Day two started pretty much like day one: the Breakfast Club came in, Ben cooked "a mess of bacon and eggs" (his phrase) for them, Faith scraped, scrubbed, rinsed, and stacked, same song second verse. Ben stuck his head into the kitchen. "Can you get me a bag of coffee out of the pantry?" he asked. "I'm almost out."
"Sure." Faith ducked in and came out with a five pound bag of Cain's. She tossed it underhand; Ben caught it deftly. "The gals stokin' up?"
"Oh, yeah. The Ladies Who Brunch will be here a while. It's book club day, they're all reading something called Potent Pleasures."
Faith held her forearm to her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Sounds like a porno."
"Same thing," Ben said. "Vicarious pleasure over a fictional situation they'll never encounter. It's emotional porn."
"Emotional Porno," Faith said. "New band name."
The ladies stayed through lunch and the game wardens brought in a buddy, an agent with Fish & Wildlife. When the county extension office came in, the diner was pretty much full. The conversation was the sort of back-and-forth that occurs between people who have known each other for a long time. Faith let it wash over her, a white-noise background that allowed her mind to float free as her hands accomplished their tasks. It was a longer day, and by the time Ben came into the kitchen her shoulders ached, but it was the pleasant soreness of muscles used well, not the agony of a joint wrenched out of socket by a screaming demon.
"Help me wipe down?" he asked as he ran hot water into a container and added vinegar. Yesterday's routine was repeated: tables wiped, door locked, sign turned. Ben went to the refrigerator as Faith emptied the water into the kitchen sink and rinsed the container. "Okay," he said, "first thing, always, whether you're making a sandwich or whatever, better components produce better results." He placed a package wrapped in plain white paper on the counter, then reached underneath, pulled out a long carving knife, and placed it next to a plate.
"Let me guess," Faith said as Ben unwrapped the ham. "It's from just over the ridge."
"Almost." Ben slapped the ham onto a cutting board; the knife flashed four times, yielding four thin slices of ham, which went on the plate. "That's good. Now, lots of people use Swiss cheese, which is fine, but a good cheddar is better."
"You're a poet and didn't know it," Faith said dryly.
"But my feet show it, they're long fellows. Don't groan, now, a good, sharp cheddar will highlight the ham, it'll make it saltier and sweeter." Ben placed two slices of cheese on the plate next to the ham. "The eternal question, which is better, mustard or mayo?"
"Do you make your own mustard?" Faith asked. She sat on a stool, knees akimbo, hands gripping the seat between her thighs.
"No, but I know how. Anyway, the correct answer is 'Why not both?'" Ben grabbed the loaf of sourdough. "Rye bread is actually my favorite for a ham and cheese, but there's not enough demand for me to keep it around, so sourdough works fine. Now, put a thin layer of mustard on one slice of bread, a slightly thicker layer of mayo on the other. Do not put them both on the same slice, and do not mix them together. You want to bite through each one, then into the ham and cheese. Let the magic happen in your mouth."
"Guy said that to me once," Faith said, swiveling on her seat. "I punched him in the throat."
Ben blinked and faltered for a second. "Um, uh, okay, now… now the piece de resistance." He went into the pantry and came out with a tomato. "Now, whenever you refrigerate a tomato, you kill certain flavor compounds that cannot be brought back, but-" he shrugged "-these are the compromises you make in the restaurant business. For this sandwich, though, none of that. This is the full experience, so I kept it back from the farmers market."
"When do you go to market?" Faith asked. He had been at the diner when she arrived at seven-thirty.
"Five-thirty. I get up early. Anyway-" he put the tomato on the cutting board; the knife went back and forth in a single stroke, almost too quick for the eye to follow, and Ben held up a perfectly even half-inch slice.
"Man," Faith said, nodding, "you got awesome knife skills."
Ben's face clouded. "That's not the point… it's just repetition, anybody could…" He cleared his throat. "You want to put the tomato on the mayo side,to create a shield that keeps the bread from getting soggy. Next comes the cheese, because you want the ham next to the mustard." He stacked the ingredients in the proper order. "There," he said, sliding the plate toward the Slayer.
