Sweetwater Cafe

The neon sign over Sweetwater Cafe buzzed, except for the intermittent tink, tink, tink of the letter ‘S’, flickering in obstinance. Artificial light reflected off raindrops cascading down the parked car’s windshield and streaming channels of water cast shadows over the driver’s face, failing to wash away the anger. Christopher gripped the steering wheel, fierce, knuckles white. His temper scared Melanie. She rubbed her belly. Would he hit her someday? Would he hit their child?

“We’ll wait here until the storm passes,” Christopher said, grinding his teeth.

“Can we go inside? I’m cold,” Melanie said.

“They’re not going to let us sit there without buying food. I told you to grab a jacket,” Christopher said.

“We left in such a hurry,” Melanie said.

“No need to stick around and listen to your old man bitch about me making an honest woman out of you. If he only knew,” Christopher said.

A rumble of thunder rattled the windows and a gust of wind shook the vehicle. The slick chrome roof and awning over the single entrance door of the cafe flashed as a bolt of lightning streaked across the horizon. Melanie shivered, but tried to hide it, to hide her discomfort alongside her shame. Christopher noticed, rolled his eyes and huffed.

“I’m not paying for anything. They want us to order, we’ll be right back in the car,” Christopher said.

“I understand,” Melanie said.

Christopher removed the key from the ignition and slid it into his pocket, then grabbed the only umbrella from behind his seat. He exited the driver’s side door, popped up the umbrella and hurried to the front of the building. Melanie opened the passenger’s side door as a flurry of heavy droplets weighed down her clothes and hair. Her swollen ankles protested as she waddled in pursuit, afraid her legs would give out after hours of aimless driving.

When the couple entered, the tinkle of a small bell announced their presence. A female voice called from the back kitchen, “Take a seat where you please.” Melanie observed the back of a fry cook through a service window, sweating over an open grill, his paper hat too small for his head.

Red leather booths lined the wall down one side and red leather stools fixed themselves to the floor in front of a long counter on the other. Their flecked surfaces were worn and dull, grandeur rubbed away through decades of friction.

Three men sat on the stools. The first on the far end, his weight spilling over all sides, wore an immense gray business suit accentuating his abundance. With plump fingers he sipped from a small coffee cup, in contrast to several large empty plates ready to be cleared. A few stools down from him sat another man, a disheveled waif with loose clothing and greasy hair, which he rubbed and grabbed in apparent frustration as he mumbled incoherently. And last, a man who turned and watched Christopher and Melanie enter. He leered at Melanie, sweeping her body with his eyes, sneering while twirling a toothpick with his tongue. She folded her arms in an uncomfortable embrace and was thankful Christopher made his way to sit. She followed, as did the sleazebag’s eyes.

After they sat down, a couple in another booth got up and walked over to a jukebox on the far wall near the bathroom. The woman put her head on the man’s shoulder as he shuffled through a few songs, landing on “These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding. The singer’s voice bellowed against a soft, rocking melody and Melanie watched the couple embrace, swaying to the music, a slow dance of captivated lovers. Her gaze was broken by a waitress who materialized with a smile and an order pad. The name tag said Bev.

“Been a while since we’ve had new faces in Sweetwater. Storm brings all sorts, out-of-towners mostly passing through,” Bev said.

“That’s us,” Christopher said. “Passing through. We’re just waiting out the storm.”

“Sure, hon, we’re all waiting on something. No use waiting on an empty stomach. What can I get you?” Bev asked.

“We’re not hungry. Is that going to be a problem?” Christopher asked. Bev looked at Melanie, who rubbed her belly and avoided the hot glare from Christopher. A hand banged hard on the counter, rattling silverware and Melanie jumped. The disheveled man yelled, “It’s cold, Bev, dammit the coffee is cold again!”

“Art, that coffee ain’t gonna get any hotter, but I’ll give you a top off here soon,” Bev said.

“Don’t you make me wait, Bev. Don’t you do it!” Art said.

She ignored the last outburst. Art took out a cigarette and tried to light it with matches that refused to ignite. He gave up with a low, lasting groan.

“How far along are you?” Bev asked. Surprised by the interaction, Melanie squeaked out, “Eight months.”

“Oh honey, I remember those days. Got three of my own. All teen boys, can you imagine that? But I got me a good man, keeps them honest and on the straight and narrow. My Frank, that’s him slinging burgers back there. The world desperately needs good men,” Bev said. Melanie froze, unable to confirm or deny, conceding her will to Christopher, letting him hold it prisoner.

Bev departed, but could be heard addressing the overweight customer, “You can sure put them away, Charles. Couple more specials for you?”

“Your menu is endless, Bev. No reason to stop on page one. I might never leave,” Charles said.

“Come or go, that’s up to you. I’m only here to serve,” Bev said.

Otis Redding stopped singing and Ricky Nelson’s melancholy voice took up the silence with “Lonesome Town”. In Lonesome Town, Melanie could learn to forget and cry her troubles away, maybe buy a dream with her tears. She wanted to cry, to escape the confines of Sweetwater Cafe, to get in the car and drive off alone, to learn to forget, but a diminishing resolve and fading hope kept her seated.

“Daddy is going to be worried,” Melanie said.

“He never cared nothing for me before. It’s no different now that you’re pregnant,” Christopher said.

