44. Freeze-Frame
freeze-frame
Strider
Another three-thirty wake up call, another walk through the brisk, though not cold, December air with Charlie and Jamie. Mikey’s affable nature is missing. I didn’t realize yesterday how light he made the air around him.
Jamie is serious. And his serious is serious. I wait for the jokes. I wait to see the Jones in him. They all have some quirk, but his is masked for sure.
Mirren is right. He could bare-hand karate chop me to death, and I’d never see it coming.
Yet, he’s here. Before sunrise, wandering a wooded area. Maybe this is my never-saw-it-coming moment, and Charlie will haul my body back to his pig stye where I’ll be eaten and shit out by swine, never to be seen again.
I push the glasses up my face and square my shoulders. I’m tall, just over six feet. But Charlie has two inches on me and Jamie has at least three.
The eldest in the lead, Charlie lifts his hand in a closed fist and points straight ahead. Sure enough, two bucks are in the clearing.
I thought they were supposed to run at the sound of footsteps and the smell of humans. I don’t know. I eat meat, but I’m not the guy who revels in the kill.
Jamie never moves. He stands stock-still, peering at the animals as Charlie lifts his rifle and fires.
Both scatter. Hell, two we didn’t see sprint off in different directions as well.
“Man, you suck at this, Skipper,” Jamie grouses over my head. He never lifted his rifle, never peered through the scope. If I had to guess, he never misses. So he’s not out here to hunt.
“Yeah, well, I’m good at other things.” Charlie spins and flicks his tongue at Jamie.
“Ugh,” the younger, dark-haired one replies. “I never want to hear you discuss oral skills or allude to them again in my life. I’d hate to lose my only older brother.”
“You won’t lose me, Ham.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Jamie turns more precisely than I’d expect and begins the walk back toward the clearing and the truck. “Let’s go to Mona’s.”
Charlie begins the trek as well, and I fall in line. I have no idea who Mona is or where she lives, but if I can get some insight into Jamie, I’m in.
An hour later, I’m wiser, but no less confused.
Mona’s is Mona’s Waffle Hut which is sort of how I picture a Waffle House…
only more colorful, louder, and with a woman who is horrifying in her self-assurance.
Mona has red hair that verges on pink, rolled damn near in a beehive, and hips that stick straight out from her body.
She’s brash, funny, and rolls her eyes, swearing when we walk into her open-concept greasy spoon.
“Here comes trouble.” She pauses to study me before going on. “And they brought a newbie. You”—she points a huge spatula at me—“are you on the side of good or evil?”
“Good?” My answer comes out in the form of a question because I genuinely don’t know what the right answer is with a woman like Mona.
“Bullshit,” she spits back. “Grab a seat and try not to destroy anything.”
Two graying men in the corner playing checkers cackle out loud. “Not if you’re with the Jones boys, that’s for sure,” one says. The other gives him a high five and takes a pull of coffee through a fat-lipped mug that’s always present in these kinds of places.
We find a booth. Jamie takes a seat first. I slide in from the other side along a green padded bench. Charlie blocks me in, one leg hanging out as if the booth makes him claustrophobic. For the second time today, I’m between them, corralled into a place that I have to stop finding myself.
Mona slaps menus on the table and pours three coffees without asking. “What’ll ya have?”
Charlie affably states, “You already know. I’m surprised you ask anymore.”
She pops the gum she’s chewing and bobs her head once, turning to Jamie. “And you?”
“Number one, rare, four eggs over easy and double home fries, extra onions.”
She tilts her head but keeps eye contact with him. “So your normal, too? ’Kay.” She slides her eyes to me and assesses me. “And for you?”
“What do you recommend?”
She grunts and sighs. “Where’re ya from?”
“Illinois. And whatever you feel like cooking up, I’m good with.”
She taps the table twice, turns on her squishy-heeled shoe, and hollers, “I got ya, boy,” over her shoulder as she moves to the cooktops.
“I’m being set up, aren’t I?” I ask the table.
“Oh, yeah,” Charlie says.
Jamie bobs his head and lifts his mug to his lips. “Yep.”
As far as set-ups go, it’s not the worst I’ve had. Chicken fried steak with peppered white gravy, home fries with peppers—bell and jalapenos—and onions, scrambled eggs, and a biscuit the size of a dinner plate.
“Why is the food so good down here?” I ask, shoveling a bite into my mouth.
“Lard,” Charlie answers, over-talking Jamie’s, “Butter.”
“Between this and Fat Bottom Grill, I don’t think I’ll regret moving here.” In that exact moment, the diner is dead silent. Even the mugs in patrons’ hands are aloft as though the record-screeching moment also provided a freeze-frame.
Jamie’s head swivels my way with slow, lethal precision. “What did you say?”
“I assumed Mirren told you. I’m moving here.
” I study him and look, at my own peril, Charlie’s way.
“And I’m getting it that you didn’t know.
Okay. Well, Mirren and I are serious at making a go of things.
That requires being in the same state, not just the same time zone.
So, you’re looking at the newest Alabaman? Alabamaian? Whatever.”
Charlie smiles but quickly masks it when he sees the severity of Jamie’s expression. “Mirren is special.”
“She is.”
“No,” he bites. “Not like some random girl you can get on with. She’s special.”
“I know.”
“And if you were to ever hurt her—”
I lift a hand and cut him off. “Let me stop you right there, Jamie. I don’t need another Jones lecturing me or threatening to kill me, though there are points for creativity. Mikey’s in the lead.”
His head jerks back a fraction.
“I wouldn’t uproot my life, shutter my business or whatever will have to happen, and move across the country for some chick.
I know Mirren is special. She is more than special—she’s precious.
And I will treat her that way. You can dislike me.
You can threaten me. You can want me gone.
But as long as she wants me by her side, that’s where I will be.
I am Team Mirren. I’m the founder, the captain, the cheerleader, the protector, the bulwark for her.
For the woman who is brilliant, funny, shrewd, gentle, and way the fuck out of my league.
You can not like it, but I don’t care. I like you.
I respect you. But I love her. And she’s the one who matters.
Her choice matters. Her decisions matter.
Mirren’s. Not yours. If you don’t like it, I don’t give a fuck. ”
It’s Mona’s slow-clap that brings me back to the reality of where I am. To the fact I just declared my love for Freckles in her hometown, in front of whoever those two men are who gawk at me, in front of Mona, and the handful of couples and families scattered in booths around the diner.
Well, I stepped in it. Time to smear it.
“So lard and butter?” I offer to the table, using my fork and knife to point at the plate. “I’ll start looking at recipes. This is so worth it.”
Charlie extends a hand. “Happy you’re here, brother. Don’t make me use the pigs.”
I tilt my head and stare at him but shake his outstretched palm, nonetheless.
“You’re right. You out-kicked your coverage.” Jamie extends a hand, too, and pierces me with his icy stare. “But you’re also right that it’s Mirren’s wishes that matter.”
I nod and take his outstretched hand. When he goes back to his still-bleeding sirloin, he mutters to his plate, “Mikey’s in the lead? What could Zipper have possibly threatened?”
Charlie takes the bait. “Oh, it’s good.” He throws a bite of pancake into his mouth and grins, proceeding to tell Jamie everything.
Neither knows that June’s was actually the scariest. That woman is formidable, cunning, and wouldn’t bat an eye at taking me out. Somehow, I know they’d never find my body.