No River Wide Enough

Chapter 1 1992 Wednesday morning, when I pulled into the Frontier Café’s lot, I parked by Drika’s old Buick and sat in my car, taking a moment to enjoy the dawn. Staring at Main Street, I had to admit that my ex-boyfriend Lewis had been right about this town. It wasn’t much to look at. St-Clovis county—population 1500—was a Canadian county people drove through on their way across the border to Vermont for cheap American gas or bulk food. Nobody ever stopped here unless they needed a tire change. There wasn’t even a decent bar in this sleepy town, never mind a gay one. And yet, there was something about this place that fit me perfectly. A truck drove by, rattling me out of my thoughts, and I glanced up to see Drika turning the hand-painted sign in the café’s glass door. OPEN. We had a long list of tasks awaiting us today. Preparation for the annual country fair coming up this weekend. That left Drika and I three days to get ready. I had better get started on that. A few moments later, when I stepped inside the café’s tiny red dining room, I was welcomed by the familiar scents of chocolate, buttery dough and freshly brewed coffee. As usual, the sweet and comforting fragrances lifted my mood. This was my second home. My own business. I’d invested so much in this place. Drika was at the front counter stocking the display shelves, singing along to a Floyd Red Crow Westerman song. Through the glass, she waved. “Hey, Gingerman.” I was more of a strawberry blond, than a redhead, but there was definitely no escaping the nickname Ginger. “Hi there,” I said, pulling the shades up in the windows. “It’s nice to see your smile this morning.” Drika, who was sixty-two, had been dealing with chronic pain in the last year. “Thank you, sweetheart. How are you?” She still had her head inside the glass counter. She wore a yellow bandana tied around her short white hair and big silver hoop earrings. A big-hearted woman with a Dutch heritage, Drika was a great baker and the reason the café was so popular. And that I’d gained twenty pounds. “I’m all right,” I said, in a fake cheery tone. Truth was, I hadn’t slept much last night. I’d sat up in bed with a plate of fruit tartelettes, thinking of ways of breaking my solitude. Lewis had left me last year, but I hadn’t gone on a single date since then. I was the only openly gay man in town. The odds were stacked high against me ever having another boyfriend. “And you?” I asked Drika. Had to remain hopeful. Had to think positive. “Well, it’s such a beautiful morning. Did you see the color of the sun? It’s gonna be a hot one.” As I walked around the counter, I pulled my sweater off and tied it around my waist. It was a habit I’d picked up—a way of hiding my weight gain. I had a flash of the old days, when a regular weekday had meant putting on a stiff business suit, sitting in meetings all day long, and then going to the gym for a grueling work-out. Nowadays, I came to work in plain tees and blue jeans and had stopped working out. Had I given up on myself since Lewis left me? Sometimes I wondered what the point of trying to stay thin was. I pushed my bag in the space beneath the cash register and forced a smile. “How long have you been here?” Drika was arranging the cheese croissants on the top shelf in the display counter. “You know me, I’m up with the birds.” Drika had offered me friendship when I’d needed it the most. She also had her nose in the town’s every current event, so I was blessed to have her as a business partner. She and I shared equal parts in the Frontier Café. “You didn’t have to come in until seven,” she said. “It’s gonna be a slow day, ‘cause there’s that police convention in Forked River Creek, so the boys aren’t gonna show this morning. They’re all over there.” “All? You mean, the six active cops?” I went back to setting up the cash. “Don’t tell anyone the po-po is gone, or we might have a riot on our hands,” I joked. “Anyway, there’s all the country festival stuff to prep.” I shot her a quick look. “Thought I’d get an early start on everything.” I couldn’t wait to take refuge in the kitchen, where I could hide out, undisturbed and unseen. She probably knew it, too. “Shall I pour us a coffee?” Drika pressed my shoulder. “You look like you need one.” Grateful for her small gesture of understanding, I nodded and shut the cash drawer. “That’d be great, Drika. Thanks.” For a few wonderful minutes, we both leaned back against the counter, sipping our dark-roast coffee, sharing a peaceful moment. I surveyed the room, recalling