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Elaine poured coffee for a couple of college girls at table one, brought regular breakfast orders to tables three and four, cleaned up at five, six and seven, then took a quick smoke-break in the employees' washroom.
Wiping her brow, she popped a Pall Mall between her thin lips, lit it, and took a deep, bracing drag. As always, the nicotine gave her the required adrenaline rush. She sighed and listlessly primped in the mirror, not caring much for the thin, middle-aged face that peered back at her. Mission Impossible.
Presenting Elaine Sagersby: flat-chested, graying hair, pale watery eyes and buck teeth. Unheralded and unsung, she was treading water on the backside of a cheerless life.
She sighed again and washed her hands in cold water in the rusty sink. There was just a sliver of soap left and it slipped out of her fingers. In a sudden, savage fury she picked it up and threw it into the corner. Cheap bastards.
She dried her hands and found that she was crying. Wiping her eyes and snuffing out the smoke, she left the washroom and hit the floor just in time to collect a dollar tip at table one. Great big hairy deal, a whole buck.
By now, table one had been taken by a party of four, two teenage girls and a pair of anxious-looking parents. The man was lean and balding, the wife very heavy--a real life Mr. & Mrs. Jack Sprat. The girls were already elbowing each other and casting sly grins of derision in Elaine's direction. Elaine greeted them, poured coffee, passed out menus, forced a smile and a hearty hello, then left to take care of the departing diners at three and four. Afterward, she made small talk with the bus boys, checked the coffee machine, refilled the pie display, and sorted some silverware.
Glancing at the far end of the room, she could just make out the sizeable elbow of Beavis Beach, the 90-day wonder of a manager, who sometimes hid in a booth for hours to study the racing form. Hot shot gambler. She cringed as a vicious blast of wind and rain slammed against the Three Master restaurant. Her eyes reluctantly strayed to the end parking space of the Smuggler's Rest motel, the slot nearest the restaurant. Empty. She relaxed a bit.
But it hadn't been empty that morning, the day that shocked Granite Cove, the tiny coastal community where Elaine had spent most of her life. The weather back then had been rotten as well. Only difference was, the end parking space had been occupied by a navy blue van with darkened windows and an obscene orange Union Oil ball flopping around on the radio antenna.
Funny what you remember.
She shivered and went back to the uptight family foursome at table one. Peering outside again, she sought verification that the near end room of the motel, up there on the second floor, the one with the stained yellow curtains, was unoccupied. Blessedly, it was.
Nonetheless, a vivid flashback entered her mind: the crouching shape on the balcony, the ski-mask, the rifle, the shattered glass, the incredible pain, and the blood. She trembled violently.
"Hey, lady, can we get some service here?"
It was Jack Sprat, the one whose kids reminded Elaine of Cinderella's ugly sisters--only this pair were anything but ugly. Uh-uh. Nubile blond babes they were, who no doubt had the cooks and bus boys walking around on three legs.
Elaine arrived with a strained apology. "Sorry, sir. Are you ready to order?"
"Since about last week," muttered one of the brats, who immediately went into paroxysms of barely-suppressed giggles.
Lovely child.
"Gena, Audrey, stop it," snapped Mrs. Sprat, looking overly-warm and uncomfortable.
Elaine shrugged. "What'll it be, folks?"
Mr. Sprat peered at the menu, then gave the order. They were all having brunch.
Elaine pointed the way to the room where brunch was being served and picked up generous tips at tables three and four, noting that the place was thinning out and that her section was just about empty. Business had been slow for the last couple of winters, and there had been some layoffs.
She noticed she’d fallen under the calculating scrutiny of the manager, feeling the chilly fingers of concern play a brief tattoo on her spine. Elaine and young Mr. Beach didn't mix--strictly oil and water, and Elaine knew what he wanted. He wanted to replace her with a couple of young chickies like Cinderella's sisters. But old Mac, the owner, had a certain affection for Elaine, likening her to an old sheep dog he'd once kept around the place. It wasn't a very attractive metaphor, but Mac had been the reason that this particular "sheep dog" had survived the cuts. Still, Mac was getting on, and Elaine was getting older.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw simultaneously the return of the Sprat family from the salad bar, and a dark-colored van parked in the end space--the space. A sickening wave of deja vu overcame her when she noted the darkened windows and the whimsical orange ball perched on the antenna. Abruptly, she sagged into a nearby booth, momentarily unable to support her weight. She felt ill.
