Anything is Walking Distance If You Have the Time

The diner is filled with the usual Sunday crowd: church families, brunchers, the omnipresent elderly couple, children sticky with syrup. At least, this is what Stacy assumes is the usual Sunday crowd. As far as she can tell, everything looks in its place, but then again she's out of hers. The diner is different from the Northern restaurants she's grown used to. The waiters move slower than they do back home, as if the small town air is heavy and they have to carry it on top of their pancakes. The people eat slower, too. Customers simply sit there, backs against the faded red vinyl booths, without any apparent desire to be somewhere else. The word quaint comes to the front of her mind, but it doesn't fit. Quaint seems to entail charming, and that puts a sour taste in her orange juice.

"Can I get you something, darling?"

A large, older woman wearing the most horrendous blue eyeshadow is standing over her. Her nametag reads "Marjorie", and she carries the distinct smell of hairspray and potpurri.

Forcing a Southern accent over her usual forced Boston one, Stacy manages to get out :

"I think I'm still lookin' for now. Maybe just a coffee?"

Marjorie smiles down at her with an expression that looked like how someone would look at a lost puppy.

"Sure thing, darling. Call me over if you need anything."

Stacy nods in appreciation, and Marjorie hustles away, still wearing the exact same puppy-dog look on her face. Despite being by herself, the hostess had seated Stacy in a booth, a seemingly innocent act that elicited looks of contempt from families crammed around square tables. She'd avoided eye contact, focusing her gaze on the dated floral print of the carpet, which had been stained with various splotches over the years. As a little game of distraction, she'd tried to guess what each stain was under her feet as she walked: maple syrup, coffee, blueberries, cranberry juice. Despite its wear-and-tear, Stacy is pleasantly surprised by how clean the place is. Her table, unlike the carpet, contains no remnants of prior meals, and her silverware is freshly polished.

Stacy had gone to the diner because Google Maps suggested it as a good place to eat within a 10 minute drive. Her eye bags had grown exponentially over the past week, and she figured any distance longer than 10 minutes might officially kill her. So she'd sat in the parking lot, sweating through her shirt, rifling through a seemingly endless list of restaurants close by. All fast food or chicken shops were automatically eliminated, leaving behind nothing but the diner and a Chinese restaurant that had a one star review simply reading "egg rolls tasted like ass." She'd chosen the diner because it was 0.4 miles closer and didn't require merging.

A small child walks by and glances at Stacy's outfit, jean shorts and an old concert tee. The child then turns to a nearby adult, tugs at their shirt, and whispers something in their ear like they're saying something they shouldn't. Suddenly her cheeks warm, and she realizes she'd forgotten the Southern tradition of Sunday best. It was only now occurring to her that near everyone in the restaurant was in their best church clothes, men in beige slacks and women in large hats. Everybody was there with family and dressed to the nines, yet here she was alone, pasty thighs glued to a diner booth with a thin layer of sweat. Hot tears rushed up, and suddenly she's struck by an incredibly strong desire to walk somewhere despite the suffocating heat.

"Here's your coffee, darling. Cream and sugar on the side just there, you can make it how you like."

Marjorie places the pristine white dish down in front of Stacy, too focused on not spilling anything to notice Stacy's tears. Or, perhaps, she was simply avoiding eye contact, pretending she hadn't noticed Stacy's face contort as she walked over. Stacy recognizes this for what it is: an act of grace and mercy, since making eye contact would mean questions, and questions would mean answers, and answers wouldn't answer anything at all. Even the thought of this small act act of kindness makes Stacy tear up even more. Marjorie was, in that moment, the sweetest person alive, fuck fake Southern manners, and Stacy has a very strong and real urge to jump up and hug her. She'd wrap her arms around her large waist, inhale her smell deeply, and feel the warmth course through her when Marjorie inevitably hugged her back. It'd be a reunion of sorts, it had to be, the embrace of a total stranger who had just extended the ultimate kindness. Kindred spirits, as they called it. It'd be exactly like that.

Then she looks up, and Marjorie is gone, leisurely waddling over to a table nearby and refilling their water.

Though Marjorie is gone, her smell lingers a few seconds behind her, and Stacy sits there inhaling. The smell has made her immensely tired, and she can't help but close her eyes for an instant. However, it's a funny thing: even if one only closes their eyes for a millisecond, entire days can fly by behind the eyelids. In the few moments she closes her eyes, Stacy sees the past week summarized in moments she's already tried to forget:

A banker opening a lockbox.

Chess boards being reset.

A white bed.

Reruns of 80s movies on cable.

The leopard print of the nurse's scrubs.

