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One Time at the Village Inn



        Village Inn.
        Booth for three.
        Him, her, me.
        Brett is not a part of our party.
        His teenage hands grab three menus and takes the lead.

*

        Village Inn.
        Black leather cushiony booth.
        The tabletop made of fake-wood Formica.
        We sit.
        She sits next to me.
        Across from us, The Father begins to speak.
        Soon, I will touch her hand.
        But first, she will whisper.
        “Is today Jeff’s?”
        “It was yesterday.”
        “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.”
        This is when I will touch her hand.

*

        Village Inn.
        Fake smiles as if we do this all of the time.
        Coffee and soda to punctuate the slacking conversation.
        We’re one mile down the road from The Father’s house.
        The Father is my grandfather who is her father who is the patriarch of the family who insists on being called “The Father.” Which is one of the reasons why I don’t like him.
        The Father is speaking.
        Soon, I will touch my aunt’s hand. But first, she will whisper.

*

        Village Inn.
        Sips of coffee and soda fill in the caesuras between The Father’s stories.
        This is happening right now. The Father has paused to sip his coffee, and he can only return to his story once we remind him what it was he was saying.
        The Father closes his eyes when he is speaking, trying to remember a detail.
        Soon, there will be a side conversation about Jeff.
        He’s nine years and one day dead now.
        Jeff. My father. His son. Her brother.
        “Is today Jeff’s?”

*

        Village Inn.
        Brett writes down our orders.
        Pancakes for The Father, squealing hearing aids distracting Brett from hearing what it is he wants. It is not on the menu.
        Biscuits and gravy for my aunt, fingers scratching at her brown wig distracting me as I wonder how bald she is.
        Salad for me. I say nothing more.
        Brett asks if we want Cholula sauce.
        Two of them nod yes.
        The Father picks his story back up nowhere near where he left it. My aunt and I will soon have a side conversation while he sputters. We will miss nothing.

*

        Village Inn.
        Small bottle of Cholula on the table.
        Same size as the small bottle of Cholula I saw earlier today sitting on the kitchen table in The Father’s house, one mile away.
        Also, pictures on his refrigerator.
        Tons of my sister.
        None of me.

*

        Village Inn.
        Aquamarine walls with autographed pictures of the famous—supposedly past patrons.
        Small white bowl holding six tubs of creamer sits lonely on the fake-wood Formica table between us.
        The Father is speaking.
        My aunt starts whispering.
        “Is today Jeff’s?”
        I whisper back and then I will touch her hand.
        “It was yesterday.”

*

        Village Inn.
        Small white bowl holding four tubs of creamer, The Father poured two into his coffee.
        I slurp my soda up through a straw in the seconds after I whispered yesterday.
        I keep my mouth occupied.
        She just said she’s sorry. I am not sorry. The despised father who finally died. Nine years ago, yesterday. The aunt and grandfather who know about the hatred. It’s why I haven’t seen them in three years. We live in the same city. We do not see each other. They loved him. He loved them back. I did not love him. I suspect he didn’t ever love me.
        She just said she’s sorry. I have nothing to say to that, and so I touch her hand.

*

        Village Inn.
        Brett refills my soda, then attends to his other table.
        She nudges my shoulder, says “He’s making eyes at you.”
        I sit next to her so I don’t have to look her in the eye.
        I look at The Father as he closes his eyes, again, trying to remember a name from way back when.
        Moments ago she whispered, “Is today Jeff’s?”
        Moments ago I whispered, “It was yesterday.”
        We both finished her question in our own minds, the words not needing to be said. How she bawled at the funeral. How I couldn’t even fake a tear.
        And that is what keeps pictures of me off of the refrigerator.
        And that is what keeps me away from them.
        And that is what keeps me from saying anything more after she says, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” She knows I’m not.

*

        Village Inn.
        Three people in a black leather cushiony booth.
        An old man with squealing hearing aids tells a story. No one is listening.
        A middle-aged woman scratches at her brown wig. No one is looking.
        A younger woman slurps soda, stays silent. No one is noticing.
        Our differences continue to, as they have always done, as they will always do, canyon between us.
        She says “Is it…”
        I say “…yesterday.”
        She says “Oh honey…”
        And that is when I touch her hand, pass back to her the sentiment I never had.

*

        Village Inn.
        Brett is back with a tray carrying three plates.
        The meaning of yesterday leaves us.
        We are done addressing it.
        Brett sets our orders down in front of us, wishes us a good meal, leaves again to attend to his other table.
        “He’s making eyes at you,” she says, again, nudging my shoulder as he walks away.
        I grab my fork, operate it slowly, chew the spinach, slowly.
        The moment is over.
        I chew.
        I don’t look at her.
        The Father still speaks, his eyes still closed.

*

        Village Inn.
        But first, yesterday. I was lonely yesterday, thinking about my dead father. Thinking about his side of the family I never see. I should call my father’s family. At the time, it sounded like a good idea. Now, in this black leather cushiony booth I choke on my urge to leave, wanting the stories to stop, for my aunt to stop whispering. I am unable to pretend this attempt at a reunion is working.
        I catch Brett’s eyes.
        I interrupt The Father speaking.
        “Check please.”









Chelsey Clammer received her MA in Women’s Studies from Loyola University Chicago. She has been published in The Rumpus, Atticus Review, The Coachella Review and Make/shift among many others. She received the Nonfiction Editor’s Pick Award 2012 from both Revolution House and Cobalt, as well as Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Clammer is a weekly columnist for The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, as well as the Managing Editor, Nonfiction Editor and workshop instructor for the journal. She is also the Nonfiction Editor for The Dying Goose. She lives in Denver, Colorado. You can read more of her writing at: chelseyclammer.com