Cherry Land Chapters

Illustration by Nik Garvoille

FICTION

“How is everything?” Amber approaches a table of three with a water pitcher. The balding man exhales. He pulls on the collar of his tangerine colored polo.

“Fine,” says the woman, pressing her red lips together. The teenage girl with a high ponytail pokes at the fillet of whitefish Amber scraped clear of the silver scales on the prep table with a spoon minutes earlier because the girl “didn’t realize the fish came like that.”

“You know – ” the man adjusts his oversized wire-rimmed glasses.

“Larry, don’t,” the woman sets down her fork.

“No, I just wanted to tell you that it would be nice if you would visit with your table, maybe introduce yourself, ask them where they are from or how they are liking Door County. Just a thought,” the man smiles with a chunk of pink prime rib on his fork.

“Sorry,” Amber’s jaw clenches. She pours water in the woman’s glass, wishing the rusty Bonneville Martin drove down Highway 42 only moments before she began her shift would break down. She pours water in the girl’s glass, wishing Martin would turn around, unpack his guitar, his mismatched clothes and duck-taped sandals. She pours water in the man’s glass, wishing Martin asked her to come with him.

“Just a thought,” the man repeats.

•••

Kevin, the wiry busser with no facial hair and too much cologne takes the plastic pitcher from Amber.

“Oh my God, what a jerk,” she leans against the countertop and folds her arms. “That guy just told me how to do my job.”

“Oh yeah?” Kevin fills the pitcher. Cheers erupt from a small crowd lined at the bar with pints of beer, watching Yovani Gallardo strike out another batter. Amber pays closer attention to the song on the easy listening radio station that sounds softly over the dining room, “Nothing Compares 2 U.”

Amber sucks in a breath, “I don’t go into his place of work and tell him how to do his job.”

It’s been so lonely without you here, like a bird without a song.

Amber flips a switch, grinding coffee beans to drown out the breathy voice of Sinead O’Connor. “I don’t criticize him. Like, while we’re being honest, why don’t I just tell him that his daughter looks unhappy, his wife seems to have no personality, and he could probably lose thirty pounds.”

Kevin reaches in the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts and silently offers Amber a lemon Starburst.

‘Cause nothing compares, nothing compares to you. Tears flood her eyes.

“Don’t like lemon?” He digs in his pocket once more and pulls out a cherry Starburst. She unwraps the sugary cube, exhales, chews for a moment before adding, “Like, how does he know if my grandma didn’t just die or something. I should of said that. I should of started crying and told him that my grandma died.”

“Did your grandma just die?”

“No!”

•••

“Salud,” Javier taps a cigarette against Amber’s plastic cup of Sprite as she counts her tips on the back steps of the restaurant.

“Salud,” she raises her glass as Javier flicks his lighter.

“One, two, three, four,” Amber begins her count again. Fluorescent light pours out the screen door behind them, along with the scent of sizzling cheese curds.

“Amiga,” Javier takes off his grease-stained Door County cap and frowns, moaning, “so sad.”

Amber sets the bills on her lap. “Not a good day,” she shakes her head.

“Ah – huh,” he exhales cigarette smoke. She inhales the scent, a constant since Martin returned for his visit two days ago. A cigarette hung from his lips when he strummed his guitar around Jordan’s fire pit, the whole crew drinking PBR and singing along; when Amber and he wandered through Alibi Marina in Fish Creek, pointing to the shiny yachts they would buy if they were millionaires; and when they drove to the tip of the peninsula, threw rocks in Death’s Door while singing the Washington Island Ferry theme song: Take a magical ride, to a magical place – the Washington Island Ferry!

The scent of Javier’s cigarette reminds her of kissing Martin goodbye.

•••

Martin stomped out his cigarette while Amber tied her black apron around her waist.

“I’ll probably never see you again,” she said, studying the yellow parking line he was standing on.

“Aww…yes, you will,” he opened his arms. “We will see each other again. No worries.”

•••

Amber wishes she spoke more Spanish. “What’s so good about Portland anyway?” she would ask Javier.

“This is all for the best,” he might answer, if he spoke more English.

In the silence, Amber rests her head on Javier’s shoulder. He smokes his cigarette.

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