Trying the Knot Page 5

  Ben, Chelsea and Thad cautiously ventured inside Vange’s hospital room where they found Nick standing guard next to Kate. She sat slumped in a chair alongside a dangerously archaic looking mechanical bed, and it became obvious a nurse must have convinced her to swallow a sedative. Dazed and confused, it appeared she was going to slip into a coma next to Vange.

  They silently gathered around. An IV stuck into Vange’s forearm, along with various other tubes poking and prodding her. Her usual undaunted disposition lay buried behind her closed eyes. Evangelica looked listless and peaceful as if she were swaddled in a casket, rather than hospital bedding. Her wavy, auburn hair spilled over her pale cheeks onto an unnaturally starched pillow.

  Ben brushed her hair away from her luminescent face, and he placed the back of his hand on her forehead as if checking whether or not she had a fever. He was the only one who had the courage to touch her. Her ordinarily painted, pouty mouth was clamped shut. How strange, to be in the same room with Vange and not be subjugated by a barrage of witty anecdotal stories. Her lips were absent of their usual matte red lipstick. The curtain had momentarily fallen on her dramatic antics.

  The overwhelming silence so unnerved them the mere act of the sun disappearing behind the clouds was jarring. They held their breaths while the crisp white room was transformed into a pale shade of gray. The beeping monitor was the only sound penetrating the gloomy quiet.

  Kate involuntarily drooped forward. Her head rolled to one side and rested against Nick. Fighting the sedative, she groggily attempted to sit up straight, and Nick wrapped a protective arm around her. As Nick observed each of them, his steady gaze contained a knowing integrity. His plethora of life experience allowed him to look most people in the eye with unflinching empathy and occasional sadness. Indeed, it was the rare occasion he ever came across as insincere or duplicitous.

  When the sun reappeared, Chelsea broke the spell of taciturn stillness. “So, you found her in bed, Benjamin – without a note or anything?”

  “Yes, she was just laying there like she was asleep,” Ben said. He clasped her limp hand with his tan fingers. “There were pills bottles next to her. I just put two and two together.”

  “Well, lucky for us, you can add,” Chelsea said and flashed a wry smile.

  “Still, couldn’t it have been an accident?” Nick asked. Simultaneously, the three of them flashed him a look of doubtful finality, which forced him to abandon that tired theory.

  Before the room once again lapsed into death-laden silence, Chelsea asked, “Whatever compelled you to pay her a visit at six in the morning, Benjamin?”

  “It was a wake up call, that’s all,” Ben explained, and he set her hand down. “We do it all the time – when one of us has to wake up early, we drag the other out of bed to make breakfast.”

  “So it’s safe to say you went hungry this morning,” Chelsea said.

  “I—I don’t understand why,” Kate interjected, with her glassy eyes nearly shut. “I just don’t understand, why she’d do such a thing, especially now.”

  “Maybe we’ll never know,” Nick said. His bland diplomacy did not allow him to be in the presence of any type of turmoil, and his most convenient method of alleviating tension was to charm the source into captivated submission.

  “Maybe the answer is right before our eyes,” Thad said. He removed himself from the bedside vigil and made it a point to move out of reach of the benign spell Nick’s presence cast over the room.

  Hovering protectively near Kate, Nick was so engulfed in his own obligatory vigil he barely noticed Vange sprawled before them ineffably vulnerable and comatose. Nick flashed Thad a questioning glance and asked, “What’s that supposed to mean? You know something we don’t?”

  Thad shook his head. “Maybe the explanation is more obvious than we think.”

  “Like she was depressed?” Kate asked.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Ben stepped away from Vange’s bedside, and he pointed out, “Vange wouldn’t ever kill herself if she was depressed. She spent most of her life depressed. If anything, she would do it when stoked and manic.”

  “Really?” Chelsea asked doubtfully.

  “She always said when she went, she wanted to go happy.”

  “Like I said, maybe we’ll never know,” Nick repeated uneasily.

  “It’s a little too soon to stop asking questions,” Chelsea said. She walked over to Kate and placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “Nick, you should put Katherine to bed.”