"Jesus, Elaine," snapped Beach, who had finished with the Form by now, "you look like hell. What's the matter?"
She pointed at the van. "Th--that van. It's just like the one--"
"Which one?"
"In `84. It's like the--"
"You mean the famous shooting?" he snapped. "Impossible."
She vehemently shook her head. "No, Beav, It’s not impossible at all." Her stomach threatened to toss-up her breakfast. She gently rubbed the thick ridge of scar tissue on her belly, remembering the thud and the incredible agony as though it were yesterday.
"C'mon Elaine, that was ten years ago. That chump is long-gone."
"They never caught him, Beav. What's to stop him from doing it again?"
"Why?"
"Well, why the hell not? He got away with it once."
"You're paranoid, ya know that, Elaine?"
"No, no, look, it's got the same Union Oil ball, just like last time. It just can't be coincidence. Check with the motel. His name was Fletcher."
Beav scratched his head and frowned. "You're serious."
She got mad, then, stood up, and poked him sharply in the chest. "Dammit, Beav, just do it."
His face registered surprise, and he involuntarily backed away. He wasn't used to this kind of static from Mac's old "sheep dog."
"Okay, okay," he grunted irritably. "But it's a million-to-one shot." He stalked to the phone in high umbrage and called the motel desk. He was on the line for about three minutes, while Elaine looked on anxiously.
Her gaze shifted to the Sprat family. They were laughing and eating up a storm. If they only knew. There had been a young couple in that very booth last time. The shots had come fast and furious. Elaine had been serving them the instant the glass blew in. Can't forget it: eggs over easy for her; ham and eggs sunny side up for him--their last meal.
She was walking toward the Sprat party to freshen their coffee when Beav trotted down the aisle and caught her arm.
"Whoa, Nellie." He was grinning.
She shook off his hand. "Well?" she demanded coldly.
He seemed affronted. "Easy! Take it easy. The dreaded guy up in your room? Middle-aged dude from out of town. Medical supply sales or somethin'. Janie says he looks harmless. Name's Van Winkle. Now, that's all I know. So--see? Nothing to worry about."
Unconvinced, Elaine pressed him further. "But the van, the Union Oil thingy? What about them? And--he can say he's anybody."
"Lots of people own blue vans--and thingies."
She trembled and leaned against a booth. Her face was pale and her heart was palpating. Beav's assurances meant nothing. He hadn't been there, hadn’t been there. She shivered violently.
Sensing the depths of her fear, Beav uncharacteristically softened. "Look, Elaine, if you like, I'll go up there and check this guy out, personal. That make ya happy?"
She grabbed his hand. "Oh, yes. Thank you. But Beav, please be careful."
He laughed. A college boxing champ and muscle-bound six-footer, Beavis Beach feared no one. "Not to worry."
Still, Elaine was worried. "Why not call the cops?"
"On what grounds? You wanna lawsuit?"
She shook her head.
"So, no sweat. I'm outta here."
"Beav, wait a sec. Don't be hasty."
"No, you wait," he murmured testily. "What happened before must have been awful, but that was ten years ago. What are the odds that a serial killer would come back here, driving the same van, staying in the same room, and do it again? Hey? I said it before: a million-to-one."
"But what if I'm right?"
"Not a chance."
"At least take Mac's gun with you."
Beav laughed, turned on his heel, and left the restaurant, marching swiftly across the parking lot toward the motel stairway.
Elaine tried to swallow her fear. She glanced at her watch--11:00 am. Maybe Beav is right. This is probably just a case of paranoia.
But by 11:30, Beav had not returned, and the people at table one were just about ready for the check. Yet Elaine was reluctant to spend a whole lot of time in that area. She wanted the assurance of Beav’s return. Staring up at the motel room, she worried that maybe Beav had been over-powered somehow.
