I wrote this today as part of my commitment to the Clarion West Write-a-thon. A dedication means that person sponsored it by donating to CW, and then provided me a writing prompt that sparked the piece. If you would like something written especially for you, please consider sponsoring me.
Here’s all the work of the 41 days. You’ll also find these pieces cross-posted at Sterling Editing as incentive for writers to practice their editing and story-building skills.
Enjoy.
The Last Cafe
For Ivan Sun. Thank you for your support of my work and Clarion West.
The sign said The Last Cafe, but the place looked like what Annie thought of as a regular house, small and wooden with a covered front porch, sleepy in the shade of a stand of oaks dripping Spanish moss. Blue jays scracked overhead. It was going to be a hot day. Annie smelled salt in the air.
She left Bridget in the small parking lot while she went around back. She had learned that taking a little one to the door only made it more likely folks would say no. “Stay right here and wait for me,” she said. Bridget nodded tiredly and clutched her beanbag frog.
Annie followed a short gravel drive to the back of the building and found a battered pickup truck with a Sink or Swim! bumper sticker parked near a screen door. She could see kitchen things through the screen: a double sink, a large refrigerator humming in the corner, a big butcherblock counter with a rack of cookpots and skillets hanging from the ceiling overhead.
And then she saw beyond the truck, beyond the far back fence that bounded the land: a fingerpaint-blue sky arching cloudless over shallow water that lapped at the bottom inch of the fence posts and spread back as far as she could see. Back to the edge of the world. The oak trees seemed to be marching into the water until, far out, only their tops cleared the surface. Annie imagined them standing tiptoe on their roots, trying to breathe.
Annie took a breath. She had never been so close to the Great Sea.
“We’re not open until lunch,” a voice said behind her.
She turned. A man leaned against the doorjamb behind the screen. He wore a white cook’s apron over jeans and a t-shirt, and his dark hair was pulled into a ponytail. He held a butcher knife. Annie thought he was maybe as old as her dad had been the last time she saw him, when he had said Stay right here and wait for me, punkin. But he had never come back and finally she couldn’t wait anymore, because most everyone was leaving and taking the food. Sometimes they would yank a sack of bread and peanutbutter right out of some little kid’s hand before they smacked her down and left her in the street. That was where she had found Bridget; huddled up on a curb hugging her toy frog, with a swollen face and the most lonesome eyes in the world.
That had been a hundred and fifty-seven miles ago. Annie didn’t think she was going to see her dad again.
She looked at the Last Cafe man, and then again at the Great Sea. She must have taken a wrong turn on the county road. She thought she was taking them away from the creeping water. But here it was, like a monster mouth opening wider and wider, swallowing everything.
She took another breath. Bridget was hungry. So Annie said, “I can’t pay for food, but I can work for it.”
He regarded her in silence.
“I can chop things up. I know how to clean shrimp and shuck oysters. I can houseclean. I can do laundry. I can paint your porch rail, it really needs it.”
He wasn’t exactly frowning now, but he was shaking his head a little, and she suddenly felt desperate, like she was one of those trees with only one branch left above water. But her dad had taught her never sound scared, so she made herself believe the cafe man would say yes if she just talked fast enough. “I can bus tables. Really, I’m strong. I can wash dishes. I can cut the yard if you have a gas mower. I can…” But he bent his head and shifted his weight, and she knew what that meant: I’m sorry, but I’ve got problems of my own and I can’t hear yours right now. It meant he was about to turn away and let her drown.
“Mister,” she said, and her traitor voice quavered but she went on, “Mister, please, I have a child with me.”
His head came up. He blinked once, twice; and said in a careful, quiet voice, “A child. I see. And do you mind if I ask how old you are yourself?”
“I’m twelve,” Annie said.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Jesus.” Then he turned his head and called back into the house, “Stella!” Annie bit her lip, and stood silent, and hoped.
:’)
Easily a lead in to either hope or horror.
Jennifer, thanks!
Sandra, I had at least the first quarter of a novel drop into my head this morning with this piece… so there is room for both.
Oh that’s wonderful! I love the details of the house that make it so real, and the build up in anticipation. I hope a longer piece, a novel?! comes out of it. Well done on this amazing write-a-thon journey you are sharing with us 🙂
Ivan, I’m so glad you are pleased! I hope something more comes out of it too, and thank you — if it weren’t for your sponsorship and your prompt, I would never have written it.
A Sink or Swim bumper sticker…ho ho. I like how her reach to do work, any work, is mixed into adventuring toward the great sea. And she sounds smart about work, too; that intrigues me.