  “I’m fine,” Kate insisted sleepily. She was so subdued that even the slightest breeze might topple her from the chair.

  “Take her back to my mother’s house. It’s absolutely empty, and you’re more than welcome to rest in the guest bedroom,” Chelsea said. “Most of Kate’s stuff is there anyway.”

  Kate had spent last night at Ginny Norris’s house. In an effort to avoid her father and stepmother, she traveled elusively between Chelsea’s mom’s and Nick’s parents’ houses. Nick agreed it seemed like the most logical option, and he helped a wearily drugged Kate onto her feet. She rested her head against his shoulder, closed her heavy brown eyes and proceeded as if sleepwalking through a bad dream. Nick guided them from the room, but not before Ben leaned over and gave Evangelica’s oblivious hand a gentle goodbye squeeze.

  With the greatest of care, Nick helped ease Kate into the passenger seat of his Jeep Wrangler. Before driving away, he waved gravely at Ben and Chelsea. Lagging behind and smoking as usual, Thad suggested the three of them grab breakfast. They were not quite ready to abandon the fragile network of support that had sprung up between them. He offered to drive Chelsea, and Ben rode his motorcycle.

  Once settled in the putrid car, Chelsea shook her head and was dismayed to discover there was only an AM/FM radio. It was set to Silver 96.7, and she joked it was the age of the average listener. Harry Connick, Jr. crooned while Thad struggled to start the car. Plucking a few gum wrappers off her seat, Chelsea asked, “What do you think he is hiding?”

  “It’s not like Nick to keep secrets.”

  “I mean Benjamin.”

  “What could he possibly be keeping from us?”

  “I have no idea, Thaddeus, but I don’t trust him. Not at all.”

  “Is it because he’s in love with her?”

  Shocked and dismayed, Chelsea asked, “Is he really? Still, after all these years?”

  “I think so.”

  “But she’s getting married tomorrow!”

  “No, not Kate. I think he’s in love with Vange,” Thad said. “But I’m not sure he even realizes it.”

  The rusted out, brown Datsun chugged to life, and it roared so loudly conversation was pointless. The car hacked and sputtered its way from the hospital to the diner across town.

  chapter four

  “Didn’t her father kill himself?” Chelsea asked.

  “Sure did,” Thad answered, “maybe it’s a family curse, or something.”

  “Did she ever talk about him?” Chelsea asked.

  Ben said vaguely, “He was half Indian and played the bongos.”

  “A Native-American Ricky Ricardo?” Thad wondered.

  “Not. Vange always told everyone her drunken mother drove him over the edge,” Ben said, tossing his leather coat aside.

  “Didn’t you wear that in high school?” Chelsea asked.

  “Yeah, so.” Ben changed the subject back to Vange, “Her mom once had this boyfriend who shot up the Thanksgiving turkey – blew the bird right off the table.”

  “He flipped the bird,” Thad said.

  “When he yelled and beat the shit out of Shayla, Vange hid under her bed and jammed her bedroom door shut with butter knives.”

  In a small town such as Portnorth, diverse social classes are able to sit comfortably and intermingle freely without pretense. For those with a clue, social climbing was considered a pointless pastime above the Forty-fifth Parallel.

  The Derry Kafe was owned and oper
ated by the extended Derry clan, and even after sixty years of business it was doubtful whether they had an inkling of the misspelling. The brains behind the operation belonged to white-haired Uncle Carey, who was commonly referred to as “Scary Derry” or “Derry Queen” by local teenagers. He lived in a big country farmhouse filled with a group of young strays and borderline delinquents. He provided ‘the boys’ with safe harbor under his protective wing, and in return they tended his strawberry fields and cruised town shirtless all summer. Meanwhile, back at the diner Uncle Carey employed an endless succession of Derry girls, who ritually multiplied before completing the eleventh grade. The whole operation was a family affair.

  A fourth generation Derry breezed up to the table. Her swollen belly, fried ginger hair and bowed legs gave her lineage away. Dutifully, she asked, “More coffee?” The trio nodded in unison, and she asked, “You folks from around here?”

  “Yup, graduates of PHS, Class of 1986,” Ben exclaimed with mock pride.

