Page 4 of Defensive Indifference

Too bad I’m going to have to let them all go.

“Good afternoon, Evalina,” Annie calls from the back room. How she knows it’s me and not a customer, I’ll never know, but when I push through the kitchen door, she hands me a latte and a cinnamon sugar donut.

“Thank you, Annie. Where are Kimmy and Ben?” Glancing around, not spotting two teens, sends another wave of worry through me. Did she murder them and hide them in the freezer?

“I sent them out to scrub a dumpster. It’s been a little slow, and I’m sick of smelling rancid food out back.” Annie shrugs and swipes a stray tendril of graying hair into her hairnet. Her lips spread wide into a toothy grin. “I heard the news, honey. I don’t want you to worry about a thing, okay? We’ll figure this out.”

“We?” I clench the latte tighter as wave after wave of nausea hits me, blurring my focus.

Annie pulls out a chair and urges me to sit at the prep counter while she continues forming donuts as if her fingers were made to do the work…cut, roll, make a hole…cut, roll, make a hole. It’s soothing in an odd way, how the monotony of the process helps clear the mind and heart of all the darkness it absorbs through the day. She pushes a wad of dough my way.

“We, as in you and me. You’re stuck with me, honey, and it’s time you accept that. We’ll find a new place for Sparkly’s, just you wait and see.”

“I wish I could be so confident, but this was the ultimate location. Good foot traffic, loyal customers, and low rent. With that monstrosity going up across the street, all of that is going away. Even if the building stayed, we’d lose so much walk-through traffic.”

I grumble as I peer out the window at the roundabouts under construction. They tore up the sidewalks, shoved in impossible to navigate roads, and essentially forced this little pocket of the city into a driving-only disgrace. So much history, gone in the name of progression. The leisurely walks through town, gone in a weekend once the apartment broke ground.

Annie pats my hand. “Evalina, your faith isn’t strong enough. It’s there. Peeks out from time to time, but your follow-through is about as good as a toddler’s.”

I almost choke on a sip of latte and the scorching liquid inches down my tightened esophagus like a nasty snake, seeking something to destroy. Every inch of the way, I wince until it hits my stomach with a heavy plop. After a good throat clearing, I protest. “I pray! Every day, I pray that—”

“There’s a difference between praying and trusting, Lina. You pray, then you take the lead and expect God to do your bidding. That’s not how it works.”

I push away from the counter and sigh. “Nothing like getting scolded by your employee about your prayer life.” Slanting my eyes toward her, I reach for the soap to wash my hands and prep for the afternoon rush…or what’s left of it these days.

Two teens enter through the alley door, grumbling their displeasure. They both smell like death warmed over. Restraining a gag, I send them home to shower and shoot Annie a glare. We could have used the help today, but I suspect they were probably a little too annoying this shift, and sending them home is the better option.

The first customer of the rush enters, a longtime patron who always orders the same thing: a black coffee and one plain donut.

“Hey, Nick. How are you today?” I pour his coffee and glance over my shoulder. He’s a little older than me, maybe five or seven years, and always wears a smile.

“I’m good. How are you?” Adjusting his ball cap, he leans against the counter and waits patiently for his order.

“Surviving, honestly.” Admitting it to a customer isn’t a big deal, especially since it’s Nick. He gets it. His motorcycle repair shop was recently relocated when a homeowner’s association complained it decreased the value of their homes to have it so close. Close being half a mile away, mind you. Fortunately for him, he could afford to move since his customers would follow him anywhere. Too bad donuts aren’t as important as motorcycle repair guys.

“I hear you. Speaking of drama, have you heard about that Sharks player?” I nod and slide his items across the counter. “Crazy, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you just never know about people, right?”

He offers a shrug and a five-dollar bill, winks at me, and slips back out the front door before a line of people head inside.

All afternoon, the only topic of conversation is the alleged money laundering operation the Keaton family has found themselves embroiled in, though I’m not so sure it’s any of my business. As a rule, I tend to lean toward skepticism that anyone is truly good, but it seems that the Keaton family stood up for everything you’d expect a good, faithful family to stand for. At least, Koa Keaton seems to. My son’s absolute favorite baseball player in the entire world doesn’t seem the type to lie, cheat, or steal.

“Don’t you know Andrew Rossi?” Annie asks. She drops a few plates into the deep sink, where I work to sort things into piles, and raises an eyebrow. She’s been bombarded by the news as well, probably in between condolences and sympathies for losing the building.

“I wouldn’t say I know him personally, but he and his wife are regulars. If you’re about to ask me to ask him what happened with the Keaton family, you can forget it, you little gossip. Weren’t you just telling me a few hours ago that I don’t pray right? Now you’re gossiping?”

Annie swats at me with a towel. “Oh, you hush. I only asked because I wondered if the news was inflated. Usually is, you know. Still, I wouldn’t want Dustin looking up to a man who steals from people, even if he does seem charitable on the outside.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, and commit to wiping the same place on the sticky countertop on auto-pilot, lost in my thoughts, which seem to swirl around only two things today: what am I going to do with Sparkly’s, and how will I break it to my son if the man he admires turns out to be truly awful?

Chapter Three

Koa

Katie sits with her back to us, staring out the window as Andrew and Lottie’s dogs play in the yard. No doubt she’s thinking of her horse Preakness, and worrying herself sick over what might happen to him. Spencer sits beside her, frequently glancing at her to ensure she’s okay. It’s a comfort to have him with us, keeping watch over my sister. As much as I adore her, it’s difficult to prioritize her when my life is also falling apart. Spencer helps carry the weight.

“I speak for Coach when I say you’re okay. Your contract doesn’t stipulate anything about your family’s behavior, so as long as you stick on the straight and narrow, you’ll be fine. That means trying to avoid any more confrontations with overeager reporters.” Andrew sips his coffee and leans back in his chair, shifts forward again, crosses and uncrosses his legs.