“It’s a warm one.”

“You bet.”

And that was it. The same old men spent their afternoons the summer of 1969 lollygagging in Patsy’s Diner, drinking diluted lemonade and listening to the second-hand radio that squawked Buck Owens and his Kansas City Song. It was too hot to agree with the opinion and too hot to disagree. No one argued because beginning an argument took effort. No one moved because it would take the strength of Coach Paulson’s varsity quarterback to peel the sweaty geezers off their seats.

I fidgeted in my small place at the far end of Patsy’s counter. The room was so hot my skinny legs under my paisley-printed sundress stuck to the plastic seat of my favorite stool. The sweltering air clung to the outer rim of my water glass in rivers of condensation and someone’s rebel cigarette smoke mixed with the sweet scent of boiling cabbage. I tried to ignore the biting flies. Many of them dove head-long into poisoned fly traps hanging in lethal ribbons around our heads. Patsy executed the rest with her purple, plastic fly swatter.

The temperature had reached a sweltering one hundred and three degrees, even in the shade, and dogs loitered outside under the diner’s awning, staring pitifully through the open door and lapping at the air. As I sat in the diner, this summer of 1969, I listened sleepily to Forest County’s oldest pair of veterans talk to their elderly neighbors about everything and Vietnam.

Grant and Harvard Lee, twins and as old as the fields, flew British Sopwith Camel aircraft for Great Britain in the First World War. The men never joined an air raid but delivered messages to allied France. Three times they miscalculated the distance and flew into Germany. Three times they came back to the island with their aircraft shredded to pieces and too stubborn to admit they’d gone the wrong way.

The Lees disgraced their squadron. They became heroes in our town. Anything stupid but accomplished made someone a hero in Forest County. Daily, at least one of them reserved the right to have his say about some political matter. But today, the heat had taken the conservatism right out of them. Today, the twins had nothing to talk about. With a communal sigh of relief, Patsy’s patrons recited their prayers over their greasy breakfasts in blessed silence.

“It’s a warm one,” Harvard said again when the silence had been too long.

“You bet.”

I thought this week’s heat wave made Forest County hotter than hell.

I was twelve years old the summer of 1969. Every day I sat at the end of Patsy’s counter spinning and kicking and twirling at my stool. I listened to the veterans argue their way through breakfast. I watched Patsy make the young men blush by sidling up to the counter with an aroma of My Sin Eau de Toilette clouding around her hairnet. She had a flair for flirting. My mother said she earned the extra tips she received from the lonely bachelor farmers. Sometimes, I imitated her techniques alone in my bedroom. Sometimes, when Patsy wasn’t looking, I practiced on Jonny.

Jonny Koch was Patsy’s hired help. He covered for Patsy when she took her breaks and he served the veterans their dessert. They tipped him well because Jonny was a patriot, though he hadn’t been drafted yet. I tipped him too because I liked the songs he whistled. His voice was still changing and he whistled to cover it up. I loved him for it. I loved Jonny Koch but I didn’t know why. His eyes bugged out and he moved too fast. It was as if he had something to prove but couldn’t.

I had one friend in 1969-Alpa, a brown and lonely girl. She followed me like an inquisitive Indian shadow through every alley and vacant cul-de-sac in the neighborhood. She went with me to Lincoln High where I liked to watch the dusty construction of the new classroom building. She came with me to the E-Z Stop, where I sat by the ice chest and counted the pickup trucks with dented fenders. Sometimes Alpa followed me home where my parents didn’t trust her.

Alpa went everywhere. She went everywhere but the diner. I told her I’d buy her a Coke if she came in. She said no. She didn’t like old men. She didn’t like Patsy. She thought the veterans knew too much and she figured Patsy didn’t know anything at all to make up for it. No one in the diner trusted her anyway; she was visiting from the Reservation.

As I sat at Patsy’s counter this boiling day in 1969, I turned my head to see Alpa standing outside the diner’s large picture window. She’d been standing there for an hour, waiting with her nose up against the glass. She gazed irritably into the restaurant from her safe place on the sidewalk, while the neighborhood dogs circled her with whimpering sighs. Her expression talked to me and her brown legs shifted restlessly under her dress. Her nervous eyes shuttled back and forth between Patsy and the twins. When Jonny walked into the room, she turned and fell face-forward over her bicycle.