  “Whew, yous guys are older than you look.” She treated them like curious oddities, for they did not exactly resemble ordinary clientele. Portnorth natives who failed to become long lost expatriates generally entered their Twenties, married or not, with children and outdated, unflattering hair styles.

  “Hey, I seen you before,” the girl said. “You’re the track star, Kelsey Morris.”

  “Chelsea Norris,” she corrected as the teenage waitress dragged her pigeon feet away.

  “Whoa, your star is dimming,” Ben said.

  “Oh, please.”

  Thad guessed the server was a member of the Skoal Squaws, who were a group of renegade, tobacco chewing female vandals who continually threatened to beat up his sister, Alexa. She warned him to listen for their Skoal Squaw squawk, which was their special, members-only trademark greeting. Thad thought it strange the waitress should suffer no social repercussions for being a pregnant teen. If Alexa or Vange, for that matter, ever attempted to traipse pregnant through the streets, they would be shunned, called names and spat on. It had always been like that – one set of low expectations for one group, and another rigid set of rules for those higher on the social order. Thad pointed to the scrawny waitress, whose sister they had bumped into earlier at the hospital, “She’s the one pregnant with her sister’s boyfriend’s baby.”

  “Grotesque. I don’t even want to know,” Chelsea said feeling queasy. “Incestuous trailer park love triangles make me want to barf.”

  “Inbreeding – a true test of family values,” Thad laughed.

  “Their family tree is a wreath,” Ben added.

  Repulsed, Chelsea squirmed in the aquamarine booth. The dead pheasants mounted on the wall above her head made her nervous. “Remind me why we come here?”

  Ben pointed to the entrance, and Thad and Chelsea turned and faced the bobcat lurching above the entranceway, ready to pounce on the next unsuspecting patron. Inevitably, their eyes trailed to a mounted shellacked Pike suspended above the ice cream stand. Near the cash register waddled a goose standing guard. From all angles, from one stuffed carcass to another, sets of glassy eyes patrolled their every move.

  “I simply love the fact I’m dining with every road-kill slaughtered within the city limits for the past half-century,” said Chelsea. The staunch vegetarian had not eaten meat since the dawn of her high school career.

  She grimaced as Thad wiped an index finger down the wall. “Five decades of grease, gossip and cigarette smoke.”

  “Honestly, Thaddeus, you need to quit and add years to your life.”

  “Quit grease, gossip or smoking?” he asked dryly as he lit a Merit Ultra Light. “What a life it is.”

  Ben laughed, “Smoking can’t nearly be as sexy as you make it look.”

  “This place makes me sick.”

  “Oh, c’mon Chels, it’s called local color. Just bask in it,” Thad said.

  “It’s barbaric,” Chelsea said as she toyed with the undercooked hash browns.

  “What’s wrong, not fried in a hundred-percent olive oil?” Ben asked, shoving an entire strip of bacon into his mouth for emphasis. He jabbed a fork full of the greasy potatoes and stuffed them into his wide-open mouth. “What’re your plans now that summer is over, Chels?”

  “I thought I’d sit around here and become an even bigger loser, maybe plot an escape from law school.”

  “Coast along on your past laurels?” Thad asked.

  Chelsea laughed, bemused. “Benjamin, don’t you need help painting houses since your crew is headed back to school?”

  “Juvenile delinquents make up my crew – Thad’s sister, Alexa, and Kate’s brother, Jack—

  “Who really is a little convict,” Thad piped in.

  “Anyway, they’re more than I can handle, and your surly attitude won’t be good for business.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “But if you know of anyone who needs a paint job, I’d appreciate your putting in a good word,” Ben said, shoveling more potatoes off her plate.

  Ben failed to register her mild disappointment. Thankfully, the only time she was ever inflicted with his presence was when she ran with the high school cross-country team he helped coach. She asked about the upcoming season, which was already underway. Ben was optimistic it would be a good year, if the older runners could be inspired to remain committed rather than succumb to senior year partying.

  She pushed her plate toward him and instructed, “Go ahead, and eat the rest of this garbage.”

