The Drifter(22)

“Mack can be a real asshole,” he said, finally, avoiding eye contact. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh believe me, I know. We have sort of a history,” she said. “But obviously that’s over. Really over. It’s been a while now, actually.”

He rose to leave and they stood there, both searching for another witty comment but coming up empty. The early lunch crowd was starting to stream in and Melissa was shooting Betsy pleading looks from behind the counter.

“Well, look. I’ve got to get back to work,” she said, nodding to the line. “Enjoy the big-screen TV. The only good thing about living near Mack is that he comes with a lot of electronics.

“OK, so, I’ll see you around?” said Betsy.

“Alright,” he said

She started to walk back toward the counter, her heart rising through her chest to choke her, worried that whatever chance she had with Gavin was slipping away.

“Hey, Betsy,” he said. She stopped to look back.

“Uh, a few of us are going out to J.D.’s today, you know, at the lake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You in?”

“Do you mean do I want to go?” she asked.

“Yes.” He laughed. “I mean do you want to go.”

“Sure,” she said, with a shrug. “I’m out of here pretty soon.”

“Tell you what. I’m going to do a few things and then hit Schoolhouse Records. You know where it is, right? You can come meet me over there about one. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Back in the corner behind the counter, Melissa was poking at the industrial toaster with a rubber spatula. Betsy picked up some red plastic baskets and tossed a mound of crumpled napkins in the trash on her way back to the counter.

“Well, something smells delicious,” said Betsy, washing her hands again in the metal sink.

“Oh, this is just hilarious, isn’t it, Bets,” said Melissa, scraping blackened mozzarella from the rack with a rubber spatula. “You could at least pretend to not be enjoying my hangover so much.”

“What? Do I look like I’m enjoying myself?” she said, fighting the smile that had suddenly, unexpectedly, returned to her face. The acrid smell of scorched cheese filled the air.





CHAPTER 6


SHARPIES


August 25, 1990: Midday

Betsy squeezed the juice, toasted the bagels, and made the coffee, and the rest of the morning passed in a slow, predictable way. At about 11:00, Dr. Loman wandered in, looking as distracted as ever, with several crumpled sections of various newspapers tucked under one arm. Betsy made him his usual tuna melt without a single rude comment, since she herself was distracted, thinking about Gavin, about the news on campus, about the sirens she heard on her way to work that morning. Just before her shift ended, she wandered over to his table to refill his coffee.

“What’s happening in the real world today?” Betsy asked, nodding to the stack of papers, now spotted with grease and coffee stains. “I want to hear about anywhere but here.”

“Let me ask you: Do you know what’s happening in Kuwait? Or even where it is?” he said, raising an eyebrow in a quizzical way.

“Yes,” said Betsy. “It’s in the Middle East, I think. And the Iraqis have invaded it, for oil, right? Am I close?”

“You think.” he said. “Are you close?”

He folded the section he was reading and placed it on the pile.

“You know the answer, but you feel obligated to act like you know absolutely nothing at all. Why?”

She stood there blushing, holding the coffeepot.

“It’s early, I guess?” she said. The vocal fry, the timbre at the end of Betsy’s sentence that lilted up into an eternal question, was an irritating habit, even to her.

“Betsy, you’re a bright girl. Your brain likes to think for itself,” he said. Then he drank the remains of his coffee and stood up to leave. “You’ve just got to get out of your own way.”

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, still holding the coffee, uncomfortable with his attention.

“Alas, I have hope,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “For a while, I was worried that you were going to become one of them.”

He pretended to shiver to emphasize them and Betsy had to laugh.

“Hell is empty,” he said, looking at her deliberately, more serious now, “and all the devils are here.”

“Let me guess,” said Betsy, “that’s Shakespeare.”

“Right again,” he nodded, clicked his heels, and left.

AFTER SPLASHING WATER on her face in the sink in the back—a blatant violation of Bagelville policy—and borrowing some wild cherry ChapStick from Melissa, Betsy walked out the front door into the punishing sunlight. It was noon, and she had an hour to kill before she met Gavin at the record store two blocks away. She stood on the sidewalk, shielding her eyes, considering what to do next when she spotted Ginny’s beater Rabbit speeding down 2nd Street with Caroline in the passenger seat.

“Where’s my midget bike, bitch?” shouted Caroline, as Ginny pulled up to the curb beside her. Ginny didn’t drive the newer, more sophisticated Cabriolet (which Betsy thought must be French or German slang for “rich white girl”). It was a straight-up, mud-splattered Rabbit. Her Nana had offered to buy her a new car, but Ginny wasn’t interested.