“The mouse is back,” Johnny whispered to the dessert carousel.

I sighed. It was hot.

The stranger came into the diner at ten o’clock. He was a tall, slender man with a mustache and when he walked through the open door, he cast a slim, willowy shadow over the counter. He walked the length of the counter with Midwestern ease and settled himself on the stool closest to me. In respectful silence, he removed his weathered cap. It read “Minnesota Grain Pearling Company”. Greasy stains rimmed the bill and the edges were frayed. His hair was long and flat and wet with the heat.

The man looked respectable otherwise. He wore a shirt with wide lapels and jeans, well-worn and faded. He was clean. I knew by looking at him that he was someone my father would’ve been friends with-the uncle type, slim and comfortable and modest. Something, though, made him different. He looked like the other men, casual and hardworking, but his face wasn’t tired.

The stranger looked at me suddenly. Perspiration made his forehead shiny and streams of sweat ran into his gentle eyes. He didn’t say anything but reached around me to grab a menu. He flipped it open and found the insides gone.

“She has her specials for the regulars,” I told him. “You don’t need a menu. She’ll tell you what to get.”

The stranger closed the menu. A subtle smile formed at the side of his mouth, as if he’d seen things and only wanted to laugh at our world. I’d seen things too, so I frowned at him. Anyway, I thought I’d seen things. There wasn’t anything left to see in this part of the country, where the fields were tired of producing and the families were tired of getting by.

“Patsy, you got a costumer,” Harvard announced.

Patsy ignored the veteran but eyed the visitor with interest. She patted her hairnet. Coyly, she helped Jonny set up the electrical fan he’d brought from home. The antique blades clicked and clattered until it finally whirred into motion. As soon as she could, Patsy assumed her duties and poured the man a glass of water.

“You from around here?”

“Just moved in.”

“From where?”

“Duluth.”

“Ah.”

“My folks are there. My brother went to Vietnam.”

“A patriot?” Harvard wanted to know.

“He was. Say, I need directions.”

Bored with the conversation, I glanced at the picture window. Alpa was still there, itching the sides of her dress impatiently. She reached down to rub a scab on her knee and blood smeared from her fingertips. She knelt down to wipe the mess on the cement and one of her canine friends nudged her aside to look at it.

“Who’re you looking for?” Harvard asked the stranger with smug authority. He pulled out his handkerchief and dried his upper lip.

“I’m looking for the Barclay place.”

The room grew silent. The hot air seemed closer. Buck Owens stopped singing his Kansas City Song because the radio tower lost the signal again. It happened when the humidity was high.

At the same time, the whirring of the electrical fan stopped. It shorted, mid rotation, and Jonny stepped back in painful protest. Patsy pursed her lips to form a suspicious O and the twins swallowed over and over. They were unusually silent, though Grant moved slightly on his stool. The dry, tired gears complained under the weight of his seat.

“You know Scott Barclay?” Grant finally asked, his doughnut sitting half eaten in his sweaty palm.

“Got his mail,” the stranger said.

The man waved a hand at the diner’s picture window. We all saw the Ford Sedan, rusty and white and steamy hot in the un-shaded street. It was old, from the 1950s, and there was a faded place on the car’s exterior where the Ford decal had been peeled away. Inside the car, sitting tall in the back seat, were trays of letters. A big flat box moved slightly but no one was there. I suddenly saw Alpa’s brown Indian face appear on the other side of the vehicle. She watched the curious box through the window with interest.

“You’re the new rural post,” Harvard observed with suspicious curiosity.

The postman pulled his own handkerchief out of his pocket. He patted his high cheek bones with the damp piece of linen. Sweat ran down into his mouth. “I’m looking for the Barclay place.”