"Aren't you gonna heat it up?" Faith asked.
"You can, but, in my opinion, toasting a ham and cheese actually mutes the flavor." He tapped the edge of the plate with the back of his fingers. "Try it."
Faith looked at him and shook her head, then picked up the sandwich. She actually moaned as her eyes closed, the lashes fluttering. She chewed and swallowed, then looked at him. "Man, that makes the grilled cheese taste like shit."
"Don't ever write ad copy," Ben said as he bit into the remainder of the tomato. The kitchen was silent as they ate. Ben finished the tomato, wiped his mouth on a towel, and went into the diner. Faith heard the register ding, then Ben returned with two twenties in hand.
"Y'know," Faith said as she accepted the money, "this feels kinda sleazy, like I'm a kitchen hooker or something."
"You shouldn't talk about yourself like that," Ben said. "I really appreciate what you've done, which brings me to…" He raised his eyebrows in a question.
Faith swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and washed it down with a swig of Coke. "That depends. What's tomorrow's sandwich?"
"Dinner's ready."
Faith snapped awake. For a panicked moment she tried to remember where she was. She had dozed off on the thin mattress of the twin bed, and her dreams had not been restful. She swung her bare feet to the floor, her toes digging into the worn carpet, and rested her head in her hands. She remained in that posture long enough for her head to clear, then rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and padded barefoot into the hallway. The dining area of the trailer was a raised area across from the kitchen. Beth had already placed a plate on the table. Faith sat down and looked at meat loaf, asparagus, and a sliced tomato. "Ben bring you that?" she said as she sat down.
"He did. If he sees something at the farmer's market, he grabs it for me." Beth took a bite of her food. "Or he says it's for me. Why did you ask that?"
"He made a sandwich after we closed down the diner and he made a big deal out of how it was fresh and unrefrigerated." Faith raised her hands and rolled her eyes.
"Mm-hmm." Beth's reply was little more than a grunt. "Impressing you with tomatoes, is he?"
"It was a good tomato, yeah." Faith chewed and swallowed. "But he's really slick with his knife."
Beth put down her fork. "It would be best if you remembered that you're working for my brother on a day-to-day basis. He's being kind and engaging because that's who he is. Don't try to get to know him."
Faith put down her own silverware with considerably more force and pushed away from the table. Her footsteps were much heavier as she went to the bedroom and dug around in her duffel bag. She found what she was looking for and marched back to the table. "Here," she said, dropping one of the twenties on the table.
"What are you doing?" Beth did not appear to be happy.
"I don't know what your problem is, but you keep acting like this is one of those fucking Poison Ivy movies and I'm here to, I don't know, seduce your brother and steal your goddamn trailer." Faith paused, her breathing harsh. "So, there, I'm paying you for the meat loaf."
Beth looked like she'd bitten into a sour lemon. "I don't want your money."
"Then what do you want?" Faith demanded. "I know…" She wheeled and stalked back to the bedroom. She came out with the bag slung over her shoulder. "This is you, getting what you want. I'm outta here."
"Wait." Beth stood up and grabbed the twenty from the table. "Here." She thrust it at Faith. "Take it. Keep it and… and don't go."
"Are you gaslighting me?" Faith demanded. "Every conversation with you feels like a Bugs Bunny cartoon."
Beth pulled back, confused. "Bugs Bunny?"
"You know, how he always argues with Daffy. Bugs starts out saying 'Yes' and Daffy starts out saying 'No', and somewhere in the middle Bugs changes to 'No' and Daffy ends up yelling 'Yes' and gets hit in the head with a hammer."
Beth touched the tabletop with her fingertips. "You can't leave. It's after dark."
"That's another thing. One of the first things Ben said was nobody goes out after dark. What the hell is that?"
"It's not exactly… you just have to stay in the light. It's safe to sit on the porch, just don't go into the woods."
"Not an explanation." Faith pointed an accusing finger.
"Look, this is a rural area. There are lots of wild animals in the woods… mountain lions, bears. You don't want to run into one of them."
"That's it? There might be a bear in the woods?" Faith looked skeptical.
