Late August (a short story)
John Greenbrier is a man of routines — the ball game, a grilled cheese, the drive home past a beach he never really visits anymore.
On a late August evening in Narragansett, a young nurse leaves her daughter on his doorstep and disappears into the dark.
And John is forced into something he has quietly avoided for years: responsibility.
Late August is a quiet story about grief, solitude, and the moment life stops letting you stay on the sidelines.
Excerpt from Late August
John eased himself into the driver’s seat of his Nova, parked in the lot behind Jack’s Burger Grille. He removed his sneakers and socks and felt some relief with his feet now bare. Rubbing his sore heels, he needed little convincing a man his age should not be on his feet all day.
The smell of grilled meat hung in the air outside, smoke pouring from the restaurant’s roof.
He didn’t mind his job, although he never imagined he’d end up working so late in life. And certainly not in a restaurant.
But there wasn’t much work out there for someone his age.
He slipped his key in the ignition and was about to close the door when he heard his name called. When his boss, Beverly Carter, started toward him, he slipped his sneakers back on and stuffed his damp socks under the seat.
Beverly Carter walked across the gravel parking lot and appeared to have a hard time in her high-heel shoes, the way her ankles wobbled like they were going to snap. She always dressed nicely, as if she ran some fancy restaurant—not a burger joint down the road from the beach.
“John?” she called, as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. She held up a white envelope. “You forgot your tips.”
He stepped out of the car, shaking his head. “If I wanted them, I would have taken them. Why should a guy flipping burgers get tips?”
“That’s how we do it,” she said. “I pay the waitstaff well as it is. Everyone shares the pot.”
John said, “You know, if I was the one out there waiting tables, nobody’d end up with any tips at all.”
Beverly Carter laughed. “We all work as a team here, John. So if you don’t—”
“Save your speech for the kids,” he said, but right away knew he’d crossed the line with the way it came out. He removed his Red Sox hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I’d think the kids… They need the money more than I do.”
“Then why do you work here, if you don’t need the money?”
John paused to think about it, then shrugged a shoulder. “What else am I going to do?”
The truth was, he worked because he did need the money. But the extra few bucks wasn’t going to make enough of a difference. John slid back behind the wheel and pulled the door closed, arm hung out the open window. “I gotta get going,” he said, turning over the engine.
But before he drove off, Beverly tossed the envelope on his dashboard and walked away. “Do what you want with it. It’s yours.” She continued across the gravel lot toward the kitchen door, but stopped once again. “John?”
He had shifted into drive, but held his foot on the brake and poked his head out the window. “Yeah?”
“Are you coming to the party? You’re the only one who hasn’t said whether you are or not.”
John paused, knowing he hadn’t given it much thought. “I don’t think so.” He drove off slowly without another word, exiting the parking lot.
After another mile, he drove past Sand Hill Cove, enjoying the salty air as he glanced at the entrance. There were still a lot of cars parked in the lot. He thought about all the times Marie used to take the kids to the beach, and how sometimes he’d stay home to cut the grass, or come up with some other reason why he was too busy to go with them.
By the time he was home, the sun was already going down. The August days were getting shorter. It was cooling off outside, but still humid, especially inside the house. He closed and locked the front door, but went around and opened all the windows.
With the Red Sox game on the radio, he placed the cast-iron pan on the stove to make a grilled cheese. He’d already picked what few red tomatoes he had in his tiny garden and placed one on the cutting board and cut off a couple of slices. He buttered both pieces of bread and placed each with a slice of cheese on top in the pan.
There was a knock at his door.
He looked out from the kitchen, past the table, to where he could see outside. But he didn’t see anybody, and wondered if he was hearing things.
He didn’t bother to go over to see if anyone was there, and went right back to tending his grilled cheese. His stomach hurt, he was so hungry. He checked the bottom of each slice of bread with the spatula. The butter had melted, but neither side had browned. The cheese had melted when he again heard a knock at the door.
“What is it?” he yelled, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel. He unlocked the interior door and opened it, peering out through the screen door.
Outside at the bottom of his steps stood a woman and a little girl.
The woman, dressed like a nurse, straightened her white skirt and appeared nervous or frazzled and perhaps even out of breath. Whispering something to the little girl she held by the hand, she gave a look toward John as if she hadn’t noticed he was standing there.
“Can I help you?” he said, looking down at the woman and this child. The woman, he thought, looked like a kid herself.
The woman seemed to lose her train of thought, the way she appeared to freeze. “Mr. Greenbrier? Hi, um…” She cleared her throat and smiled at the little girl, a thin line between her lips. “This is Chloe.”
The little girl kept her eyes down and didn’t look at John.
He glanced out through the screen. “Is there something you want?”
The woman was clearly hesitant as she glanced over her shoulder into the street at a faded brown Chevy Camaro. It was still running. “We met a few weeks ago, and—”
“You met who? Me?” John shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
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