8. The Smoked Crab
Warm saltwater air rolls off the coast and tickles the hair on my forearm as it hangs out the window of my cherry-red Trans Am. The sky is a pretty magenta and dark blue this evening, and the roar of the coast crashes into the beach as I tap to the rhythm of “Summer Vibe” by Forrest Nolan against the steering wheel. Seagulls and blackbirds fly overhead in the evening glow. Carmella and I sit at a red light.
“There is a place off the water called The Smoked Crab. It’s a bar. They make killer tacos. You ever been?” I look over at my dinner date.
Carmella’s hair lies loose and curly as the wind gently ruffles it, and despite my earlier orgasm, the desire to smooth her wild waves still bothers me. Her locks match the soft tannish color of the beaches behind her. She’s been unusually quiet since climbing in the car. “No, never been. Will they card me, ‘cause I don’t have my ID, remember?”
“Nah, no worries, sugar. We’ll eat in the restaurant section, but you’ve got to get that resolved, and soon. What happened to it?”
She shrugs, rotating her body away from me and staring glumly out the window. “Probably vanished when I was moving from place to place. You lose all kinds of things when they get thrown into bags. Sometimes shit gets left behind if you’re in a hurry or it gets stolen. I’ve had my purse stolen twice now. Jokes on them, though. There wasn’t any money, anyway.”
Well, shit.
A few people still linger at the shore, taking an evening swim. Kids romp around, kicking sand at each other while their mom waves at them to stop. We watch them for a few seconds. “Lucky kids,” she comments. My eyes flick to her profile again. The light turns green, and I pull away with the other traffic. I hate to ask her because my gut tells me I already know the answers to my questions, but I need to double-check. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong about a woman before.
Observing her, I announce, “This week, we will go get your ID.”
She stiffens and keeps her eyes on the waves as we zip by. “No birth certificate. Sorry.”
“Proof of residency. Where do you get your mail?”
The silence is loud.
Checking the surrounding traffic, I lean forward, getting a glimpse of her side profile. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth and scrapes her thumbnails against each other in a nervous fidget.
“Social security card?” I prod.
Carmella shakes her head, and I sigh. “Alright, shoot it to me straight. Who are we running from? Boyfriend? Dad? Daddy? It’s Daddy, isn’t it?”
“Who says I’m running?” Her tone is biting.
“C’mon, you’re telling me you prefer living out of bags? Clearly, you have someone you check in with. Can’t they help you get your ID?”
When she speaks, her voice is soft. “No, they can’t, and maybe bags and drifting are better than where I was before. Maybe those people are just as glad that I’m gone as I am to be gone.”
Other questions die on the tip of my tongue, as my digging is burying the entire mood of the drive. I pull up to another stoplight. Empty parking spots line the beach boardwalk, and I consider whipping in one and dragging her down to the beach. We could dip our feet in. Anything to liven up the morose mood I’ve caused. Carmella rests her head against the seat and stares out across the waves.
I’m slightly scared to ask more questions. The pain she is suppressing pulls at the makeshift stitches I’ve sewn over my own heart. It’s been years since I’ve been without a place to call home, but I still remember the fear and uncertainty of it. It makes me wonder what her past was like if the life she has now is the better option. I shake my head. How the fuck do I end up being the better option?
What brought her to this point? Where has she been sleeping? Fuck. Hopefully, a shelter. The beaches are sketchy at night.
We move on with the flow of traffic. So much for a joyride with my new girl. Turning up the music, I let Carmella have her moment of beach watching and leave her in peace.
The Smoked Crab parking lot is moderately full by the time we pull in. The restaurant sits upon pier pilings and juts over the water on the commercial side of the harbor. Smoke billows from the back of the eatery and hides the fishy smell, instead filling the air with the aroma of cooking meats. Carmella’s brows pull down when I hold the door open for her. “Ladies first.” She shakes her head as she steps inside.
Fake birds, plastic crabs, and little tiki totem salt and pepper shakers are just the beginning of the campy luau-themed decorations that coat every inch of the place. “Pineapple Sunrise” by Beach Weather, a happy beachy tune that compliments the decor, thumps out from the speakers hiding in the faux tropical plants.
“Can we get a table out there?” Carmella points out onto the dock overlooking the water, and I nod to the waitress to lead the way. Sitting down in the metal chair warmed by the sun, I’m thankful for the evening breeze off the water.
Carmella’s head whips around as she takes in the other diners and the decorations. Soft sloshing sounds fill the air as the waves lick and slap against the wooden pillars of the dock. Carmella’s smile damn near splits her face when she spies the bucket of crayons. “Do they have paper?” She glances around for the waitress.
My forehead pinches as I survey her tourist-like behavior. I tap the gray piece of paper rolled across the top of the table, and a pink flush stains her cheeks as she laughs a little. “Oh.”
Reaching for the bucket, she pulls it over and roots around in the container, the crayons clinking against the metal sides. She looks up at me with her big blue eyes as blonde, frizzy waves fall around her face, and the air is punched out of my lungs by how young and lovely she really is. “You want some crayons?” she asks.
I take a deep breath and hold it for a minute, willing the arousal away from my dick. “No, sweetheart. I’m good. Do you like to draw?” I’m glad the moodiness she showed in the car seems to have passed.