"What? Did you think I was going to say there were monsters in the forest?" Beth retorted.
Faith started to reply, then bit down hard. "Okay, but let's say I'm willing to take my chances in the dark."
"You really shouldn't. If you leave, do it in the daylight." Beth looked down at the table. "And tell Ben you're leaving."
"What's your deal about him?" Faith demanded. "You act like he's made of glass… or nitroglycerin. What's the story there?"
Beth nodded. "Okay, okay, I'll tell you our story." She looked directly at Faith. "After you tell me yours." Faith felt herself draw into a defensive posture, mind and body. "Uh-huh," Beth said. "You want to keep your secrets." She exhaled heavily. "Stay here tonight, after the diner closes, tell Ben you're leaving. I'm going back to work on Saturday, and I meant what I said: you're not staying in my house by yourself."
"I really, really don't want to," Faith replied. She dropped her bag and grabbed her plate. "I'm going to eat outside… and don't worry, I'll sit under the porch light."
She felt strange and sad the next morning, like she had somehow betrayed Ben in the night. The thought of telling him that she was leaving sat in her stomach like a rock. She stuffed her conscious mind into a mental closet and concentrated on taking deep breaths and washing dishes. Just do, don't think.
The Breakfast Club had already polished off their cholesterol feasts and the Ladies Who Brunch had settled in when the phone rang. Ben answered. "Uh-huh. Yeah. No, no, no, that's what I need to know. Yes, I'll hold." He covered the receiver. "Faith, would you go see if any of them need a refill?"
"Huh?" Faith looked up, startled out of a memory. "I can't wait tables."
Ben shook his head. "You don't have to. There's a fresh pot of coffee on. Just see if any of them need a refill." He jerked his head toward the phone. "I've been waiting on this call."
"Uh, okay." Faith stepped out of the kitchen and into the diner. The women looked up at her briefly, then returned to their conversation. The Slayer hefted the glass carafe of coffee and cleared her throat. "Any- Anybody need a refill?" The conversation stopped again and they stared at her. Faith felt her face grow hot; maybe the lenses of all those glasses were concentrating the light into a heat ray aimed at her head. She shuffled her feet slightly.
"Well, if Ben's going to ignore us, I could stand to be topped up." The woman who spoke was wide and thick, but not fat, just square and solid. She wore a blue dress under a white cardigan.
"I'll say." This speaker was taller and thin, as if everything extra had been burned away or cast off. "You haven't been topped up since, what, '93?"
"Pat, you hush." The first woman launched an ineffective and insincere slap. The other women laughed.
"She got you, Ethel, she got you good." Another cup was raised. "Hit me again."
"Sure." Faith poured coffee into the two cups, then stepped back. "Anybody else?"
"Is Ben treating you all right?" This woman's hair was snow white, but her face was strangely unlined. "He's not keeping you locked up in that kitchen, is he?"
"Uh, no." Faith shook her head. "He, uh, he pays me to wash dishes."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry, Marge," Pat said to the white-haired woman. "Any young lady who can chunk a rock like her isn't in any danger of being taken advantage of."
"Uh, you saw that?" Faith asked, biting her lip. Her knuckles felt warm from the radiant heat of the carafe. "Um, that guy-"
"Don't bother explaining, sugar," Pat said. "No woman ever chucked a rock at a man but what he didn't deserve it." A general ripple of assent flowed around the table.
"Why are you in this broken-down place?" Ethel said. "You ought to be in school."
"I'm… I'm not from around here," Faith stammered, wondering how these old biddies had put her on the wrong foot.
"Obviously," Marge said drily. "We know everybody that's lived around here for a hundred years, especially the young people."
"Yes," said another lady, the possessor of very red lips and suspiciously dark hair. "It's easy to keep track of them. There aren't too many." She looked around the table as though harvesting the nods of the other ladies. Her eyes returned to Faith. "You need a haircut," she said, patting her own elaborately teased 'do.
"Uh," Faith felt the back of her neck bristle. "Nothing's wrong with my hair."
This brought a dismissive wave of the hand. "Nothing except it needed to be cut a month ago, judging from the style. Pat, are you free this afternoon?"
