Page 51 of Existential
TWENTY-FOUR
Dagne
Three weeks later
The air-conditioning unit mounted high in the wall rattles as I stand with notepad in hand, making a list for the grocery store as Sonya calls the items out. Apparently she’s been the mother hen for one clubhouse or another over the years, taking it as her responsibility to make sure the men are looked after in every way.
And they love her for it. I’ve never seen a bunch of such rough and rowdy men treat a woman with such dignity and respect before. They all address her as “Ma’am” or “Darlin’”, cleaning up their conversation when she’s near, or offering to help if she seems to need it.
It’s nice, certainly more than I ever witnessed growing up. It’s how, in my mind, a doting mother should be treated.
“Did you get the beans?” she asks, bent at the waist to peruse one of the lower shelves in the pantry. “I can’t remember if I said that already or not.”
I move the pen in my hand down the page, hovering it over the paper as I check. “Yeah, I got them. Five, right?”
“Perfect. Add four of creamed corn as well.”
I note down the addition, almost out of room at the bottom of the full-size page already. It sure takes a lot to keep the place afloat if this is a weekly shop.
“How many people live here?” I ask. I’ve seen a few regulars in the time I’ve spent here, but there are probably twice as many new faces that seem to drift in and out.
Sonya straightens out, hands on her lower back as she appears to think it over. “It changes a lot lately, but I think we still have eight who stay here full time, probably the same again for weekenders, and then there are the property girls, and the families who we feed on weekends.” She smiles. “It can get pretty busy.”
“But you like it?”
“It’s home,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Maybe not as conventional as others, but home all the same.” She jerks her chin toward the adjacent kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make us a hot one.”
I get settled at the large stainless steel island while she glides about preparing our coffees. Nobody has heard anything since we left Hooch at the barn a month ago, and these little tasks King finds for me have been the only thing keeping my head on straight. At the start, I thought I’d be back on the road by now. My travelling feet itched to run, and I was certain that nobody would care either way if I stayed or went. But as time has passed, I’ve grown accustomed to the strange habits of these people, and as much as it pains me to say so, the familiarity comforts me.
Fingers, their mechanic, is the first to rise. His morning trips through to brew a pot of coffee wake me in my position on the sofa in the common room, but I don’t mind. I quite like sneaking a glimpse at the old man as he shuffles through with his mug of black gold.
After him, Callum, the vice president, rises. He slips down the stairs, gym bag in hand, before it’s even light.
Following close behind is either Dog headed out back for a smoke, or King coming in from the garage and crossing straight to his office. The club girls are next—the property—doing the rounds of the single men before they rise out of bed.
And then the families filter through. Old ladies, kids, and partners come and go throughout the day, making this outlaw hotspot feel more like a communal home than anything else.
And it’s here, among the misunderstood, the chastised, and the judged, that I feel most at ease. It’s here where nobody cares what your history is because theirs is most likely just as crooked, that I feel as though one day I might even feel safe enough to let down the walls and be who I really am.
It’s here that I can see myself learning how to laugh again.
“Here you go, honey.” Sonya slides a fresh cup of Joe across the counter to me, taking her seat on the opposite side.
She regards me with a soft smile as I test the drink by taking a small sip.
“I want to tell you a story,” she says, cradling her cup. “About when I met my first husband.”
I try to school my expression; surprised she’s been married before. Her and her old man, Vince, seem so comfortable around one another. I assumed they’d been together for years.
“Mike was the guy from the wrong side of the tracks,” she says with a smile. “You know the sort—the kind your momma warns you off.”
I nod, getting where she’s headed even though my mom never cared enough to vet who I saw.
“He chased me like a hungry dog for years.” Her smile widens as she tips her head back, staring at the ceiling but more than likely seeing something entirely different. “Persistent to the core, that man. I fought him off, pushed him away, and told him “no” more times than I can’t count, even though I knew in my heart he meant something special and was too good to let pass me by.”
“Because of what your parents thought?” I ask.
“No. Because I was scared: of him, this life, the unknown.” She reaches out across the counter, taking one of my hands in hers. “I see it in you, honey.” Her eyes crinkle at the corners, the signs of years of sun damage only making her seem trustworthy. “There’re enough of us here who’ve walked the same road, that you don’t ever need to feel alone.”