Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

and he looked absently at the fingernails on the fingers of the hands in front of him holding a round-topped salt shaker as though he were trying to strangle it. The sound of the plastic giving beneath her on the stool, the smell and the pure sense of her being there crawled up the back of his neck. His heart pounded so fast that it caused a vacuum in his stomach. His hand shook as he moved the newspaper on the counter several inches out of her way, a kind of gesture, he felt. Dropping her shouldered handbag to the floorand hooking her shoe toes into the stool made his vision blur. Everything about her seemed so polite, so proper. She must be older than me, he thought; but she’ll think I’m sixteen.

His coffee and rolls arrived. “This is for you,” he said casually and pushed the paper forward. “My regards to the management.” The waitress took it away and gave it to the man behind the cash register, who immediately began to read it. But she didn’t return to take the girl’s order.

She might even be seventeen, thought July, stealing furtive glances through the mirror. She looks like she’s been around, all right. She had a tough, no-funny-business look about her, and sat staring coldly at the countertop. No one seemed to be noticing her, including the waitress, who rocketed by carrying food and dishes. He decided, This is it, and turned toward her smiling frantically.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want,” he said a little too loudly, “and maybe I can attract some attention.” He laughed as though what he’d said was partially a good-natured joke about the restaurant, and drank from his black coffee, though he didn’t like it except almost white with cream. She smiled back and his heart just stopped altogether, like the racing wheels of a buggy locked tight with a brake.

“That’s sweet of you,” she said. “Why don’t you just see if you can get me what you have—the same kind of rolls. They look so good.” Her eyes flashed like black, wet stones.

“Over here,” said July in his selling voice. “We’ll have two more rolls here—the same kind, and a cup of coffee.” He tossed a dollar bill on the counter in the manner of Franklin Carroll. His change was returned with the order, but both were laid down unpleasantly, the coffee spilling a little over the top and down into the saucer.

“Must be early in the morning,” he said to her, proud of how much control he was having over his voice.

“Must be,” she said coldly, then softened the wrinkles in her forehead, smiled politely at July and began drinking her coffee black.

Wow! thought July. Wow!

“It was a nice sunrise this morning,” he said, measuring his bites to coincide with hers so they would be leaving together.

“I didn’t see it,” she said. Again the coldness—almost hostility—but she realized it and looked at him to make up for it, adding apologetically, “I don’t usually get up that early. Just naturally lazy, I guess.”

They laughed.

“Of course,” he continued the thought, “I mean, aren’t we all? I mean, what I usually think is if I watch it come up I should be asleep before it gets dark—sort of to pay myself back.” He laughed and she smiled, then turned away and resumed eating her remaining roll, each bite a delight to July because he’d paid for it. He gulped his own down whenever he noticed he was getting behind.

“How about something else?” he asked, as she was finishing her coffee.

“No, really, thank you. I must be going.” She picked up her bag and walked out. July hurried behind her and got to the door first and opened it for her. Everyone seemed to be watching them.

“Say, don’t run away. I mean, I haven’t come upon anything like you in a long time—and it’d be a shame to lose you so early in the morning.”

“You’ll get over it,” she said—the coldness beginning to rise again. But again she apologized for it. “Say, I really did appreciate the breakfast, and you’re sweet, but I must be going or I’ll be late for school, and I’ve already missed too many days this semester.”

“Oh. School,” said July and fell to walking silently beside her.

“We could go to a movie,” he said, after several blocks.

“No. Look, maybe some other time. I really have to go, and you better not walk me any further or you could cause trouble for me—really, I mean it.”

“OK, sure. Some other time . . .”

“That’s right.”

“When?”

“Sometime if we happen to meet—”

“Oh no . . . when?” He was trying to laugh, but there was a sickening feeling in his stomach which was making it harder. He thought he could see the beginning of the end. He wondered what kind of trouble she could be talking about.

“All right. You don’t give up, do you? Just once. We’ll go out just once—and don’t get any ideas. I’ve got a feeling I’m way too old for you . . . but you are nice, so tonight—”

“What time? Tell me where you live—tell me your name—give me your phone number—I’m about seventeen.”

“Come on, that can’t be true. I’m not even that old. Really, I’ve got to go. I’ll meet you right here at seven thirty tonight. My name’s Charlotte. You don’t need to know anything else. I wouldn’t ever want you calling me or coming over to my house. Now I have to go.” July couldn’t help but look very sad. She touched his arm. “Really, I’ll come. And thank you for breakfast.” Then she left.

The rest of that morning and afternoon was composed of the longest minutes July had ever been through. Each one was so stretched out that whole dreams could fit into them. How many times had he resolved to himself that she would never come? The cut about him not being almost seventeen dried up his soul. He wanted her more than he’d