Waiting for Sparks

THE HEADACHE HAD disappeared by the time Sparks awoke later that morning. While orienting himself to yet another new ceiling, he rubbed his neck reflexively. Traveling often left him muddled about which state, which city, even which country he’d landed in. Then, as he stretched his arms over his head, his muscles rushed to remind him, prompting him to recall as well the woman who’d rescued him.

First, there was the immediate intimacy of the little car and how careful she was to keep to her side. Second, her genuine concern for his head, those watchful side glances from the hazel eyes. Where had she been going with such intensity? He groaned again and rolled out of bed.

After a quick shower and shave, he dressed and left his room for the Dew Drop. He needed to get the scoop on Naomi, Emma and the Jamboree deal, and a local diner always had folks in the know. As he stepped off the curb, he winced. Better keep moving today or those muscles would stiffen up.

The pungent mixture of strong coffee and grease filled his nose not unpleasantly as he opened the diner’s glass door and stepped inside. Although Sparks had eaten some great food in great places across the planet, he still preferred American cardiac-zone cooking.

Most of the booths were full, and the counter didn’t have an empty swivel stool. The clatter of plates, silverware and voices rang against the red-wallpapered walls and aluminum wainscoting. A Coca-Cola clock from years past hung over the half circle of counter space.

“Coffee?” A middle-aged woman waved a coffeepot at him as she caught his glance. He shook his head no, Coke being his caffeine of choice, and continued to look around. When he spotted three men in work clothes crammed in a red Naugahyde booth, he turned toward them. They broke off their conversation, which seemed to center around farm equipment. “I’m here for the summer—fireworks guy for the Jamboree.” He gestured to the space next to the one man sitting alone. “Mind if I join you?”

After staring at him as if he’d spoken in a foreign language, the three men nodded, and the one slid over. The server approached. Sparks opened the menu and ordered a Coke and chicken fried steak with mashed and vegetable medley. At eleven o’clock, it was only a bit early for lunch. He’d really slept in.

“You the guy who crashed that rental in the canyon?” A man with a John Deere cap enquired, thick fingers wrapped around a white stoneware mug.

Sparks nodded sheepishly.

“I’m Willard,” said a big bald man who looked as if he was meeting a celebrity. Having a license to blow things up had that effect on some people.

The man extended his hand. Sparks nodded, shaking the proffered paw, then swallowed some of the Coke that had quickly appeared.

“We’ve never had bigger fireworks than what the fire department put on. The rest are illegal...until you cross into Wyoming,” Willard explained, rubbing his head.

“Special license for entertainment purposes. I get them all the time,” Sparks said.

“That’s Mayor Naomi looking out for us—bringing in something that makes more money, knowing what trouble we’re in.” This was the guy with the John Deere cap. Even with his muttered voice, Sparks had caught that his name was Duff and he owned the Feed-N-Seed in town.

“Lynette mentioned an Emma,” Sparks said, leaving out the part about Emma saving the town. “Who’s she?”

Ray, rail thin and appearing older than the other two, leaned back against the booth, lifted his IFA cap and scratched his scalp. Replacing the cap, he pierced Sparks with a look.

“Closest shot we have to pulling our butts out of the fire. She’s Raymond and Naomi’s granddaughter.”

“I don’t know ’bout whether she’d come back,” Willard said. “You know how she and Naomi left things...” he trailed off, looking like a basset that had had his ears stepped on.

“Oh? So why are your butts in the fire?” Sparks asked.

“Money,” the three men chorused.

“She’ll come back.” That was Ray. He spoke with finality, but Sparks noted the look he tossed Duff.

Sparks jiggled the ice in his empty glass, watching for the server, both for a refill and his breakfast. “Town doesn’t look as if there’s a money problem...everything here looks freshly painted, well maintained.” Sparks tapped his fingers—as was his habit—on the table. He wanted to hear the Jamboree was right on track, meaning his money was right on track, meaning his vacation was right on track.

Duff piped up around the hot beef sandwich he was shoveling in his mouth. “We work hard to make the town look good. Too many dried up little Western towns.” He swallowed his mouthful. “Trouble is, we’ve had some winters that ate up funds with snow removal. All that snow still didn’t kill the drought.” A deep drink of coffee followed.

“My money’s on Emma not coming back,” Willard stated flatly. “She’s not been back since—”

“She’ll be back. Emma’s local,” Ray interrupted.

