other.
“Oh, right,” says Bean. “I was gonna pay.”
Bean opens his wallet, scrunches up his forehead, looks in a couple different compartments, takes out a few business cards, sets them on the table, and mumbles, “Man . . . ”
“Bean,” says Caleb.
“No, no, dude. I said I’d pay for it. I just have to find an ATM or something. It’s totally cool.”
“Bean,” says Caleb.
“No, no, I’ll get it. I said I’d get it. But I spent my cash on that travel Yahtzee game at the airport. Yahtzee rocks. I just need an ATM.”
Caleb is already halfway to the register. “Forget it, man,” he says. “Get it next time.”
Caleb weaves around a few chairs, heading up toward the front of the restaurant—but the woman, the only other customer in the place, has beaten him to the cash register, so he waits in line and looks around. The name of the place, “The Blue Crab,” is painted on the storefront window. Caleb sees the words backward now, and they look like they say something totally different. He can’t come up with what they look like; they just look strange. Somehow it reminds him of everything in this place.
Since his return to Hudsonville, he has seen his childhood home, and he has passed streets where he used to ride his bike and the creek, or crick , as the locals call it, where he and Rich Baker used to catch frogs and have contests to see how far they could throw them. He has passed the corner where he used to wait for the bus, where Rusty Brown once unfurled (with much fanfare and rhetoric) the first porno mag Caleb ever laid eyes on. This was home. And it’s just as he remembers it. The air still has the same indefinable sweet smell, the wind makes the same sound coming through the tops of the pine trees; even the paper kid’s menu at the Blue Crab hasn’t changed a bit. He had traced his finger through the maze on the textured paper just as he had done with a crayon a thousand times as a kid. Everything is the same. But nothing is familiar. It’s all here, every wrinkle of every long-lost memory—real, vivid, unchanged, rendered in perfect detail, but still not quite right . Like “The Blue Crab,” written across the window, everything is backwards.
The woman from the corner booth is still speaking to the old waitress in a hushed, raspy monotone. It’s taking forever. In his boredom, Caleb tries to overhear their conversation but it’s tough to make out the words. He takes a small, shuffling step forward and hears:
“. . . it ain’t what Jesus wanted for ’em. I know that in my heart.
Jesus hates what’s going on here. It ain’t natural. And nobody will do nothing about it. You knew him. You knew Keith. He called you Grandma. He was nine years old. Nine years! Like he was suckin’ off my tit yesterday, that’s how I remember him. Like my baby. He was my baby. Well now the devil’s got him, and ain’t nobody to stand up, just like nobody stood up for Jesus when he was nailed up. Just like you ain’t standin’ up now. Margie, come on with me and tell the sheriff that Keith wouldn’t run away. He wasn’t that kind of boy, and you know he wasn’t. He didn’t run away.” Here, the voice that had until now been as resolute as stone wavers for the first time, withers into a broken falsetto.
“You know he didn’t. You know he didn’t, Margie.”
Margie, the old waitress, has been staring at the counter, never looking up once. Caleb can see her clearly over the other woman’s shoulder. Only Margie’s lips move as she says: “Five eighty-one.”
The woman with her back to Caleb raises a hand up and clubs it down on the Formica counter with a dead thud, so hard that the cash register jumps and the phone belches a tiny dinging sound. She releases the handful of bills locked inside her fist and sniffs. Margie still stares at the counter. She hasn’t moved, except for a tiny flinch when the woman’s fist fell. Now she moves, but only her lips again, and she says very
“Oh, right,” says Bean. “I was gonna pay.”
Bean opens his wallet, scrunches up his forehead, looks in a couple different compartments, takes out a few business cards, sets them on the table, and mumbles, “Man . . . ”
“Bean,” says Caleb.
“No, no, dude. I said I’d pay for it. I just have to find an ATM or something. It’s totally cool.”
“Bean,” says Caleb.
“No, no, I’ll get it. I said I’d get it. But I spent my cash on that travel Yahtzee game at the airport. Yahtzee rocks. I just need an ATM.”
Caleb is already halfway to the register. “Forget it, man,” he says. “Get it next time.”
Caleb weaves around a few chairs, heading up toward the front of the restaurant—but the woman, the only other customer in the place, has beaten him to the cash register, so he waits in line and looks around. The name of the place, “The Blue Crab,” is painted on the storefront window. Caleb sees the words backward now, and they look like they say something totally different. He can’t come up with what they look like; they just look strange. Somehow it reminds him of everything in this place.
Since his return to Hudsonville, he has seen his childhood home, and he has passed streets where he used to ride his bike and the creek, or crick , as the locals call it, where he and Rich Baker used to catch frogs and have contests to see how far they could throw them. He has passed the corner where he used to wait for the bus, where Rusty Brown once unfurled (with much fanfare and rhetoric) the first porno mag Caleb ever laid eyes on. This was home. And it’s just as he remembers it. The air still has the same indefinable sweet smell, the wind makes the same sound coming through the tops of the pine trees; even the paper kid’s menu at the Blue Crab hasn’t changed a bit. He had traced his finger through the maze on the textured paper just as he had done with a crayon a thousand times as a kid. Everything is the same. But nothing is familiar. It’s all here, every wrinkle of every long-lost memory—real, vivid, unchanged, rendered in perfect detail, but still not quite right . Like “The Blue Crab,” written across the window, everything is backwards.
The woman from the corner booth is still speaking to the old waitress in a hushed, raspy monotone. It’s taking forever. In his boredom, Caleb tries to overhear their conversation but it’s tough to make out the words. He takes a small, shuffling step forward and hears:
“. . . it ain’t what Jesus wanted for ’em. I know that in my heart.
Jesus hates what’s going on here. It ain’t natural. And nobody will do nothing about it. You knew him. You knew Keith. He called you Grandma. He was nine years old. Nine years! Like he was suckin’ off my tit yesterday, that’s how I remember him. Like my baby. He was my baby. Well now the devil’s got him, and ain’t nobody to stand up, just like nobody stood up for Jesus when he was nailed up. Just like you ain’t standin’ up now. Margie, come on with me and tell the sheriff that Keith wouldn’t run away. He wasn’t that kind of boy, and you know he wasn’t. He didn’t run away.” Here, the voice that had until now been as resolute as stone wavers for the first time, withers into a broken falsetto.
“You know he didn’t. You know he didn’t, Margie.”
Margie, the old waitress, has been staring at the counter, never looking up once. Caleb can see her clearly over the other woman’s shoulder. Only Margie’s lips move as she says: “Five eighty-one.”
The woman with her back to Caleb raises a hand up and clubs it down on the Formica counter with a dead thud, so hard that the cash register jumps and the phone belches a tiny dinging sound. She releases the handful of bills locked inside her fist and sniffs. Margie still stares at the counter. She hasn’t moved, except for a tiny flinch when the woman’s fist fell. Now she moves, but only her lips again, and she says very
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