Pat took a sip from her cup. "I certainly am, after Days of Our Lives is finished." She placed her cup in her saucer with a definitive clink. "Bo's trying to get Princess Gina to realize she's actually Hope." She looked at Faith. "Ben closes around three, doesn't he? You just come on down, let's say three-thirty, you just take a right at the intersection and I'm almost at the end of the block on the far side of the street. It's not hard to find, and if you're direction-challenged it says 'Pat's Cut'n'Care' on the window." She picked up her cup and took another drink.
"I'm not… I'm not looking…" Faith stumbled over her words. "My hair is fine-"
"Fine's not fine for a young lady your age." Ruby spoke with the air of royalty. "And don't you worry about the cost."
"Wouldn't charge much anyway," Pat said, regarding Faith with a professional's eye. "Just a simple cut, no perm or wave… I'll charge you five dollars."
"F-Five dollars?" Faith almost laughed.
Ruby rattled her cup. "Could you fill me up, dear?" The Slayer blinked and robotically poured coffee.
"Ladies, are you harassing this young woman?" Ben appeared in the door, leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed.
"You watch your mouth, Ben Stillwell," Pat said. "I've known you since you thought 'harass' was two words." That produced a high-pitched burst of laughter; even Ben shook his head.
"Listen, Benjamin," Ruby said. "This young lady is going to Pat's for a haircut after you close, so you let her go in plenty of time to be there by three-thirty." Ruby started to turn back to the table when another thought occurred to her. "And you give her an extra five dollars to pay for it."
"Certainly, Ms. Ruby." Ben executed a mock-bow. "Anything else I should do?"
"Hmmph." Ruby picked up her mug and spoke without looking at Ben. "Stop worrying your poor sister to death." Faith felt a chill pass through the air, like a taboo had been breached.
"Well," Ben said, pushing away from his relaxed position in the door. "Why don't I just lasso the moon while I'm at it?"
"You're sweet, Ben Stillwell," Ethel said, "but you're no George Bailey."
Faith put the carafe back on the warmer and fled to the security of the kitchen.
She spent lunch time in a haze, trying to figure out just what had happened with the old ladies and rehearsing what she was going to say to Ben. The county extension crew finally finished up, or, rather, Ben finished visiting with them. Faith's breathing felt funny as she heard his footsteps cross the tiled floor. "Ben," she said, "I-"
"Here," he said, holding out the usual two twenties, "plus an extra five for the haircut."
"I'm not going to get a haircut," Faith protested.
"If you're not there at three-thirty, Pat will be here at three-thirty-five, and neither of us want that." Ben looked down at the money in his hand. "And be sure to pay with the five. Try to pay with a twenty and she'll come up here and wring my neck."
For a heartbeat, Faith thought about knocking the money out of his hand and running out onto the street. Any words that she needed to say were stuck at the base of her throat. Maybe a little time to gather her thoughts was what she needed. "Okay," she said, taking the money between thumb and forefinger. "But I need… I need to talk to you after this is done."
"Sure," Ben said. "I'll be here."
Faith paused at the intersection of the two highways and closed her eyes. The late-summer sun was warm on her head as she waited for her internal compass to calibrate. Unfortunately, it was no help at all. She opened her eyes and turned right. As she passed by the plate glass window of the hardware store movement in the corner of her eye made her jump to her left, just as she registered that the movement was the owner, Pete, reaching out to tap on the window and wave at her. She raised a hand to the wiry little man with the bald head and stiff white whiskers and was rewarded with a wink. She shook her head and continued to the end of the block, a whole two buildings down the street. The storefront across from her was pink stucco, and 'Pat's Cut'n'Care' was indeed lettered on the window in gold script with a white shadow. The gold had faded to an ochre patina. There was an empty lot beside the building, then a street that was mostly dirt and gravel, then a largeish barn of a building in serious disrepair. Faith sighed and shook her head, then crossed the street. There was an honest-to-god brass bell suspended over the door, so her entrance was greeted with a chime. The front of the room was carpeted, but that ended at the counter extending from the right-hand wall. Three metal dining room chairs sat against the left wall, obviously for waiting customers. They were empty. The back two-thirds of the room had a tile floor, a barber's chair, a hair-washing sink, and a chair dryer. A door in the rear wall was covered by a bead curtain, which clacked rhythmically as Pat pushed through it.
