Cherry Land

Illustration by Nik Garvoille

FICTION

Amber’s blue t-shirt sticks to her armpits as she bends with pad and paper in hand. A scream flies from the mouth of a squirming five or six-year-old girl reeking of sunscreen while her mother asks, “Jennifer, do you want chicken nuggets or fish sticks? Jennifer!” Amber fakes a smile, nods to the pouty-lipped girl with encouragement, smoothing her blonde hair behind an ear before remembering that gesture violates ‘health code,’ thinking and then forgetting that she should wash her hands before serving another table burgers or pizza.

The buzzer vibrates in her back pocket. A basket of onion rings for the couple in matching spandex bike uniforms is under the heat lamp. The red-cheeked man at the next table drains his second Whiskey Old Fashioned Sweet with four cherries. “Four,” he winked before resting his hand on Amber’s forearm, “Four. Are they Door County cherries?”

A table of three women gleaming with shiny lipstick and bright colored cardigans – turquoise, lime green, and fuchsia – sit and comment on the air conditioning vent blowing down on their salt-and-pepper hair, styled to a T with gel and hairspray. The hostess has walked away. They all lock eyes on Amber – still bent, still smiling.

“Jennifer, tell the nice lady what you want.”

Another scream. Amber blinks, then laughs. The mother adjusts her cross necklace, the father grunts and adjusts his Brewers baseball cap, the older brother presses the buttons of a hand-held game inches from his acne-spotted face. They do not laugh. They do not smile. Amber adjusts her expression accordingly.

Mrs. Turquoise Cardigan waves a hand while the other women look up with vexed expressions at the vent. Bracelets jingle and jangle like a servant’s bell.

“Miss, miss…”

Amber peers in their direction.

“Miss, can we move? The air is so –”

“Go ahead and move,” Amber says.

“Just get her the fish,” the dad says.

“No!” the girl screams.

“You want chicken nuggets, then?” the mother asks.

Ice tinkers as Mr. Four Cherries exhales, rattling his glass.

“Miss…Miss,” Mrs. Turquoise hisses from a new table, a larger table with six seats. “We’ll take water when you get a chance.”

Amber smiles. She exhales. The buzzer vibrates.

“Four cherries,” Susanne smiles behind the bar, handing Amber the glass. She counts the red bulbs on the yellow plastic spear. The heat of an afternoon in sunshine radiates from her skin. Before she can turn towards the expectant faces, a familiar voice calls her name.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Martin? How are you?” she hugs the tall, dark-haired man with Old Fashioned still in hand.

They exchange the standard pleasantries and an almost painful tingle passes over Amber’s skin. Martin Anderson. Two summers ago. She can smell the cigarettes on his black polo and remembers rounds of mini golf at the Red Putter, the stars over Lake Michigan as they cranked the pedals of a borrowed paddleboat, and his endless stream of compliments which she recorded verbatim in a green notebook: “Amber, you’re bliss.”

She remembers Martin pouring melted butter over her microwave popcorn and holding her hand while they wandered around Cana Island Lighthouse in the dark. He planned his travels while she wondered if she’d ever been happier.

“I heard you were working here. I’m driving out to Portland in a few days, but came up to visit the old crew.”

“Yeah,” Amber flicks her wrist, an odd gesture she realizes, laughs and studies his tattered moccasins and tan knees. She remembers the drink in her hand.

“I might not be done for awhile,” she says.

“Look at you,” he says, as if just seeing her. He hugs her again. The condensation of the drink tickles her palm while tears grow heavier behind her lids.

Mr. Four Cherries half-smiles, pushing his empty plate with a slice of fat and crumpled napkins away from his Hawaiian shirt. Amber sets down the drink and the bill.

“Take your time,” she says quickly.

Amber locks the ladies’ bathroom door. She exhales and examines her reflection. She decides her bangs are too long. Too many freckles. A throbbing zit on her chin. No earrings. No eyeliner. Only the smelly blue t-shirt to wear.

Two years. What does he think of her and her life now? Does he remember all the plans she reeled off when they sat on the edge of a dock, buzzed on Budweiser or Yellow Tail?

When he talked about performing songs in Austin or working in hostels in Spain she competed with plans to work with orphans in India or housesit in southern France.

“If only I had met you five years from now,” he would say.

“Too bad,” she would flirt, calculating in her head: 22 + 5 = 27.

Martin watches NFL pre-season highlights from his barstool, drinking a tall glass of Spotted Cow with two shots of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint Schnapps waiting as Amber approaches.

“My sweet,” he says, turning on his stool, reaching for both shot glasses.

“Oh no,” she laughs.

“Too summer love,” he says. “Too you.”

She closes her eyes, gulps down the shot. Her tongue burns with the minty flavor. He coughs and takes her hand, “I say we find a party.”