Evan, as you may remember, grew up in San Luis Obispo. This bit (which directly follows the last scene presented in this post) takes place over the Thanksgiving break Caleb spends with Evan and his family. I just re-read it, of course, because I'll be headed back to SLO in a couple days and am excited.
A few things good to know:
-They've spent the night in Evan's room, Evan on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed set and Caleb seated on the floor because he can't actually sleep.
-Evan burnt his hand in the oven the night before
-Evan drank too much the night before
Enjoy!
When I woke the next morning he was leant against the wall adjacent me, the cased violin cradled in his lap. Long fingers draped over it.
“Morning,” I said.
He opened weary eyes, and smiled. “Headache?”
“Nonexistent.”
“Good. How about your hand?”
“Existent. What’s the time?”
He glanced at the clock by the door. “Nine thirty.”
“Perfect time for coffee.”
“Can I get you some?”
“I thought we were going out.”
“We are if you’d like to.” He stood. “But let me get you something to eat, first.”
Some minutes after he slipped away I remembered that it was Thanksgiving. I got up and dressed and went out into the kitchen. Caleb stood above the stove, spatula in hand as my mother instructed him.
“Wow,” I said. My friend looked straight at me while my mother scurried over to say good morning. “When you offered breakfast this isn’t what I pictured.”
He tried to laugh but it didn’t work. “Me neither. To be honest I’d planned cold cereal.” He flipped a pancake and checked the others. My mother went to check that he had checked properly.
“Notice I’m not enlisted,” I said. “I can’t cook at all.”
“You’re home visiting!” my mother said. “Otherwise I would enlist you.”
“Caleb’s the guest, though. Wrong place at the wrong time.” My mother went back to chopping fruit and I stood at my friend’s side. “Can you seriously cook?” I asked.
“Not seriously.”
“You don’t eat yet you know how to cook.” SLO has a million great coffee shops and I’ve tried most all of them. I thought we’d just do Starbucks this morning, though. My favorite places are quite small: small enough that I’d be recognized in them. Going into a coffee shop where the baristas know you is ridiculously fun. But I didn’t want anyone to know me today. There’s a Barnes and Noble across from the Starbucks I thought of. It’s a great little area--almost like a plaza because it’s between two streets and has only foot traffic. Then I got an even better idea. Inside the Barnes and Noble, on the upper floor, is another Starbucks. There’s a mural painted around with Hemingway and Woolf and Eliot and everyone drinking coffee and being brilliant. There are tables along floor-to-ceiling windows, and since it’s still a part of the bookstore everyone is quiet. No traffic of any kind. That was the perfect place to go.
All Caleb’s pancakes were perfect. Uniformly sized and everything. I asked him how he managed that. He didn’t respond right away, and when he did it was with an apology. I asked why.
“I’ll try to eat something.”
“I don’t care. I was trying to make you laugh.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. What’s the matter?”
My mother came and checked the pancakes again. They were restaraunt quality and she could’ve stopped checking.
“I’ll tell them you don’t feel well,” I said, after she’d left. “You don’t look like you feel well.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Quit apologizing.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“There’s something terribly wrong.”
“Please don’t sound upset with me.”
“I’m not upset. Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll do something about it.”
“You don’t need to do anything.” He poured fresh batter onto the skillet. “It just won’t stop. It went mostly away last night but when I came out it started again and started worse.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t anything. I get them all the time. Just not in a while.”
“What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you. Tell me what to do.”
“You’re doing it. Just talk to me.”
“There must be more.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let’s go outside a minute.”
“No. I don’t want them to see it. It’s always worse once they see--”
A horrible tremor shook him and he pressed a fist to his mouth, stiffening to squelch the tremor and keep it from coming back. I took his arm. “Tell me how to help.”
“That helps. Stay like that.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Tell me where I am. Tell me you’re here.”
“I’m here and we’re visiting my parents.” He flipped the pancakes. “We’re only staying a few days and then we’re going back to school. In a month we’re leaving school and we’ll have our own apartment.”
“But how long?”
“Until one of us marries. Then whoever marries has to get a house with a basement so the other can move in. Unless we decide to live in San Francisco forever; then we won’t have to worry about getting married and we can keep the apartment.”
“I’m sorry Evan.”
“Don’t be sorry. Hurry with those pancakes so we can leave. We’re going for coffee and then I’m going to find out which kinds of books you like. Which kinds of books do you like?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never read much.”
“Then I’m picking out books for you.”
“All right.”
“Do you like history?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like science?”
“Understand it, anyway.”
“Do you like mysteries?”
“Probably.”
I thought a minute and started laughing. “That’s awesome.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just know exactly which book to get you.”
My mother asked what we were whispering about and I said we were planning our trip downtown. “You can’t leave today,” she said.
“I’m more help gone than present,” I said. “And you can’t steal my friend all day.” He finished the pancakes and set the entire last batch on a plate, buried it in syrup and fruit, and handed it to me with a fork.
“But it’s Thanksgiving,” my mother continued.
“Not until four. That’s when dinner starts, right?” I pushed Caleb into a chair and sat beside him.
“Where’s your breakfast?” my mother asked him. She couldn’t see but his hand hung below the table and I held onto it. It held tight to mine and shook.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just not awake enough yet.” My mother looked curiously at him but he was watching me. “You’re picking around the grapes.”
“They’re not my favorite.”
