“Kia is an African name,” I said. “It means ’season’s beginning.” “I left her then, giving her a little wave as I headed back to the driver’s side of the Chevy. I could feel her curious eyes on me, and I had the oddest feeling that I was going to cry. That feeling stayed with me long after the two of them were out of sight; was still with me when I got to the Village Cafe. I pulled into the dirt parking lot to the left of the off-brand gas pumps and just sat there for a little while, thinking about Jo and about a home pregnancy-testing kit which had cost twenty-two-fifty. A little secret she’d wanted to keep until she was absolutely sure. That must have been it; what else could it have been? “Kia,” I said. “Season’s beginning.” But that made me feel like crying again, so I got out of the car and slammed the door hard behind me, as if I could keep the sadness inside that way.
Buddy Jellison was just the same, all right—same dirty cooks’ whites and splotchy white apron, same black hair under a paper cap stained with either beef-blood or strawberry juice. Even, from the look, the same oatmeal-cookie crumbs caught in his ragged mustache. He was maybe fifty-five and maybe seventy, which in some genetically favored men seems to be still within the farthest borders of middle age. He was huge and shambly—probably six-four, three hundred pounds—and just as full of grace, wit, and joie de vivre as he had been four years before. “You want a menu or do you remember?” he grunted, as if I’d last been in yesterday. “You still make the Villageburger Deluxe?”
“Does a crow still shit in the pine tops?” Pale eyes regarding me. No condolences, which was fine by me. “Most likely. I’ll have one with everything—a Villageburger, not a crow—plus a chocolate frappe. Good to see you again.” I offered my hand. He looked surprised but touched it with his own. Unlike the whites, the apron, and the hat, the hand was clean. Even the nails were clean. “Yuh,” he said, then turned to the sallow woman chopping onions beside the grill. “Villageburger, Audrey,” he said.
“Drag it through the garden.” I’m ordinarily a sit-at-the-counter kind of guy, but that day I took a booth near the cooler and waited for Buddy to yell that it was ready—Audrey short-orders, but she doesn’t waitress. I wanted to think, and Buddy’s was a good place to do it.
There were a couple of locals eating sandwiches and drinking sodas straight from the can, but that was about it; people with summer cottages would have to be starving to eat at the Village Cafe, and even then you’d likely have to haul them through the door kicking and screaming. The floor was faded green linoleum with a rolling topography of hills and valleys. Like Buddy’s uniform, it was none too clean (the summer people who came in probably failed to notice his hands). The woodwork was greasy and dark. Above it, where the plaster started, there were a number of bumper-stickers—Buddy’s idea of decoration.
HORN BROKEN—WATCH FOR FINGER.
WIFE AND DOG MISSING. REWARD FOR DOG.
THERE’s NO TOWN DRUNK HERE, WE ALL TAKE TURNS. Humor is almost always anger with its makeup on, I think, but in little towns the makeup tends to be thin. Three overhead fans paddled apathetically at the hot air, and to the left of the soft-drink cooler were two dangling strips of flypaper, both liberally stippled with wildlife, some of it still struggling feebly. If you could look at those and still eat, your digestion was probably doing okay. I thought about a similarity of names which was surely, had to be, a coincidence. I thought about a young, pretty girl who had become a mother at sixteen or seventeen and a widow at nineteen or twenty. I thought about inadvertently touching her breast, and how the world judged men in their forties who suddenly discovered the fascinating world of young women and their accessories.
Most of all I thought of the queer thing that had happened to me when Mattie had told me the kid’s name—that sense that my mouth and throat were suddenly flooded with cold, mineral-tangy water. That rush. When my burger was ready, Buddy had to call twice. When I went over to get it, he said: “You back to stay or to clear out?”
“Why?” I asked. “Did you miss me, Buddy?”
“Nup,” he said, “but at least you’re from in-state. Did you know that “Massachusetts’ is Piscataqua for ’asshole’?”
“You’re as funny as ever,” I said. “Yuh. I’m going on fuckin Letterman. Explain to him why God gave seagulls wings.”
“Why was that, Buddy?”
“So they could beat the fuckin Frenchmen to the dump.” I got a newspaper from the rack and a straw for my frappe. Then I detoured to the pay phone and, tucking my paper under my arm, opened the phone book. You could actually walk around with it if you wanted; it wasn’t tethered to the phone. Who, after all, would want to steal a Castle County telephone directory? There were over twenty Devores, which didn’t surprise me very much—it’s one of those names, like Pelkey or Bowie or Toothaker, that you kept coming across if you lived down here. I imagine it’s the same everywhere—some families breed more and travel less, that’s all. There was a Devore listing for “RD Wsp HI1 Rd,” but it wasn’t for a Mattie, Mathilda, Martha, or M. It was for Lance. I looked at the front of the phone book and saw it was a 1997 model, printed and mailed while Mattie’s husband was still in the land of the living.
Okay… but there was something else about that name. Devote, Devote, let us now praise famous Devores; wherefore art thou Devore? But it wouldn’t come, whatever it was. I ate my burger, drank my liquefied ice cream, and tried not to look at what was caught on the flypaper.
While I was waiting for the sallow, silent Audrey to give me my change (you could still eat all week in the Village Cafe for fifty dollars… if your blood-vessels could stand it, that was), I read the sticker pasted to the cash register. It was another Buddy Jellison special:
CYBERSPACE SCARED ME SO BAD I DOWNLOADED IN MY PANTS. This didn’t exactly convulse me with mirth, but it did provide the key for solving one of the day’s mysteries: why the name Devore had seemed not just familiar but evocative. I was financially well off, rich by the standards of many. There was at least one person with ties to their, however, who was rich by the standards of everybody, and filthy rich by the standards of most year-round residents of the lakes region. If, that was, he was still eating, breathing, and walking around. “Audrey, is Max Devore still alive?” She gave me a little smile. “Oh, ayuh. But we don’t see him in here too often.” That got the laugh out of me that all of Buddy’s joke stickers hadn’t been able to elicit. Audrey, who had always been yellowish and who now looked like a candidate for a liver transplant, snickered herself. Buddy gave us a librarian’s prim glare from the far end of the counter, where he was reading a flyer about the holiday NASCAR race at Oxford Plains. I drove back the way I had come. A big hamburger is a bad meal to eat in the middle of a hot day; it leaves you feeling sleepy and heavy-witted. All I wanted was to go home (I’d been there less than twenty-four hours and was already thinking of it as home), flop on the bed in the north bedroom under the revolving fan, and sleep for a couple of hours. When I passed Wasp Hill Road, I slowed down. The laundry was hanging listlessly on the lines, and there was a scatter of toys in the front yard, but the Scout was gone. Mattie and Kyra had donned their suities, I imagined, and headed on down to the public beachie. I’d liked them both, and quite a lot. Mattie’s short-lived marriage had probably hooked her somehow to Max Devote. .
but looking at the rusty doublewide trailer with its dirt driveway and balding front yard, remembering Mat-tie’s baggy shorts and Kmart smock top, I had to doubt that the hook was a strong one. Before retiring to Palm Springs in the late eighties, Maxwell William Devote had been a driving force in the computer revolution. It’s primarily a young people’s revolution, but Devore did okay for a golden oldie—knew the playing-field and understood the rules. He started when memory was stored on magnetic tape instead of in computer chips and a warehouse-sized cruncher called UNIVAC was state-of-the-art. He was fluent in COBOL and spoke FORTRAN like a native. As the field expanded beyond his ability to keep up, expanded to the point where it began to define the world, he bought the talent he needed to keep growing.