“Maybe I can call. When we get to... wherever we’re going,” Melanie said.

“I told you where we’re going. That’s your problem. You don’t listen,” Christopher said.

She had so many problems, heaps of them, piled up high, filed away in cabinets, stashed in drawers and under the bed. Christopher found them all even if he wasn’t looking, and he pointed them out whenever the chance presented itself. He didn’t have any of his own. His record was spotless.

Melanie slid closer toward the window to check the weather, and the sleazebag seized the opportunity to slide in next to her, his leg touching hers. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, keeping his focus locked on Christopher. He introduced himself, cordial and smooth, holding out his hand, an invitation to shake.

“Grady is the name. Thought I would come by and introduce myself, seeing as how you look so familiar,” the man said.

Christopher shook Grady’s hand, put off by the interruption more so than a stranger cozying up to Melanie.

“We’re not from around here, so I doubt it, and I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re after,” Christopher said.

“Nah, got me plenty of that, no need to beg. I’m no dog looking for scraps, but dated plenty in my days. Looks like you two are starting a family. You sure it’s yours?” Grady said, winking in Christopher’s direction. He didn’t respond but Melanie saw for the first time a new problem documented for future reference. No doubt it was Christopher’s baby, but that wouldn’t stop him from casting aspersions, dangling infidelity the moment she expressed any independence or confidence.

The dancing couple stopped and the man excused himself to use the bathroom. The woman let the jukebox play on as she danced solo, arms crossed over her hips, eyes closed, lost in the moment. A jealous longing pushed escape further from Melanie’s mind. That sort of happiness felt distant and unattainable, the finish line of a marathon she had never trained for and therefore decided never to run. Sheets of rain slammed against the window and another rumble of thunder rolled over the cafe.

Art slammed his fist down hard on the counter, and shouted out, “That music is too loud! There’s no peace and quiet.” Then, for emphasis, once more, “There’s no peace and quiet!”

Nobody responded.

“Opportunity knocks,” Grady said. Christopher paid him no attention, staring out the window into the blackness. Below the table, Grady gave Melanie’s leg a long gentle rub and a squeeze at the knee. He got up and slithered over to the woman dancing in solitude, and slipped his hands around her waist, their bodies touching in a confident embrace. She didn’t slap him or push him away, and like the melding of molten metal, the two fused, a material not of contrasts, but of the same cursed flesh.

“That man touched me,” Melanie said, her previous jealousy now dissolved.

“Huh? You’re imagining things. Why would he want to touch you,” Christopher said.

“He touches everyone,” Melanie said, sensing a familiar aura, unseen but understood.

“You’re talking crazy,” Christopher said, then followed with, “This storm will never end. We’re going to be trapped in this god forsaken place forever.”

Bev dropped a few more full plates down for Charles and strode confidently over to Melanie with a plate of toast, side of jelly and lemon honey tea.

“A little something to settle your tummy. I know how it can be — I’ve been there, darling,” Bev said.

“We didn’t order that and aren’t paying for it,” Christopher said.

“On the house. Courtesy of the chef. He’s got a soft spot for women in your predicament. Misses those days, I think, having a bunch of little ones tugging at his pant legs,” Bev said.

“Thank you,” Melanie said.

Bev disappeared to the kitchen and the formerly dancing man returned from his trip to the bathroom. He noticed Grady dancing with his woman — any man’s woman — and he put his head down, resigned to share in love and loss, incapable of fighting the inevitable. He drifted into the booth, a spectacle of loneliness.

Christopher removed the keys from his pocket and put them on the table as Melanie nibbled toast and sipped from the tea, its warmth soothing her body and nerves.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Christopher said, scooting out without waiting for a response. He pushed past the new loves, no better off than the old loves. Lightning flashed bright enough to blur Melanie’s vision and the lights in the cafe went dark briefly. When they turned back on, Frank sat opposite Melanie, t-shirt stained from grease and white paper hat folded in his hands. His broad shoulders and hefty arms engulfed the back of the booth, but his disposition gave her a surprising sense of calm.

“You don’t belong here,” Frank said.

“The storm brought us,” Melanie said.

“Folks ride in with the storms by choice and they ride them out by choice, too,” Frank said.

“I don’t think I can go back,” Melanie said.

“Sometimes the only way forward is back,” Frank said, sliding the keys in her direction.

“Will... he follow?” Melanie asked.

“Sweetwater Cafe doesn’t hold anybody against their will. Whatever weighs them down is plenty heavy for all eternity,” he said.

Melanie grabbed the keys and rushed to exit the restaurant, but Frank called out to stop her, “Hey, you forgetting something?”

She turned, afraid to face the hulking man, fearful a trick had been played, another problem she would need to file away for Christopher’s benefit. Instead, he held out the umbrella.

Ready to face the storm, Melanie popped open the umbrella and rubbed her belly, covered and secure. She hurried to enter the car, closed the door and breathed deep, watching, waiting for Christopher to chase her in a furious dash, banging on the window and screaming obscenities. He did none of those things. But she could see him through the downpour, returning to the booth, unaware of her absence.

Christopher picked up a menu and shuffled through it, calling Bev over to order. She waited on him, indifferent to his indifference, happy to serve. Melanie glanced Bev through panes of isolated glass and lifted up her hand with a gentle wave goodbye. The waitress smiled and the rain let up a little.