  “I’m not worthy,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. He doused the cold hash browns with mustard and salt and ate as if he had not finished his own breakfast five minutes before.

  Ben could not believe he and Nick ever knocked on Chelsea’s front door in the middle of the night to confess they were both madly in love with her. Predictably, Chelsea chose to date Nick. Lucky him, thought Ben, and he tossed up the passing adolescent attraction to temporary insanity. He was grateful now they never actually hooked up. How appropriate, he decided, all his thoughts of her had culminated in being wadded up in a Kleenex and flushed down the toilet.

  As if recovering from a momentary bout of narcolepsy, Thad became alert. He said hesitantly, “I don’t know if this is the time to bring it up.”

  “Then it’s probably not,” Ben said. Tucking his long black hair behind his double-pierced ears, he searched the Coca-Cola clock for an excuse to dine and dash.

  Outside the diner, a forest green Ford Taurus still littered with Bush/Quayle bumper stickers pulled up to the curb, and five clones emerged. The bridegrooms boisterously entered the front door and loudly announced their presence, “Sig-Eps are here!” The place became alive with their frenetic energy. All except one of them sported the same floppy, pretty-boy haircut and a single stud earring. The leader of the pack styled his hair in a ponytail, and he wore Birkenstock sandals instead of penny loafers. He was nicknamed Kerouac by his admiring flock.

  Although obviously hung-over, they appeared rowdy and ready for a hair of the dog breakfast. Despite his sister’s advice, Nick joined the fraternity during a weak moment.

  “Talk about an identity crisis; there’s the tree-hugger in Polo,” Chelsea said, referring to Kerouac.

  “Just admit it, you’re totally hot for him,” Ben said.

  “She wouldn’t fuck him – even with your dick,” Thad said bluntly.

  Ben laughed and self-consciously stabbed his fork into the little red horse sewn on his black Polo shirt. It was one he had borrowed from Kate’s brother Jack.

  While discussing their previous wild night of cow tipping, the Frat pack removed their jackets and rearranged tables to accommodate their party of six. One of the more courageous Derry girls bravely took charge. “Really, yous guys should have made reservations for such a big bunch,” she said, flashing them a flirtatious bucktooth grin. She informed their set up would make it awkward for her to do her job. Their only option besides leaving was to retire to the back formal dining room, which was a gloomy hol
e-in-the-wall drenched in an orange glow.

  The Patagonia fleece-clad leader apologized suavely while the Derry clan returned the place to its previous incarnation. Then they all retreated to the backroom, where they had the option to dine next to more exotic road-kill and wildlife oil paintings hung on an old saw blade canvas.

  “Circle Jerk!” they yelled in unison as they entered the backroom.

  The shortest of the Frat pack noticed Chelsea and waved. Less than cheerfully, she returned the gesture. Through her teeth, she said, “There’s T-bone. Last night, at the bar he offered to show me how he got his nickname.”

  T-bone’s stocky build and goatee made him look like a scruffy, pint-sized chimpanzee, and Thad observed, “I guess every Frat needs a mascot to stand around marking people’s hands while pumping the keg.”

  Chelsea snickered, “Nice goatee.”

  “Prison pussy,” Ben corrected.

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head, “You’re so gross.”

  The Frat brothers emitted a long simultaneous groan of discontent when they discovered they were in a dry joint, and chocolate malts were the most potent drink on the menu.

  “This northern wilderness must bring out their inner beast,” Thad said, stooped over.

  “What were you saying earlier, Thaddeus, before the cow-tippers interrupted?” Chelsea asked. “It could shed light on this whole mess, and I think I know what it might be—

  “No, you don’t. Trust me,” Ben interrupted. “Drop it, Thad.”

  “Excuse me, Benny, but maybe I do,” Chelsea said annoyed. “I think something might have happened between Evangelica and Nicholas last night.”

  Thad sat upright and asked, “What gives you that idea?”

  “For one thing, the atmosphere in the bar suggested total debauchery. All Nick’s friends were hitting on hick chicks with big hair and tight jeans. And, Benjamin, don’t even try to deny taking home Kate’s matron of honor. I saw you leave together.”