Listening, but not really, Sparks smiled at the server who set down a full plate, plunking another Coke in front of him, as well. Sparks breathed in the aroma of creamy sausage gravy over crispy fried cube steak, lumpy mashed potatoes and a watery pile of vegetables. He picked up his knife and fork. Ignoring the conversation flowing around him, he sliced a piece of meat, ran it through the gravy and slid it into the pile of mashed potatoes. He sighed, the focus on his aches and pains shifted to this gastronomical delight.

Moments later, as he tuned back into the conversation, the three men were now discussing the Jamboree and the cancelled one-and-only volunteer organizational meeting. Naomi’s skills must be better than his to run a Jamboree off one meeting. Then again, most people’s skills in that area were better than his, and now even his dependability had been called into question by his boss. This job had to go well.

“Can’t Naomi’s husband plan the Jamboree?” Sparks asked.

The three men looked at him as though he’d thrown a pitchfork of manure into the conversation instead of a question. Then they chuckled.

“Be hard for him,” Ray said. “He’s been dead for almost two years.”

Duff jumped in. “By the way—” he gestured to Sparks’s plate “—you don’t want to eat that medley.”

“Right.” Sparks restrained the overcooked vegetables from contaminating the rest of the meal. He didn’t see the problem with who ran the event—it was a small-town Jamboree after all. The problem he saw was his summer slipping down the drain if someone didn’t step up. He put another bite of meat and potato into his mouth. He hoped this Emma would show up, and soon.

Willard seemed determined to drive home his morose observations. “I’m telling you, Emma is gone. I was at the funeral that day.” All eyes were on him. “Emma and Naomi might have been in the kitchen but most of the US of A heard them, even if everyone pretends they didn’t to Naomi’s face.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “It was a knock-down, drag-out fight, likely to raise Raymond from the dead.”

“Emma’s usually so quiet.” Ray didn’t sound convinced. “I wasn’t able to pay my respects till later. Naomi seemed fine then, like always.”

“Quiet around her grandmother, maybe,” Duff interjected. “She didn’t used to be that way. Older she got, less you heard from her.” He swirled his coffee.

Sparks squirmed. Add a hair dryer or two and this could be the Hattie’s Dyed and Gone hair place he’d noticed down the street. Emma, trained by Naomi, would be a clone of the fire-breathing Naomi. He tried to imagine a younger Naomi. No nonsense. Barking orders and expecting obedience every step of the way.

“Why don’t one of you plan it if Emma doesn’t show?” he asked.

Ray choked on his last forkful of pie. Willard looked as though Sparks had suggested he strip naked and run down Main Street, and Duff started laughing until tears ran down his face.

“Nobody but Naomi has done the Jamboree since Moses was in preschool,” Willard replied.

Looking down at his plate, Sparks leaned back. “Well, bigger fireworks will bring in more people who will then spend money.” Although the budget she had faxed fell miles below his usual, he knew the results would still knock the socks off anyone attending this small-town celebration.

Willard opened his mouth, but after catching the expressions on his friends’ faces, he reddened, snapped his lips shut and stared at the table. Sparks frowned. What didn’t Willard’s friends want him to say? Sparks watched the faces close up, wondering if everyone in town knew everyone’s business or if they saved energy and focused on The First Family, the Chamberses.

Not having a family, and with traveling so much, people only knew what Sparks told them; nothing more, nothing less. Some things people didn’t need to know. Some secrets needed to stay buried.

Looking at his watch, Duff sighed and slid out of the booth, turning a weary face to the remaining men. “Gotta get back to the store. Missus was holding down the fort for me while I went for coffee break.” He checked the watch again and headed to the cash register, bill in hand.

Ray inclined his head toward Sparks. “Room okay?”

With a contented expulsion of breath after finishing his meal, Sparks sipped his third Coke. “Yeah, other than the phone doesn’t work and it’s decorated like a time warp, everything’s good with me.”

Willard snorted as he held his stomach while Ray slapped his hand on the table and hee-hawed.

“Phones over at the Safari don’t ever work.” Ray wiped his eyes, then brought the mug to his lips.

Sparks raised his eyebrows. “The sign out front says phones in every room.”

Ray explained that there were phones in every room; they just didn’t work. When Lynette had bought the place back in the early seventies, they didn’t work. She’d just left them there so she wouldn’t have to redo the neon sign.

Ray punched Willard on the shoulder. “Move. I gotta get.”