeus, you need to quit and add
years to your life.”

“Quit grease, gossip or smoking?” he asked
dryly as he lit a Merit Ultra Light. “What a life it is.”

Ben laughed, “Smoking can’t nearly be as sexy
as you make it look.”

“This place makes me sick.”

“Oh, c’mon Chels, it’s called local color.
Just bask in it,” Thad said.

“It’s barbaric,” Chelsea said as she toyed
with the undercooked hash browns.

“What’s wrong, not fried in a hundred-percent
olive oil?” Ben asked, shoving an entire strip of bacon into his
mouth for emphasis. He jabbed a fork full of the greasy potatoes
and stuffed them into his wide-open mouth. “What’re your plans now
that summer is over, Chels?”

“I thought I’d sit around here and become an
even bigger loser, maybe plot an escape from law school.”

“Coast along on your past laurels?” Thad
asked.

Chelsea laughed, bemused. “Benjamin, don’t
you need help painting houses since your crew is headed back to
school?”

“Juvenile delinquents make up my crew –
Thad’s sister, Alexa, and Kate’s brother, Jack—

“Who really is a little convict,” Thad piped
in.

“Anyway, they’re more than I can handle, and
your surly attitude won’t be good for business.”

“Oh,” she said.

“But if you know of anyone who needs a paint
job, I’d appreciate your putting in a good word,” Ben said,
shoveling more potatoes off her plate.

Ben failed to register her mild
disappointment. Thankfully, the only time she was ever inflicted
with his presence was when she ran with the high school
cross-country team he helped coach. She asked about the upcoming
season, which was already underway. Ben was optimistic it would be
a good year, if the older runners could be inspired to remain
committed rather than succumb to senior year partying.

She pushed her plate toward him and
instructed, “Go ahead, and eat the rest of this garbage.”

“I’m not worthy,” he said, and she rolled her
eyes. He doused the cold hash browns with mustard and salt and ate
as if he had not finished his own breakfast five minutes
before.

Ben could not believe he and Nick ever
knocked on Chelsea’s front door in the middle of the night to
confess they were both madly in love with her. Predictably, Chelsea
chose to date Nick. Lucky him, thought Ben, and he tossed up the
passing adolescent attraction to temporary insanity. He was
grateful now they never actually hooked up. How appropriate, he
decided, all his thoughts of her had culminated in being wadded up
in a Kleenex and flushed down the toilet.

As if recovering from a momentary bout of
narcolepsy, Thad became alert. He said hesitantly, “I don’t know if
this is the time to bring it up.”

“Then it’s probably not,” Ben said. Tucking
his long black hair behind his double-pierced ears, he searched the
Coca-Cola clock for an excuse to dine and dash.

Outside the diner, a forest green Ford Taurus
still littered with Bush/Quayle bumper stickers pulled up to the
curb, and five clones emerged. The bridegrooms boisterously entered
the front door and loudly announced their presence, “Sig-Eps are
here!” The place became alive with their frenetic energy. All
except one of them sported the same floppy, pretty-boy haircut and
a single stud earring. The leader of the pack styled his hair in a
ponytail, and he wore Birkenstock sandals instead of penny loafers.
He was nicknamed Kerouac by his admiring flock.

Although obviously hung-over, they appeared
rowdy and ready for a hair of the dog breakfast. Despite his
sister’s advice, Nick joined the fraternity during a weak
moment.

“Talk about an identity crisis; there’s the
tree-hugger in Polo,” Chelsea said, referring to Kerouac.

“Just admit it, you’re totally hot for him,”
Ben said.

“She wouldn’t fuck him – even with your
dick,” Thad said bluntly.

Ben laughed and self-consciously stabbed his
fork into the little red horse sewn on his black Polo shirt. It was
one he had borrowed from Kate’s brother Jack.

While discussing their previous wild night of
cow tipping, the Frat pack removed their jackets and rearranged
tables to accommodate their party of six. One of the more
courageous Derry girls bravely took charge. “Really, yous guys
should have made reservations for such a big bunch,” she said,
flashing them a flirtatious bucktooth grin. She informed their set
up would make it awkward for her to do her job. Their only option
besides leaving was to retire to the back formal dining room, which
was a gloomy hole-in-the-wall drenched in an orange glow.