Harvard nodded, a little harder. Everyone knew the Barclays. Scott Barclay had moved into Forest County over a year ago with his large, unusual family. He had twelve children. I’d seen the oldest seven walking to school across Henderson’s field. They attended the last one-room schoolhouse in Forest County and the four oldest children, Allison, Brianna, Colleen, and Davin, taught their younger siblings. No one offered to teach there. The rest of the kids in Forest County attended the school in town, after the state issued the consolidation. The Barclays didn’t go to public school. The Barclays were Catholic.

“Barclay, he came from the East,” Jonny said, wistful. The veterans’ critical eyes reprimanded their own patriot with a steely glance. Jonny swallowed his words. “I’ve only been as far as Wisconsin.”

“Mother’s pastor told me that the Barclays are building a memorial in their back yard,” Patsy said, reaching over the counter with her lemonade jug. She refilled Grant’s empty glass. Out of habit, she filled a new glass and set it down in front of the stranger. The postman stared reluctantly at the pale yellow liquid with no ice. He’d have to drink it now.

“They’re building it for the president.”

“The president?”

The postman sniffed the lemonade and reached for the doughnut jar.

“Kennedy?”

“A memorial,” Patsy insisted, handing the man a napkin. “With an altar. That’s why they go to church at home.”

Patsy didn’t say anything else. My mother had told me that the Barclays were the only Catholics in Forest County. Forest County didn’t have any Catholic churches. According to the patriarchs, the county never would. But going to church at home, where no one could see you, was about as sacrilegious as starting your own Catholic school.

“I have their mail,” the postman repeated. He braved a sip of his lemonade and his cheeks pinched comically.

“Makes sense,” Jonny said.

Catholics wrote letters too. My mother had gotten a letter from a Catholic once.

“The Barclays are from the East,” Harvard said, pretending Jonny had never pointed it out. “They’re socialists.”

“Change isn’t always bad,” the postman said.

Jonny fiddled with the fan.

“Something’s wound too tight,” Harvard interrupted, pointing at Jonny and his ancient contraption. “Something’s wound up inside of it.”

“It could go faster,” Grant added.

Patsy gave the postman his silverware and wrote up a lunch order special. She gave her regulars the fried chicken. She gave the postman the meatloaf.

“You could fry an egg on the sidewalk in this heat,” Patsy observed as she handed Jonny the order slip.

“You could fry an egg in a skillet,” the stranger replied. “Oh, dagnabbit!”

The stranger suddenly tipped off his stool and ran for the door. I didn’t miss the elaborate string of moderate profanity he created with his words. Harvard and Grant nearly fell off their stools. Patsy dropped her lemonade jug and almost repeated the postman’s sentiments.

I ran to the window. I saw Alpa reach for her bike in a flurry of self-conscious panic as the postman ran swearing to his Sedan. She took off on her bike and rode as fast as she could down the street, in the direction of the Piggly Wiggly.

“That silly mouse,” Jonny chuckled.

“She’s from the Reservation,” I reasoned.

In a matter of minutes, the postman had returned. He stood breathing with irritable disgust. He had the long box in his arms and dumped it unceremoniously onto the counter. I heard a flurry of chirping.

“Chicks,” the postman explained. He fell on his stool again and ignored the patrons’ stares. “Mail-order birds. The heat could kill ‘em.”

Pasty boldly removed the lid from the box as the postman dried his face with his handkerchief again.

“It’s hotter than hell,” he said.

I hurried from the window and climbed up to the counter to have myself a look. Jonny watched me first, and then followed me. The twins, slower and a bit more reluctant, couldn’t help themselves. They wiggled their aging bodies into the group and stretched their necks to see.

“They can’t breathe in there.”

“Sure they can. Anyway, they won’t be in there for long.”

“Where’d they come from?”

“Catalogue.”

“That one looks sick.”

“That one’s dead.”

“Dagnabbit.”

“I could water ‘em.”

“Get ‘em some water, Patsy,” Harvard commissioned.

And that was it. For the next hour and a half, the postman, who told us to call him Bick Warren, helped Jonny and Patsy revive the heat-inflicted chicks. The twins supervised and held the little birds in their clumsy, arthritic hands when told to do so. The old veterans pretended to mind. They chuckled, but then cleared their throats. They smiled, but then frowned, and said that it was too hot to hold anything with fluff. Harvard yelped when one of the babies peed on him and everybody laughed.