those afternoons I’d spent sifting through newspapers and old photographs in St-Clovis’s one-room library archives, searching for those images that now adorned the Frontier’s walls. I’d wanted to give the people here a sense of history, as simple as that history was, so that every time they came in, they felt proud to be a St-Clovis resident. It was a farming community and I’d done a good job giving this place a real charming rural feel. “Well,” I said, setting my cup down, “I should get started.” Drika gave me a tender look. “You okay, brown-eyes?” “I’m gonna go stuff my face with bread rolls.” I pushed on the kitchen door, stepping back into my safe zone. “Don’t do that. You always regret it.” She grabbed her big belly. “You wanna end up like me?” I chuckled. “All right, all right,” I said, leaning on the doorway, “I’ll have some frozen yogurt and berries. Happy?” I was lucky to have such a wonderful friend. Drika always managed to make me feel better about myself. “Oh, Chris, somebody’s bound to notice you one of these days,” she said, doing it again. “But you can’t hide in that kitchen forever.” No, not forever. But maybe…for one more day. * * * * That afternoon, I was in the dish pit—cleaning out a piping bag, lost in my thoughts again—when Drika poked her head in the doorway. She hated the dish pit, rarely setting foot inside the small and steamy room. I, on the other hand, could spend hours in here. There was something about the sound of running water that soothed me. Years ago, I remembered, I could spend days painting water in various forms. Rivers, streams, oceans. I’d stopped painting since I’d moved here. Why? “Chris…You got mail.” Drika smiled tensely and walked away. From the look in her eye, I knew Lewis had sent me another postcard. He kept sending me mail at the café, writing that since I practically lived there, there was no sense in sending anything to my home. His subtle sarcasm didn’t escape me. I checked my watch. It was a little after two. I scrubbed my hands and dried them, then stepped out of the dish pit and went to the front, passing Drika by the fridge. “I think we’re gonna close up around four today,” she said. I remembered that Wednesdays were dead. The kids all went to the drive-in cinema for the early free show. “Are you up for prepping a little?” She handed me a handful of strawberries. I popped two huge ones into my mouth and nodded. “Sure,” I said with my mouth full, “I’ll stay until we have everything done.” I stepped out of the kitchen, into the café. At the counter, I flipped through the mail, delaying reading the New York postcard while I ate the rest of the strawberries. The card was a picture of the Empire State Building. Did Lewis think I’d never seen the damn building before? I wasn’t that clueless. Why couldn’t he send me a regular letter? I supposed he enjoyed the idea of John, our mailman, reading these private words before John delivered Lewis’s short missives to me. I turned the card over, and at the sight of Lewis’s long and complicated pen stroke, my heart ached a little. Lewis had been my bohemian in black. An idealist turned cynical. I realized now that I’d loved his broken heart more than I had his smile. I’d been crazy to think we could live here together forever. With a stiff upper lip, I read his words, wondering when he’d stop writing me and finally set me free. I was ready for him to let me go. Though sometimes, I worried about him getting sick out there in that jungle of bodies. Hello Christensen, I miss you. My hands miss you. Why are you so stubborn? St-Clovis is a dead-end street for you. We were wrong to leave the hot cauldron. People are fighting for their lives, Chris. Come to New York. Leave the Frontier Café before you waste your best years on this blasted idea you have of leading a good country life. I know I put that idea in your head, but I was wrong. There is no such thing as quiet anymore. Only the fight for survival. Don’t forget the cataclysm that’s hit our community and we’re gay and still alive! That’s our gift. That’s all there is. So many of us gone now. Remember Pete, Lizzie’s brother? She buried him last week. I’ve been hanging out with some guys from ACT UP. We sure could use a good-hearted man like you. And some homemade cookies. Lewis I stared at his handwriting for a long time. For a moment, I hesitated, but then tore the card up. Maybe I was a coward for not following him to the city, but I’d made my choices and Lewis had made his. I belonged here. This was my home, not a hide-out as he believed.