"There you are," she said. "Well, come on back… I don't know your name."
The Slayer rubbed her hands together. "Uh, Faith, it's Faith."
Pat nodded once. "Faith. Well, that's a nice old-fashioned name. Come on back, Faith, no waiting." She rested one hand on the back of the shampoo chair, all bright eyes behind her glasses and a straight, thin frame. Faith shuffled across the floor and perched at the edge of the seat. Pat walked around her, looking at her hair; when the older woman passed out of her vision, Faith felt an itch between her shoulder blades. "Well," Pat said, "we'll just do a shampoo and condition, then cut it." She stepped around to where Faith could see her again. "You wear it about here, right?" Pat touched her shoulder blades.
"Yeah, that's, uh, that's fine," Faith sputtered.
"Okay, then." Pat grabbed a pink cape from a rack and swirled it around the girl with the panache of a matador. Faith's eyes shot back and forth as the collar snapped closed. "Now, just lean back," Pat said, grabbing the chair's handle.
"I, I'm not sure I need a shampoo," Faith said, holding herself upright as the back of the chair reclined.
"Sugar, you have lovely hair, but you have obviously not been taking care of it." Pat put her hand on the Slayer's shoulder. "They'd take my license if I cut it dry." She pushed gently and Faith felt herself tilt back until her neck rested in the dip at the front of the sink. "Now, you just trust me. I've been doing this for going on forty years." She pulled out the nozzle and the Slayer heard water running in the sink, then felt the warmth cascading over her scalp. She shuddered and relaxed as Pat began to massage shampoo into her hair.
"Can I ask you something?" Faith asked; she was drowsy.
"Certainly."
"What did you mean this morning, about chucking a rock?"
Pat scrubbed for a moment. "I'm an old woman now, but I wasn't always. I was a pretty girl once, if I say so myself, and I might as well, no one else is doing it. I was lucky, I married a good man, his name was Randall, but before I met him, well, plenty of young men sniffed around." She was quiet, her fingers working through Faith's hair. "Plenty of young men who wanted what young men want. I was lucky again, my father was an odd man for his time. He loved and respected my mother, and they taught me that I deserved to be loved and respected, too, and taught me how to deal with boys who didn't." Faith's eyes opened to slits as the old woman paused. "I walked home from more than one date."
"How did you-?" Faith tried to form the question in a fitting way.
"Oh, that?" Pat shrugged. "Let's just say that I wasn't nicknamed 'the Nutcracker' because of my fondness for Tchaikovsky."
Faith snorted, causing water to splash onto the floor. "You're kidding."
"Nope," Pat said. "So, anyway, I figure that if you were mad enough to throw that rock, he did something to deserve it. Probably deserved more. Girls tend to wait longer than they should to stand up for themselves."
Faith settled back. "Not me."
"Then good for you." Pat played the sprayer over the girl's scalp, then gave her hair a quick twist. "All right, you can go to the chair." Faith shook herself to full wakefulness and stood up. She swayed a little, then went to the barber chair. Pat picked up a comb and scissors. "I'm not going to do much," she said. "Like I said, you've got beautiful hair and a good natural part, and I'm guessing you don't want anything that requires much fussing."
"True, but why would you think that?" Faith tilted her head forward in response to Pat's pressure on the crown of her head.
"Sweetie, I've seen buck deer that aren't as skitty as you." The comb pulled through the Slayer's hair and the scissors snipped. She cut in silence for a few minutes.
"Can I ask you a question?" Faith said.
"Certainly." Pat paused. "Men have their bartenders, women have their stylists. This is as close to a confessional as you'll get without a backwards collar. Fire away."
Faith's nose scrunched. "What's the deal with Ben's sister? Why's she so-" She stopped groping for the correct term.
