Read Online Sweet Water by Christina Baker Kline - Free Book Online
Authors: Christina Baker Kline
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past.
I thought about the warning Drew had given me before I left.
“You’re not going to some fairy kingdom, Cassie,” he said. “It’s not Oz. There won’t be Munchkins. And you’ll still be you, with the sameparanoias and neuroses you’ve got now. All that stuff doesn’t just go away.”
I laughed. “Oh, Drew, I know that. I don’t have any illusions.”
“Of course you do,” he said. “You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”
As the hours went by, the sun climbed, unseen, in a haze of milky white clouds. Outside Bristol, Tennessee, and again near Fall Branch, I passed churches full of people. The strains of their singing wafted across the highway like music from a muffled radio.
Just beyond Knoxville on Highway 75 the split the road made between ridges had become more extreme, deepening and then rising. The station wagon seemed to be diving and surfacing in and out of the soft Tennessee earth. It rode smoothly, gaining momentum on the sharp falls and coasting halfway up the next rise before the big push to the top.
The afternoon breeze on my face was tepid, like bathwater. I read the billboards, which were garish, almost surreal, framed as they were against the long expanse of sky and the lush countryside: CRAZY ED’S FIREWORKS AND RESTAURANT, AFFORDABLE DENTURES—FULL SET $149— LENOIR CITY . Suddenly my heart leapt and my stomach hollowed: SWEETWATER —16 miles.
Ahead on the side of the road I could make out a small green highway sign framed in white: EXIT 62 —SWEETWATER , with an arrow pointing to the right. Switching on the blinker, I ascended the curving exit ramp, turned over a bridge at the top, and found myself in front of the famed Dinner Bell Restaurant I’d been reading about over the last several miles of billboards. The Dinner Bell turned out to be not only a restaurant but also a general store and gas station. A large sign across the top of the building boasted GOOD “OLE TIME” COUNTRY COOKIN . I pulled in, filled the car with gas, and went inside to pay.
As I entered, something seemed odd to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It took me a moment to realize what it was: everybodywas dressed up. The women were in fancy attire, pearls and pastels; the men were wearing ties. Most of them would have come from church. All at once I felt conspicuous in my old shorts and T-shirt.
The gift shop was crammed with merchandise. Country hams hung from hooks; bumper stickers, hard candy, ceramic figurines, tourist moccasins, and key chains covered the walls and shelves. Rag rugs, also for sale, covered the spongy blue linoleum floor. A fern-topped bar separated the gift shop from the restaurant, but it couldn’t contain the smell of fried chicken, which permeated the whole building.
As I paid for my gas I asked the woman behind the register how far it was to Sweetwater.
“How far?” she said, ringing up the receipt. “Honey, you’re in it.”
“But is there a Main Street somewhere? A downtown?”
“Kinda,” she said. She cocked her head. “You looking for somebody in particular?”
I asked her if she knew the Clyde family, and she looked at me with dawning recognition. “You must be the granddaughter!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I should’ve known! Yankee plates—we don’t get those every day. Well, I’ll be. Welcome, hon. I’m Lois.” She extended a soft, plump hand for me to shake. “Mariflo, come over and meet Clyde’s granddaughter. Come down here all the way from up north to live in that old house out past the Ridge Road.”
Mariflo stepped out from the other register. “You don’t say.” She smiled at me. “Well, isn’t she pretty.”
“Looks like her grandmother.”
“Oh, she’s got more of Amory’s coloring. Remember how he used to be so blond? And kind of wavy, like hers.” Mariflo made wave motions down her own gray head. “She’s more like Amory than any of his kids.”
“May he rest in peace,” Lois
I thought about the warning Drew had given me before I left.
“You’re not going to some fairy kingdom, Cassie,” he said. “It’s not Oz. There won’t be Munchkins. And you’ll still be you, with the sameparanoias and neuroses you’ve got now. All that stuff doesn’t just go away.”
I laughed. “Oh, Drew, I know that. I don’t have any illusions.”
“Of course you do,” he said. “You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”
As the hours went by, the sun climbed, unseen, in a haze of milky white clouds. Outside Bristol, Tennessee, and again near Fall Branch, I passed churches full of people. The strains of their singing wafted across the highway like music from a muffled radio.
Just beyond Knoxville on Highway 75 the split the road made between ridges had become more extreme, deepening and then rising. The station wagon seemed to be diving and surfacing in and out of the soft Tennessee earth. It rode smoothly, gaining momentum on the sharp falls and coasting halfway up the next rise before the big push to the top.
The afternoon breeze on my face was tepid, like bathwater. I read the billboards, which were garish, almost surreal, framed as they were against the long expanse of sky and the lush countryside: CRAZY ED’S FIREWORKS AND RESTAURANT, AFFORDABLE DENTURES—FULL SET $149— LENOIR CITY . Suddenly my heart leapt and my stomach hollowed: SWEETWATER —16 miles.
Ahead on the side of the road I could make out a small green highway sign framed in white: EXIT 62 —SWEETWATER , with an arrow pointing to the right. Switching on the blinker, I ascended the curving exit ramp, turned over a bridge at the top, and found myself in front of the famed Dinner Bell Restaurant I’d been reading about over the last several miles of billboards. The Dinner Bell turned out to be not only a restaurant but also a general store and gas station. A large sign across the top of the building boasted GOOD “OLE TIME” COUNTRY COOKIN . I pulled in, filled the car with gas, and went inside to pay.
As I entered, something seemed odd to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It took me a moment to realize what it was: everybodywas dressed up. The women were in fancy attire, pearls and pastels; the men were wearing ties. Most of them would have come from church. All at once I felt conspicuous in my old shorts and T-shirt.
The gift shop was crammed with merchandise. Country hams hung from hooks; bumper stickers, hard candy, ceramic figurines, tourist moccasins, and key chains covered the walls and shelves. Rag rugs, also for sale, covered the spongy blue linoleum floor. A fern-topped bar separated the gift shop from the restaurant, but it couldn’t contain the smell of fried chicken, which permeated the whole building.
As I paid for my gas I asked the woman behind the register how far it was to Sweetwater.
“How far?” she said, ringing up the receipt. “Honey, you’re in it.”
“But is there a Main Street somewhere? A downtown?”
“Kinda,” she said. She cocked her head. “You looking for somebody in particular?”
I asked her if she knew the Clyde family, and she looked at me with dawning recognition. “You must be the granddaughter!” she said, throwing up her hands. “I should’ve known! Yankee plates—we don’t get those every day. Well, I’ll be. Welcome, hon. I’m Lois.” She extended a soft, plump hand for me to shake. “Mariflo, come over and meet Clyde’s granddaughter. Come down here all the way from up north to live in that old house out past the Ridge Road.”
Mariflo stepped out from the other register. “You don’t say.” She smiled at me. “Well, isn’t she pretty.”
“Looks like her grandmother.”
“Oh, she’s got more of Amory’s coloring. Remember how he used to be so blond? And kind of wavy, like hers.” Mariflo made wave motions down her own gray head. “She’s more like Amory than any of his kids.”
“May he rest in peace,” Lois
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