See You at Harry's(39)

With my head on the table, I hear car doors open and close as people begin to leave. And then the rustling of dried leaves behind me. Closer and closer.

I sit up and turn around.

It’s Mr. Seymore. He’s wearing a worn suit and clutching a light-blue envelope to his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, stepping closer. But when he says it, it’s not like the others. When he says it, I know exactly what he means.

He holds out the envelope to me. It shakes in his wobbly hand.

“No,” I say. I don’t know what I mean. No, don’t be sorry? Don’t cry? Don’t come nearer?

“Please,” he says. He steps closer. “I didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to upset your folks. But I want your family to have this. I — I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say. I don’t know what’s in the envelope, but if it’s money, it’s something Mr. Seymore really shouldn’t part with.

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I should have looked after him better.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t see him. I didn’t pull out that fast. Always take my time so I don’t get into a fender bender. I’ve done that before. But I was being real careful.”

“I know,” I say. “You didn’t hit him. You stopped in time.”

“But I scared him, poor kid. And he fell back.”

“He was running away from me. I was the Big Bad Wolf.”


He shakes his head again. “Didn’t see a thing. I looked. I was real careful.”

“He was running,” I say again. “He was running away from me. I wasn’t playing with him, so he made up this game.”

I wish he would stop shaking his head. It isn’t going to make any of it not true.

He holds out the envelope again. “Please,” he says. “It’s not much, but —”

“I can’t.” I look again at his worn clothes and remember his old beat-up car. “It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

“Fern?” Ran walks toward us through the crunchy leaves.

Mr. Seymore turns toward him, then back to me.

“Please keep that,” I say. “Please.”

His mouth trembles, but he finally nods. He puts the envelope back inside his jacket. I see a hole in the worn elbow of his suit jacket when he bends his arm. He walks away slowly, careful not to trip on something hidden in the leaves.

When Ran reaches the table, he sits next to me so that our arms are touching. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t see you earlier.”

“I was having a hard time in there,” he says.

I nod.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

He reaches over and takes my hand. I didn’t realize I’d put it back over the peace sign. Ran squints at it, then puts both our hands over the names again.

Ran’s hand on mine is warm and strong. I lean my head on his shoulder and fill my chest with cold air again. I smell his familiar Ran smell. His shampoo and his laundry detergent and the outdoor smell of his jacket.

Ran is really the only one I feel like I could tell anything to, about how I’m feeling. But I stay quiet. Somehow, I think Ran already knows exactly how I feel. And exactly what I need.

Just quiet. Just a friend. And the impossible.





RAN’S PARENTS COME and get him at the table and hug me one more time before they all leave. The parking lot is mostly empty, and I know I should go back inside.

When I go in, I see that everyone is gone except for Gray and the restaurant employees. Most of the tables and chairs are back where they belong, and people are sitting in the middle where three tables have been pushed together the way we do on Thanksgiving and sometimes for special Sunday brunches. Since we don’t really have any relatives, we always have family gatherings at the restaurant for the employees who don’t have anywhere to go.

I sit at the nearest empty seat, between Mona and Trevor. A few people are eating, but mostly everyone plays with their food. Holden absentmindedly makes a mint-green Jell-O mold jiggle back and forth.

It seems like none of us really wants to be here, but no one wants to leave, either. Beyond the group, Charlie’s photo and the flowers have been moved to his favorite booth. I wonder who did it.

“Fern,” my dad says from the other end of the table, “would you mind going up to get your mom and Sara?”

“I can go,” Gil says, starting to stand up.

“It’s OK. I’ll go,” I say.

As I climb the familiar stairs, I let my hand dangle by my side and wait for Charlie’s sticky fingers to grasp it. I walk more slowly, wishing, wishing, wishing for that familiar tug, even though I know it will never come.

When I get to the office, the door is partially closed. The first thing I notice is that my mom’s sign has been torn off the door. I know this because there’s a ripped piece of paper still under the thumbtack that held it up.

“I can’t look at him,” I hear Sara say on the other side of the door. “I can’t face him.” I can tell she’s crying.

“Being with Gil has nothing to do with what happened,” my mom says quietly.

“Yes, it does!” Sara says. “If I hadn’t been with him, I would have been in the dining room. Mr. Seymore would have left sooner. Maybe Charlie wouldn’t have even gone looking for Fern.”