"Hmmm, that's a whole tale." Pat snipped away. "Ben Stillwell was the brightest penny this town had produced in quite some time. This would be twenty-five, thirty years ago. This town was a going concern in those days, and Ben, well, a lot of people thought he might go to Cal, maybe even Stanford." She sighed. "Instead, he joined the service right out of high school. This would be right at the end of Vietnam." The scissors stopped. "My Randall fought in World War Two, in Europe. He lied about his age, said he was eighteen when he was barely sixteen. He was a good man, always a good man, but he saw things over there that he never talked about. He loved hunting, and when he got back, he'd take a twenty-two or a thirty-ought-six and go walking in the woods. He'd be out there all day and come back and not fired a shot. He did that for three months, and then he stopped." The scissors worked again. "Ben Stillwell went to Vietnam the brightest penny this town had, and he came back… Well, Randall had a lot of sympathy for him. He said once that he thought what saved his sanity was that he had two weeks on a ship after it was over, two weeks to talk and work things out and adjust to the war being over, but Ben… Randall said that they called him in one day and told him his tour was up and in less than twenty-four hours he was on the ground at Travis." The Slayer heard the older woman moving behind her. "He wasn't the same."
"Holy shit," Faith whispered. She started to turn her head.
"Hold still, sweetie." Pat turned the chair; Faith could see herself in the mirror and the older woman behind her. "Now, you asked about Beth. She's a little over two years older than Ben, bright girl, played oboe in the band, president of the student body-"
"Student body?"
We had a school here at the time, K through twelve. If you go back to the intersection and turn right, the buildings are still there, but they look the worse for wear. Beth went to school over in Turlock and got her nursing degree, met a young man named Ian Hopper, and got married. Lived up in Stockton, was a delivery nurse, I think. Looked like the world was her oyster, too, then Ian died, killed in a car accident." Pat held up locks of Faith's hair, measuring them for evenness. "Pretty near killed Beth. She came back here, Ben was a mess, and she got a job over in the county seat, and when she wasn't there, she was trying to help Ben get himself together." She trimmed a strand of hair. "This woulda been, what twenty years ago?" Pat looked up at the ceiling. "Yes, something like that. Anyway, for the longest time it seemed that nothing was getting any better, that Beth was just pouring her life down a rathole trying to save Ben, but then I guess he did what they call 'hitting rock bottom' in AA. It looked like all that promise was just going to be snuffed out by that stupid, stupid war. How's that look?" Pat turned the chair from side to side; Faith had to admit that it was an improvement from the shaggy mane she'd walked in with.
"It looks… fine."
Pat took out a blow dryer and turned it on low. "About that time, old man Helsley retired from the diner, and Ben bought it, for some reason. I think the old man pretty much gave it to him just to be shut of it. It kept that boy busy. Back then, fifteen years ago or so, the town was a lot livelier. My Randall talked to Ben a lot, and he said that the routine and the busy-ness probably helped. Well, in the time since then, the town's dying, but Ben keeps going along."
Faith looked into the mirror and caught Pat's eye. "So, Beth is… what?"
Pat returned the stare. "Beth's a girl who's lost a lot, and, and this is my two cents, she thinks her little brother is one bad day away from going back to what he was."
"Do you think he is?" Faith's brow furrowed.
Pat unsnapped the cape and whipped it away. "I don't know, I can't know what's in his heart or hers, but I do know that worrying about someone else is a great way to ignore your own problems, and iving in fear of what might happen is a good way to waste your entire life."
Faith stood up and reached into her pocket. "Thanks," she said, holding out the five, "for the haircut and for the history." She bit her lip. "What's that building across the lot?"
Pat gave her a flinty look. "You stay away from there. Every town, no matter how small, has got its bad element, and that's where ours hangs out. I don't care how good you are at throwing rocks, you just leave them be."
Faith suppressed a smile. "Okay, thanks."
"Oh, my pleasure." Pat tucked the bill into a drawer under the counter. "It gave me something to do with the afternoon after Days. I swear, I don't know who thinks up those stories, but they're sure entertaining. A computer chip in someone's head that makes them think they're someone else?" She laughed.
"Yeah," the Slayer said as she opened the door, "Unbelievable."