“Sometimes, I draw. I’m no artist, but it’s enjoyable. One of those adult coloring books with cool designs in it would be fun.” I nod along with her comment, formulating my next question. I assume her hostile, distrustful, and frustratingly tight-lipped behavior has probably kept her safe and alive on the streets. Or at least, I hope it kept her safe. I have no idea what lurks in her past, but I think I’ve earned a little trust.
Now, how to get my fucking questions answered without triggering a bad mood from this spicy little firecracker?
A red crayon zooms across the expanse of the paper, guided by her hand. Two zigzag lines appear. She discards the red to dig through the pail for the white, biting her lip as she eyes the sketch. She abandons the white crayon for the black one and gets back to work, bringing whatever vision she has in her head to life.
My attention alternates between the menu and Carmella as she crafts her masterpiece. The waiter comes along to take our orders, and of course, my caramel drop hasn’t even looked at the menu. I order for us both. Seagulls cry out gently along the shore, and decorative overhead lantern lights turn on, illuminating the docks in a warm romantic glow. And just like the old men who sit at the end of the boardwalk catching fish, I, too, am hoping for bites.
“So, did your parents bring you to places like this when you were a kid?” I sip my soda innocently.
The crayon stops moving. Carmella stares down at the paper. “Maybe. I don’t remember.”
“What happened?” I leave the question open-ended, letting her fill in the blank and answer however she sees fit.
She’s quiet for what feels like forever, and I control my anxious fidgeting during the silence. Which I deserve a fucking medal for. The red crayon in her hand is really getting a workout as she wheedles it down. Several giant red blobs take shape on the paper. I sigh. It figures we’re headed back into a nonverbal standoff.
Folding my arms over my chest, I consider her. Maybe if I give a little, I’ll get a little. I dislike delving into my past. One, I don’t owe a goddamned explanation to anyone. And two, I hate the pitying looks I get afterward when I do. That shit pisses me off enough to want to slug somebody in the jaw.
As I twist the empty straw wrapper around my finger, anxiety eats at my chest. “I grew up an orphan. A legitimate safe surrender baby Moses. I had a couple of foster families, or so I was told, until I was six. My recollection of that time isn’t great, and what I know I’ve mostly pieced together by social workers.”
Carmella stares at me with those big, liquid blue eyes. Turning away, I scan the rocky blue waters and wish the waves could wash away all the bullshit.
“Apparently, I cried a lot as a baby. And as I got older, I could never sit still, didn’t listen, and was destructive. I’m sure these days, they probably have a shit ton of diagnoses for whatever was wrong with me back then.” I chuckle humorlessly. “Probably was a meth baby or something.” Carmella doesn’t laugh.
Reaching into my pants, I pull out my cigarettes and lighter. “When I think back on those families, all that’s left is just a general sense of anxiousness, confusion, and...” I struggle for a minute. “... loss. I was a little shit as a kid and not too book smart. Caseworkers tried to keep me in school, but I’d just fuck off. And one day, in high school, I got bored with the whole group home bullshit, packed up the few things I cared about, pretended I was going to class, and never went back to either.”
I light my cig and take a long draw, letting the taste of burning paper and tobacco swirl across my tongue. Blowing it out, I give caramel drop a panty-stealing smile and continue my pathetic story. “So naturally, I got in trouble. Fourteen with no money, attitude for days, and an inability to chill out made me a textbook time bomb. And eventually, I went off. Ended up aging out of the system while serving a juvenile sentence for theft. The only good thing about juvie was I met my best friend and brother there. His name is Sasha.”
There. A summary of my sad and fast childhood. I cringe when I realize that my tangent was more than just a “little share” and suddenly wish I could suck the words back into my mouth.
Carmella looks me in the eye. There is no pity or judgment. In fact, her smooth face gives nothing away, and for a moment, I would rather receive pitying looks than this blank apathy. I realize it’s her eyes and those quick frowns that make her look older than she did while discovering the coloring. C’mon, girl, say something.
She opens her mouth, but instead of an apology or a well-meaning platitude, all she says is, “My parents died when I was seven.”
Well, fuck, so much for avoiding triggering shit.A sharp stab of pain aches in my chest for her. The idea of no one wanting her, just as no one wanted me, makes my hand ache to punch the table or a wall. My throat burns, and I grind my teeth. Deep breaths, man. Calm down. That shit was a long time ago. I am past that now.
“And after that?” I say around the lump in my throat. I take a draw on the cigarette and flick off some of the ash.
She doesn’t look at me, instead hyperfocusing on the artwork growing under her careful hands. “I bounced around a couple of foster families here and there. They gave me to my aunt when I was twelve.”
An aunt? Why didn’t she end up with the aunt when she was seven? My brow furrows as I stare at the paper covering our table.
She sees the confusion on my face because she continues, “Gloria had a drug problem. Still has one. She and my abuela didn’t get along.”
Abuela?
My smoke is halfway to my mouth when I pause. “Wait, you’re Hispanic?”
She looks at me like that should be obvious. “My name is Carmella Maria Herrera.” Her tongue rolls the r’s in her last name, dragging them out perfectly. She looks down at her chest and arms. “I’m fucking tan, Luke. Like naturally.” Her tone is grossly offended.
Well, fuck me, how was I supposed to know?!
This date is going great.
Just fucking fantastic.
Childhood trauma.
Dead parents.
Mistaken ethnicity.
Maybe next, we will talk about school shootings.
I suddenly wish I had ordered a margarita.