Where is he? At last Beav came into view, walking back toward the restaurant.
Uh oh! Not his usual walk. No swagger, thought Elaine. And he looked tentative, as though he were learning a new skill. Then he began to stagger and droop at the shoulders. As he drew near, Elaine saw the blood. A lot of it.
Elaine threw an instinctive glance toward the balcony. God! He was there, dressed in dark clothing, a ski-mask over his face. Deja vu.
She looked for Beav. He was now lying on the ground just outside the front door. Motionless.
Then Elaine knew what she had to do. She made a frantic dash for table one, knowing she somehow had to thwart this monster. As she ran she watched Ski-Mask raise a rifle to his shoulder.
"Down, everybody, down!" she shrieked at the Sprats.
They didn't require an engraved invitation; there was enough urgency in Elaine's voice to convince them. And as Elaine arrived, they all dove for cover. One second later, the ocean view window fronting the corner booth imploded with a shattering bang, and a hundred shards of glass rained down amidst the whine and hum of a dozen rapid-fire bullets. Somebody screamed, and afterward an eerie silence ensued. Soft sobs and moans emanated from under the booth. Elaine got to her feet and found her uniform sprayed with bright red flecks of blood. Suddenly she experienced a ferocious up welling of outrage. Her fear vanished. "You bastard!"
She shook with fury, wanting to inflict a tangible vengeance. A lifetime of genuflection had conditioned her for this moment--pay-back time for all indignities. She glanced outside and watched a plume of smoke erupt from the van's exhaust. He was leaving, to be lost from view--again. Over my dead body! Knowing Mac kept a 38' Colt beneath the cash register, she made a dash for the front desk, snatched the heavy revolver from the drawer, and sped through the kitchen to the rear of the building, scattering cooks and bus boys. Running headlong through the supply room, she kindled an ungovernable, righteous wrath. Not content with having killed the young couple years before, he'd come back to try for an entire family! Not on my turf.
She threw open the back door just as the van lurched by, not ten feet away, dark figure hunched over the wheel like a bird of prey. Steadying the weapon against the door jamb, she emptied the revolver, sending six high-impact loads through the window and door. For a moment, the van kept on chugging along, then it slowed a bit and slewed off to the side, finally shuddering to a stop on the lawn. It didn't move again.
"Sayonara," snapped Elaine.
Almost immediately the sirens began to howl in the distance and soon the place was converged-on by fire rescue vehicles, ambulances, at least three police cars, a Highway Patrol cruiser, and a number of unmarked vehicles.
Elaine strutted back into the restaurant, a thousand-and-one disappointments rectified in a single moment of high drama, and by the deadly-accurate expending of six well-aimed rounds.
Inside she found that Jack Sprat had taken a bullet in the cheek, and that the booth was a bloody mess. Mrs. Sprat and the two Sprat brats were covered with pappa's blood, but were unscathed. They accompanied the wounded man to the ambulance, leaving without paying the bill. But nobody was counting.
Beav had suffered a deep stab wound to the abdomen, having been taken by surprise at the door of the shooter’s motel room. But he'd live, opined the young female paramedic. And when they got him stabilized, they loaded him into the ambulance. When they did, Elaine refused to leave his side. "I’m so sorry, Beav," she moaned.
He smiled wryly at her and reached out to take her hand.
Elaine asked the attendants if she could accompany him to the hospital. "Be my guest," said the girl, helping Elaine into the back of the ambulance. "Just don't get in the way," she added.
"Hey--Elaine," Beav gasped as she took a seat on the floor.
"I'm right here, boss."
"So--I hear you shot the sonofabitch."
She nodded.
He shook his head. "You're some woman. Had ya all wrong. And you were sure right about that weasel."
Elaine smiled, realizing, with uncommon pleasure, that there wouldn't be any new waitresses signing on at The Three Master any time soon.
"Am I gonna make it?" muttered Beav softly. "How's that?"
"What're my chances?" he muttered.
She paused, then whispered, "Oh, I'd say about a million-to-one."
He smiled. "Then I won't worry."
The story A MILLION TO ONE is Copyright 1998 by Carter Swart.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.