Preston's Honor(24)

The interior of Brady’s was dim and smelled like old beer and something lemony—maybe some type of polish used on the ornate wooden bar in the center of the room. I squinted until my eyes adjusted and I was able to spot my coworkers already at a table near the window. I smiled as I approached, and they called out a greeting, pulling a chair out for me so I could sink down into it.

My coworkers were young like me and went out for drinks after almost every evening shift. IHOP was open twenty-four hours and when I’d first become a waitress, I’d worked graveyard shift, which had been hard when I had to get up early for classes. But the money was good and it’d improved our situation so I made do, sleeping when I could and studying during my breaks. Recently, I’d gained enough seniority to work days, but I usually picked up a few evening shifts, too, if someone needed a fill-in.

Because there was a uniform, my clothing wasn’t noticed or compared as it had been at school, and the fact that I felt on more of an even playing field in that regard, had helped me come out of my shell a little and make some friends—friends who I thought liked me for me, and didn’t alienate me, judging my low social status.

Even so, I rarely joined those going out, so they teased me after I’d ordered a Coke, asking who I was and what I’d done with the hermit known as Annalia. I joked back, turning the conversation. Even though none of my coworkers came from rich families, they wouldn’t understand my situation, wouldn’t understand the pressure of doing well at my job, of making every penny in tip money I could. They rolled into work hung over most days, ignored customers to sit at the break table in the back if they were tired, and didn’t have a dependent parent at home with no safety net whatsoever.

Sometimes I felt like I was the most ancient person on earth in the body of a nineteen-year-old.

My Coke was delivered and I took a sip.

“You can order a beer here, you know. Brady doesn’t care,” Sonya, another waitress, said, tipping her own beer to her lips.

I shrugged and made a face. “I don’t like beer.” The truth was, I was the daughter of an illegal immigrant. I would never purposefully break the law and risk bringing legal attention to myself and perhaps my mother. Again, this was something I could never attempt to explain to other people who didn’t live the life I led. Nor would I ever try. I carried it alone. When at school, it had been an unconscious decision, as I had never fit in. I was friends with the misfits. At work, we were all much the same, and it felt good to have friends but it didn’t mean I would consider opening up to anyone. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t think I’d know how. I’d been so isolated—reclusive—for so long, it was just a part of me now, like my black hair or green eyes.

Those damn parameters in which I would always be contained.

We all chatted and joked for a few minutes before the name Sawyer caught my attention being spoken from somewhere over my shoulder. I startled very slightly, my ears tuning into the conversation between two young Mexican men sitting at the bar, speaking in Spanish. From what I could pick up over the buzz of noise around me, one of them worked at Sawyer Farm and was worried they were going to get laid off after Warren Sawyer had passed away several days before. My breath caught. Warren Sawyer—Preston and Cole’s father—had passed away? I hadn’t heard. Not that I would have, except Linmoor was a small town. Sadness lodged in my throat. Poor Preston and Cole. I didn’t know a whole lot about their family dynamic, but I knew they both respected their father immensely, and he’d always been a fair employer to my mama.

I stayed for another half hour or so and then told the group I was leaving and said my goodbyes. Outside, I grabbed a newspaper from the box near the curb and threw it on my seat before driving home. Once I’d pulled into my space at the apartment complex where we lived, I opened the paper to the obituaries and scanned the headings. My heart sunk.



Warren Sawyer, 66, passed away Wednesday, June 2. Born and raised in Linmoor, California, Warren is survived by wife, Camille, and sons, Preston and Cole. Funeral services will be held Monday, June 7 beginning at 11 a.m. at Ritchie & Peach Funeral Home. Friends and family are invited for refreshments at the Sawyer family farm after the service.



I’d been holding my breath as I read, and I let it out in a rushed exhale. I wondered how he’d died. What would this mean for the farm and the Sawyer boys? Should I go to the funeral? I sat biting my lip, wondering. Wouldn’t it be proper to pay respects, both as a friend of Preston and Cole and as someone whose family member had once worked there? I wondered if my mama would want to go and immediately rejected the question. I knew better. She wouldn’t.

Gathering my things, I got out of the car and walked up the stairs to our apartment, letting myself quietly inside. My mama was sleeping soundly on the used mattress I’d bought her when we’d moved in here, after I’d inspected it thoroughly for bedbugs. I still shivered in disgust and humiliation at that awful, long-ago memory—but not nearly long ago enough. The bone-deep chill I’d felt, humiliating Preston and Cole . . .

My socks were quiet on the padded carpet as I tiptoed to the bathroom and locked the door behind me, smiling slightly at the click that continued to be a small pleasure. As I washed the day from my skin, I decided that, yes, I would go to Warren Sawyer’s funeral. It was the right thing to do. I told myself it had absolutely nothing to do with seeing Preston, but I knew that was a lie.