The Truth About Forever(61)

"Inspiration," I repeated, glancing around.

"Yeah," Wes said, emphatically, as if it was obvious I wasn't convinced. "When I'm working on a piece, and I'm kind of stuck, I'll come here and sit for awhile. Usually by the time I finish my waffle I've figured it out. Or at least started to."

"What about that piece in the garden?" I said. "What did that come from?"

He thought for a second. "That one's different," he said. "I mean, I made it specifically for someone."

"Stella."

"Yeah." He smiled. "She made the biggest fuss over it. It was to thank her, because she was really good to Bert and me when my mom was sick. Especially Bert. It was the least I could do."

"It's really something," I told him, and he shrugged, that way I already recognized, the way he always did when you tried to compliment him. "All of your pieces have the whirligig thing going on. What's that about?"

"Look at you, getting all meaning driven on me," he said. "Next you'll be telling me that piece is representative of the complex relationship between agriculture and women."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I am not my sister," I said. "I just wondered, that's all."

He shrugged. "I don't know. The first stuff I did at Myers was just basic, you know, static. But then, once I did the heart-in-hand stuff, I got interested in how things moving made a piece look different, and how that changes the subject. How it makes it seem, you know, alive."

I thought back to how I'd felt as I started into Stella's garden earlier that night, that tangible, ripe feeling of everything around you somehow breathing as you did. "I can see that," I said.

"What were you doing out there, anyway?" he asked. Across the restaurant, the jukebox finally fell silent.

"I don't know," I said. "Ever since the first day Kristy brought me there, it's sort of fascinated me."

"It's pretty incredible," he said, sipping his water. The heart in hand on his upper arm slid into view, then disappeared again.

"It is," I said, running my finger down the edge of the table. "Plus, it's so different from anything at my house, where everything is just so organized and new. I like the chaos in it."

"When Bert was a kid," Wes said, sitting back in his seat and smiling, "he got lost in that garden, trying to take the shortcut back from the road. We could all hear him screaming like he was stranded in the jungle, but really he was about two feet from the edge of the yard. He just lost his bearings."

"Poor Bert," I said.

"He survived." He slid his glass in a circle on the table. "He's tougher than he seems. When my mom died, we were all most worried about him, since he was only thirteen. They were really close. He was the one who was there when she found out about the cancer. I was off at Myers. But Bert was a real trooper. He stuck by her, even during the bad parts."

"That must have been hard for you," I said. "Being away and all."

"I was back home by the time things really got bad. But still, I hated being locked up when they needed me, all because of some stupid thing I'd done. By the time I got out, all I knew was that I never wanted to feel like that again. Whatever else happened, to Bert or anyone, I was going to be there."

The waitress was approaching the table now, a plate in each hand. On cue my stomach grumbled, even though I hadn't thought I was hungry. She deposited the plates with a clank, gave us each a quick second to ask for something else, and then shuffled off again.

"Now, see," Wes said, nodding at my plate, "this is going to blow your mind."

I looked at him. "It's a waffle, not the second coming."

"Don't be so sure. You haven't tasted it yet."

I spread some butter on my waffle, then doused it with syrup before cutting off a small bite. Wes watched as I put it in my mouth. He hadn't even started his yet, as if first, he wanted to hear my verdict. Which was, pretty good. Damn good, actually.

"Knew it," he said, as if he'd read my mind. "Maybe not the second coming, but a religious experience of sorts."

I was on my second bite now, and tempted to totally agree with this. Then I remembered something, and smiled.

"What?" he said.

I looked down at my plate. "What you just said, that's so funny. It reminded me of something my dad always used to say."

He popped a piece of waffle in his mouth, waiting for me to go on.

"We never went to church," I explained, "even though my mother always thought we should, and she was always feeling guilty about it. But my dad loved to cook big breakfasts on Sunday. He said that was his form of worship, and the kitchen was his church, his offering eggs and bacon and biscuits and…"

"Waffles," Wes finished for me.

I nodded, feeling a lump rise in my throat. How embarrassing, I thought, to suddenly be on the verge of tears at a truck stop waffle house with Tammy Wynette in the background. But then I thought how my dad would have loved this place, probably even loved Tammy Wynette, and the lump just grew bigger.

"My mom," Wes said suddenly, spearing another piece of his own waffle, "was the one who first brought me here. We used to stop on the way back from Greensboro, where my grandmother lived. Even during the health-food phase, it was a sort of ritual. This was the only place she'd ever eat something totally unhealthy. She'd get the Belgian waffle with whipped cream and strawberries and eat every bit of it. Then she'd complain the entire way home about how sick she felt."