“You like them enough squished.” By the way I laughed my mother must have thought I’d gone crazy, but Caleb’s hand stopped shaking quite so violently. Still he didn’t pull it away and I didn’t let it drop. I did, however, flick a grape-half at him. He picked it up and ate it. “There,” he said.
“Your breakfast?” He nodded. “Thanks. I feel much better now.”
Eventually we escaped and drove away. Caleb looked generally uncomfortable until I told him he could relax. Then he lay back his head and closed his eyes, breathing deeply as I drove us downtown.
“Parking garage okay?” I asked, once we neared our destination. “It’s the same price as the street and the first hour’s free.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about me.” He didn’t open his eyes or move his head.
“There are stairs, so we won’t need to take the elevator. And we’ll park on on the roof.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“But I hate elevators. Nasty, uncomfortable things.” I smiled but my friend didn’t notice. “Ever read that?”
“Don’t think so.”
“The Hobbit.”
“No. Heard of it.”
“Bilbo says that about adventures. Nasty, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner.”
“Should I read it?”
“You will.”
We stopped at a speed-bump; I pulled the little tag from the machine and set it on the dashboard.
“Believe it or not,” Caleb said, “I’d rather be on time for dinner than stuck in an elevator.”
“This one isn’t so bad. Has a big window.”
“So you’re trapped in fishbowl?”
“You’re right. We’re taking the stairs.” I parked and Caleb opened his eyes. “There’s a restaurant and coffee place here that really has fishbowls for people to sit in. Big, rounded bubble-windows right on the street. I’d never be able to read or study or do much of anything in there.”
“Is that the shop we’re going to?”
“No, we’re going to the a Starbucks in the Barnes and Noble. It’s quiet and a floor up so that you look down on everything.”
“Sounds nice.”
He tensed a little when we came to the street, but by virtue of the day there weren’t too many people about. It first occurred to me that B&N may not even be open. Really, they shouldn’t have been open.
And they weren’t. They weren’t open but the Starbucks across from it was, and without being too crowded. I guess that was my original idea, anyway. Caleb and I would have to go book shopping some other time. He crossed after me to the shop, but reached over my head to open the door. That was the first smile I’d received since first waking up--and it was a fragile smile. Inside we sat at the bar against the window. Different Starbucks locations are considerably diverse. The one in downtown SLO is my favorite. Of course, that may only be because I grew up with it and the area around is so lovely. It has a window with a bar against it, where we sat. To the left of the bar is the wall of merchandise, to the right is the door. But the door isn’t close enough to be annoying. The tables are ample and not too crowded together, and there’s even room for a couple leather armchairs. There’s what looks like a support post in the middle of some of the tables which is always covered with posters of upcoming events and advertisements for local shops. It really is a cozy little place, and the baristas are always nice. When it gets crowded it gets crowded, but today wasn’t bad at all. As Caleb sat down I asked him what he wanted. I’d set my hand on his shoulder in an attempt to relax him a little, but he was so stiff that he probably couldn’t feel that I was there.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
“What would you like?”
“Oh, nothing. Thanks though.” He reached into his pocket.
“You’re not paying.”
“I should. You’re putting me up for three days.”
“You bought lunch yesterday.”
“Then it only makes sense for me to buy coffee today.”
“Do you have any quarters?”
He unzipped his wallet and dumped out a handful of mostly silver change.
“That was a good question.”
“I can never count out change quickly enough to not annoy people, so I pay with bills whenever I can.”
I laughed. “Perfect, you can pay for parking. What would you like to drink?”
“Really, nothing.”
“I’m not getting anything if you don’t.”
“But I don’t know what to get; I don’t even like coffee. Don’t think I like it, anyway.” I just stared at him, again trying to make him laugh and not doing an even decent job of it. “I don’t know--get me what you’d get a six year-old.”
I ordered and waited at the counter. There were plenty of people working so I knew it wouldn’t take long, especially since I just ordered black coffee. They got that out in seconds and Caleb’s before I’d finished stirring sugar into mine. The day was a beautiful one and I didn’t know how I was to convince Caleb of that. Sometimes I couldn’t. Today I thought I could. He wasn’t feeling so bad and it was Thanksgiving.
“What in the world is that?” he asked, when I set down his drink.
“Venti-sized. For an incredibly tall six year-old.”
He took a sip and started laughing. There he was; I knew I could bring him out today.
“I asked for extra whipped cream on it, too.”
“Good. Whipped cream is the best part.”
“Want to sit outside?”
“You’ll get cold.”
“Not with coffee. It’s too loud in here.”
“Sorry. I’m mumbling.”
“No you’re not: I can hear you just fine. The loud’s annoying, and I just remembered a friend I want to introduce you to. We passed him on the way and didn’t even say hello.”
My friend was curious now and followed me out. At the edge of the plaza is a bronze casting of an impish, whimsical man dressed in a leafy skirt. He holds one foot in the air and balances on just the toes of the other, his hand held to his face with one finger extended--showing you the silly little trouble he’s caused and trusting your secrecy. He is silly little trouble personified.
“Who is it?” I asked Caleb. He leant toward the plaque but I took his arm. “Don’t look, just guess.”
“I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t remind you of anyone?” My friend shook his head. “Think Shakespeare.”
“I’ve only had high school Shakespeare.”
“What did that consist of?”
“Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth--”
“Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“Yes--eighth grade.”
“Then tell me who this is.”
He looked at it a few moments, then smiled. “Puck, of course.”
“I always liked him but never checked to see who he was. The first time I passed after reading Midsummer I immediately knew. I only checked to see if I was right.”
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