When I was in grade school, my teacher, Mrs. Caldwell, was caught canoodling the Mayor in one of the upstairs rooms. It had been very scandalous and had sent the entire town quite a flutter. It was especially tricky for Tanya, her eight-year-old daughter. The poor little girl found herself caught up in a very dramatic divorce and custody battle. The court awarded primary custody to Mrs. Caldwell, without question, as they often did in the eighties. Unfortunately, River Bluff was home of the grouch, not the forgiving. So Tanya's mother chose to move to a larger town an hour south. It was that or dodge icy stares and hushed whispers forever. Tanya had been my only friend.
No, complaining to the motel staff would do nothing. Except lead people to say that, not only had I been a strange child, I had also grown into a high maintenance, demanding adult. I preferred to stay clear of that narrative. Looking out the tiny window, I could see that the rain had slowed to a minor drizzle, so I decided to hunt down some breakfast. I showered, towelled myself dry, then shoved my legs into a pair of designer jeans before reaching for a cashmere, V-neck sweater. I closed my suitcase and rested it on the small table in a corner of the room that seemed unaffected by the leak.
Walking down Main Street, it occurred to me how out of place I must have looked. My expensive watch and Italian leather shoes certainly didn't blend in. I was also confident that I was the first and only man to walk the streets of River Bluff carrying a purse -- satchel. It wasn't that I was trying hard to impress people, which I knew would be my father's accusation. The truth was simple; this was how I dressed. These were my clothes. I made a good living and enjoyed designer fashion; there was no need to be ashamed of that. Yet, I found myself embarrassed by the same clothes that usually made me feel quite good about myself. Clothes I often felt handsome wearing. Stop it, I told myself as I swung open the door to one of the two diners on the street.
Walking into the restaurant felt like a time machine. Although the name of the restaurant had changed, inside, it was identical to what I remembered. Two artificial cypresses still flanked the door, inlaid with stained glass. I was surprised by the flood of feelings I was experiencing by merely standing in the doorway.
It was Mother's Day. My father had decided to take us all out to dinner to celebrate — something he rarely did. 'Jack and Judy's' was owned and operated by Roger and Claire Fielding. It was named after their twins who were a grade ahead of me. I was fifteen at the time and had been struggling a lot with school bullies, Jack Fielding being one of the most aggressive. The bastard and his friends had attacked me earlier that week. They had pinned me down and smashed rotten eggs in my face. When I arrived home, in tears and stinking to high heaven, my father had whipped me good — one of his many attempts at toughening me up.
"You let those fuckers beat you! You want to be a coward; I'll treat you like a coward!"
My ass and back were still sore from the leather belt he had fetched from his dresser. It hurt to sit on the hard, wooden chairs of the diner and the pain seemed threefold when I saw who our server would be.
Jack had intentions to become a pipefitter after graduation. He had started working at his family's restaurant to save up for trade school. Since we did not dine out often, I had managed to avoid him outside of school hours until now. I cowered behind my menu when he approached and prayed he would be pleasant. He smirked at me. The menu did not provide as much camouflage as I had hoped. I avoided eye contact and attempted to remain calm. I couldn't afford to have my father notice how shaken I was by this boy's presence. Jack had no trouble recognizing my unease. His smirk grew more pronounced. "Welcome to Jack and Judy's. What can I bring you folks?"
He was attempting to charm my parents. Fuck you, Jack. I bit my lower lip to keep the words from coming out. My father ordered first and then my mother for herself as well as for Lauren. Then Jack turned to me. "And for you, Parker?"
It was the first time I'd ever heard him utter my name. He usually only addressed me with profanity. I peered around the corner of my menu. "The chicken ranch sandwich, please."
"Did you want fries or salad?" Jack asked. He was so professional. A small part of me relaxed, thinking I had overreacted to his presence.
"Salad, thank you." If he could be polite, so could I. "Ranch dressing, please."
Jack appeared to be talking to himself as he wrote it down on a small pad of paper. "Ranch dressing on the chicken and the salad," and then he looked into my eyes and smiled. "I'll make sure it's really fresh for you," he said, winking as he sauntered away.
By the time he returned with the entrées, I had worked myself into a frenzy. What had he meant by 'fresh', and why did he wink at me? What was he planning to do? Jack placed four plates down on the table. Mine looked like your typical sandwich and salad combination. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except, the excessive amount of creamy ranch sauce that seeped out of the sides of the toasted bun. Something about the way Jack looked at me as he set down the plate, made me queasy. He said, "Enjoy," with an air of menace, before turning away.
It was psychological warfare. Maybe Jack had done nothing to the sandwich? Perhaps he only wanted me to believe that he had so that I would refuse to eat it and anger my father? Or maybe Jack had done something to the sandwich and was waiting in the wings, watching and waiting for me to swallow whatever vile ingredient he had added. If he were going to pollute the sandwich, surely, he wouldn't have hinted at doing so. I picked up the sandwich.
Wait. That's likely what Jack wanted me to think. He hinted at contaminating the sandwich so that I would think he was being too obvious about doing so, to have actually done so. I was making myself dizzy, thinking in circles. I put the sandwich back down without taking a bite.
My parents eyed me strangely. My mother leaned over to me. "Is something wrong, Parker?" She asked with concern. Her voice was always soft and gentle.
I shook my head, "I'm not hungry anymore."
My mother looked worried. "Now Parker, your father is very generous by taking us all to dinner," she looked to him with a small smile. "You ordered this. Now you need to eat it." She pointed at the plate while she straightened herself up in her chair. She patted my father's hand, which had tightened around his fork.
I looked over to her with wide eyes. "It has too much ranch dressing."
"Then scrape some off," she suggested taking a sip of Chardonnay.
I lifted the top bun. An amalgamation of melted cheese and dressing oozed down from the toasted bread. It was going to be impossible to separate the two. I picked up the butter knife to my right and began to scrape the underside. I could feel my father's glare upon me and looked at him from across the table. His face was red, his knuckles white.
"What the hell are you doing, boy?" His volume was low, but his tone was to the point. He was annoyed.
I was timid but honest with my reply, "Scraping some of the sauce off."
It didn't take much for me to annoy or frustrate him. I could tell by the cold look in his eyes that he did not find my honesty refreshing. "Well, stop it," he hissed.
"I don't want the ranch dressing."
His voice rose. "You asked for ranch dressing. The guy even repeated it back to you."