The Patagonia fleece-clad leader apologized
suavely while the Derry clan returned the place to its previous
incarnation. Then they all retreated to the backroom, where they
had the option to dine next to more exotic road-kill and wildlife
oil paintings hung on an old saw blade canvas.

“Circle Jerk!” they yelled in unison as they
entered the backroom.

The shortest of the Frat pack noticed Chelsea
and waved. Less than cheerfully, she returned the gesture. Through
her teeth, she said, “There’s T-bone. Last night, at the bar he
offered to show me how he got his nickname.”

T-bone’s stocky build and goatee made him
look like a scruffy, pint-sized chimpanzee, and Thad observed, “I
guess every Frat needs a mascot to stand around marking people’s
hands while pumping the keg.”

Chelsea snickered, “Nice goatee.”

“Prison pussy,” Ben corrected.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head,
“You’re so gross.”

The Frat brothers emitted a long simultaneous
groan of discontent when they discovered they were in a dry joint,
and chocolate malts were the most potent drink on the menu.

“This northern wilderness must bring out
their inner beast,” Thad said, stooped over.

“What were you saying earlier, Thaddeus,
before the cow-tippers interrupted?” Chelsea asked. “It could shed
light on this whole mess, and I think I know what it might be—

“No, you don’t. Trust me,” Ben interrupted.
“Drop it, Thad.”

“Excuse me, Benny, but maybe I do,” Chelsea
said annoyed. “I think something might have happened between
Evangelica and Nicholas last night.”

Thad sat upright and asked, “What gives you
that idea?”

“For one thing, the atmosphere in the bar
suggested total debauchery. All Nick’s friends were hitting on hick
chicks with big hair and tight jeans. And, Benjamin, don’t even try
to deny taking home Kate’s matron of honor. I saw you leave
together.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”
Ben asked. Feigning disinterest, he pulled a long strand of hair
from his head and began flossing his teeth.

“Nick and Vange were hanging all over each
other.” Chelsea digressed, “Vange left the gathering at my house
pretty early. I don’t think she got along well with Kate’s college
friends.”

“Why’s that?”

Chelsea nervously toyed with the beads on her
necklace, and she said, “It was as if we were back in high school,
except nothing out of line was said.”

“And no one beat her up,” Thad added.

“Kate’s friends are mostly education majors.
I guess Vange didn’t appreciate their quasi-virginal
snobbishness.”

“I bet you got along with them just fine,”
interjected Ben, and he found himself in a cloud of cigarette
smoke. Thad kicked him under the table and encouraged Chelsea to
continue.

“After Kate finally turned in, I escorted the
bridesmaids to the bar, where Nick was parading Evangelica around
on his arm. It was obvious something was up.”

“I can’t believe you,” Ben said, louder than
intended. “You’re too much. It is not like Vangie is some clingy
ditz, and Nick Paull is the most honorable guy I know –

“A jock with a conscience,” Thad interrupted,
and Chelsea shook her head sadly as if she had firsthand evidence
to the contrary.

“Well, it’s fair to say something happened
between them,” Chelsea insisted.

“Objection, isn’t that speculation?” Ben
asked of the future lawyer. “This is total bullshit.”

Ben rose to his feet in a huff and fumbled
for his wallet. He threw a wad of bills down on the table, along
with coins and a folded piece of stationery. Chewing on a
fingernail, Chelsea eyed the crumpled paper suspiciously, but Ben
snatched the note away before she grabbed it.

Thad grabbed hold of Ben’s sleeve and tugged
him back into the booth. Seated, Ben flung free from Thad’s loose
grip, but he made no effort to leave. “It’s too weird. Even if
something did happen, it’s their business,” Ben said. “Let it
go.”

“No one is saying anything happened for
sure,” Chelsea countered. “This is not from a place of
judgment.”

“I’ll say it happened for sure.”

“Like how sure,” Ben demanded, again rising
to his feet.

“Like I saw it for sure—outside the bar, near
the bushes,” Thad confessed.

“How primal,” Chelsea said, relieved her
suspicions were confirmed. “Like I’ve always said, never trust a
man with two first names.”

Oblivious to the wafting steam and pungent
odor, Ben failed to respond when the waitress asked if his coffee
needed a warm-up.