I watched. I petted. I looked at Jonny, and he looked at me when he nestled one of the sleeping chicks in my sweaty fingers. I held the bird to my flushed cheek while Jonny tried to cool our faces with an empty menu. His fan still wasn’t working right.

The radio picked up the tower signal again. Buck Owens sang us a song while the veterans told Bick Warren about Germany and Sopwith Camel aircraft. I listened to the stories again but I heard them this time. Bick Warren liked the stories. His eyes grew distant when the twins turned the topic from Germany to our boys in Vietnam.

“Well, anyway,” Harvard finally breathed, awkwardly dumping the last baby chick into the cardboard box. “Where are they off to?”

He meant the birds.

“The Barclays.”

The room grew suddenly close again. I coughed, choking on the hot air that didn’t move. Patsy gave me a glass of water.

“These are Scott Barclay’s birds?” Grant hesitated, eyeing the box. He slowly reached for the lid and slid it into place. The chirps and the peeps and the scratches were muffled now. I missed the sound.

The room was quiet. The room was quiet for too long.

“Well,” Patsy breathed, wiping her fingers slowly on a towel. Harvard stared at his fingers, rubbing them as if he wasn’t sure he should clean them too.

Grant took a drink of lemonade. Bick Warren stood to leave. The postman rubbed his high forehead with the back of his hand and slipped the Minnesota Grain Pearling Company cap back over his hair.

“See you folks.”

The man grabbed the box a little too hard. I heard the gentle bumping as the baby birds fell into one another. In a moment, the chirping and the scratching and the stranger were gone.

The diner was silent. The hot, dusty street was silent. Finally, somewhere down the sidewalk, a screen door opened and the loud banging of wood on wood reached our ears in the stillness of the humid room. The lunch rush had gone and the morning slowly rolled into the afternoon.

Harvard and Grant didn’t talk at all now and Patsy looked nervous, as if she missed their complaining. She paced back and forth and dusted the cash register. She washed dishes that hadn’t been dirtied. She searched the room for something out of place while I watched her, sipping my glass of water. I wanted to hold a baby chick again.

“The mouse is back,” Jonny said suddenly. Bored, he pounded his electrical fan with a thump of his wrist. It whirred to life, and he grinned. His apron strings moved in the sudden breeze.

I turned to see Alpa standing at the window. I’d forgotten about her. Her long black hair hung loose and low, shadowing her rounded face. She shaded her eyes to see through the window. The sun had moved so that the diner’s awning did nothing at all to shade the girl from the heat. Her dress fell limply around her form, a dress too warm for a hot summer day in 1969.

Alpa stared at me and waited. Her bike lay forgotten behind her on the sidewalk and the neighborhood dogs had returned. They chased their tails and bit at Alpa’s shoes until she kicked one of them in the neck.

I should go.

“Patsy,” Harvard grunted, suddenly. “Get that girl out of the sun.”

Everyone sat surprised. No one from the Reservation had ever been in the diner before. Alpa had never been in the diner before. Harvard had never invited anyone anywhere at all.

Patsy finally waved a hand at Jonny. Jonny went out into the street to get the girl. He took Alpa’s arm with hesitation and led her into the diner. Alpa, too surprised to protest, took her place by me. She sat straight, high on the warm, sticky stool. She seemed unsure and her eyes were wide as she stared uncertainly at Patsy’s face. Patsy formed an O with her lips, her dry lipstick making a rough pink circle around her mouth.

And that was it. Harvard cleared his throat. He reached for one of Patsy’s freshly baked pies and cut Alpa a healthy slice. He served it to her, ignoring his brother’s stares and glaring at the patriot with the fan.

Alpa looked at Harvard curiously. She looked at me and then she smiled. She was pretty, sitting on her stool and eating apple pie.

“It’s a warm one,” Harvard said.

“You bet.”

 

About the Author

Sarah R. Larson

Sarah R. Larson is a three time winner of the Kaden Short Story award.