A white bed, the covers pulled down.

An airplane bathroom.

Buying beer and Goldfish.

A white bed, the covers pulled down, a person beneath them.

A phone call.

The smell of her childhood basement.

A white bed, the covers pulled down, a person beneath them, the person's not moving.

Teardrops hitting photo albums.

I'm so sorry for your loss.

A white bed, the covers pulled down, a person beneath them, the person's not moving, their eyes are closed.

More phone calls.

More papers.

A white bed, the covers pulled down, a person beneath them, the person's not moving, their eyes are closed, their mouth is open and there is no air left.

Her eyes open and she wonders how long they were closed. Logically, she knows it can't have been more than a few seconds, but she feels like it must have been at least 15 minutes because she suddenly feels rested. The guilt of casual dressing is gone, the air doesn't feel so heavy, and for the first time all week she stands up without thinking about the energy it will require to do so. Even more shocking, her energy continues, it takes her out of the booth, past the judgemental families, into the sizzling parking lot and puts her phone in her hand and calls her sister, who picks up after only one ring.

"Stacy? Hello? I've been trying to get ahold of you all week. Where are you? I've gotten some weird calls."

Stacy inwardly chuckles at how mad her sister must be to sound angry over all that Southern drawl.

"Hey, Cass. I'm back, actually."

"Back home? Since when?"

"Since about a week ago."

"Well, Jesus...why on God's green Earth are you back here?"

(Stacy imagines the cross her sister is making, already seeking forgiveness for using the Lord's name in vain.)

"Cassidy?"

"Yes?"

"Mom died."

There's a silence on the other end of the phone. Stacy thinks she can already hear her shoulders burning in the blistering sun.

"May God rest her soul."

Cassidy's words come out slow and contrived, like it takes a massive amount of effort to say them and not absolutely anything else.

"Yeah, may God rest her soul."

"Is there a funeral."

It's not a question and Stacy knows that.

"No. No Funeral."

"Okay."

"Cass?"

"Yeah?"

"She left me everything."

Another silence. Her shoulders are red now, she's sure of it.

"Cass?"

A car honks.

"What do you want me to say, Stacy? It's yours."

Said factually, with precision and prayer.

"Well, I was just gonna-"

"Save it. Take it. I don't want her money. I don't want anything that bitch ever touched. Take all of it and go live a fabulous life away from all of us, away from anything she ever fucking had to do with. Go away and escape because you're so smart and so great and you don't feel bad about abandoning anybody, because you can do anything because you're you."

Cassidy's voice crescendoes. The air feels even heavier and Stacy gets why so many people call the South suffocating.

"Yeah, take all the money she gave you because you were better and you did everything even though you actually did nothing. I don't want it. She was a cold hearted bitch, and you're her fucking daughter, and when you die you can leave everything to another cold-hearted bitch and the cycle can go on. Please just take everything and get the fuck out of here, but just know that she hated me because I loved and she loved you because you hated."

"Cassidy-"

"Don't call me again."

The tone goes silent. Stacy closes her eyes again, but this time nothing plays in her mind, so she opens them and walks back inside, re-sealing her newly sweaty legs to the booth seat.

"You good, darlin? Anything else, or just the check?"

Marjorie is there within moments, ready to assist and without any anger at what could have been perceived as a blatant dine and dash.

"Yeah, just the check, but I have a question, too."

"Sure, darling." The blue eyeshadow creases as Marjorie's eyes open, earnest to answer.

"Would you say the church is walking distance from here?"

Marjorie looks up, as if considering this very deeply.

"Well, I don't suppose so, darling. It's awfully hot outside, and the nearest church is no less than five miles."

Another deep pause as her eyeshadow creases even more.

"Then again, there's a saying around here. Y'all might not know it, but Lord knows it's helped me before."

"Yeah?"

"Anything is walking distance if you got the time."

She says it with her whole chest, like reciting a poem or reading a sermon.

Stacy smiles.

"I like it."

"Cute, ain't it? I'll be right back with your check, darling."

And she's gone again, the scent still trailing behind her.

Stacy watches her go and then digs through her purse, the only part of her outfit any Southern woman would ever approve of for Sunday best. She fishes out a large envelope that has the words "for Stacy" in neat bold lettering, one of many envelopes the bank attendant handed her earlier that week. Each one with "for Stacy" on it, each one neat and clean, each one full of $10,000 cash.

Effortlessly, she crosses out the "Stacy" and writes "Marjorie" in sloppy cursive. She leaves the envelope half under her coffee dish, the mug still full and hot. Then, without looking back, she leaves the diner and starts her car.