Brock Clarke - The Happiest People in the World

“Let,” the woman repeated. “Let you do what?”

“Excuse me?’

“In the room,” she said. “You’d want me to let you do what in the room?”

Henrik turned to look at the boys, but they didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything but their soup. He then turned back to the woman, who was still peering at him through the steam. Was this an invitation? And if it was, would Henrik accept it or decline? On the one hand, he was married. On the other hand, he was dead. You have to act like I’m dead, he’d told his wife. I can do that , she’d said. She hadn’t even needed to think about it. “Hey, wait,” the woman said, her face brightening a little, “are you. . ” She seemed to want Henrik to finish the sentence for her.

“Henrik Larsen,” he said.

“Right,” she said. “Do you go by Henrik or just Henry?” The way she said “Henrik” left no doubt that he should go by just Henry.

“Just Henry,” Henry said, and then he finally remembered what he was supposed to do, once in Broomeville. “Is Matthew here?”

“Matthew?” she said. She said the name like she’d said “Henrik.”

“ Matthew, ” said one of the boys, in the same voice.

“That’s my son, Kurt, and those are his cronies,” the woman said, gesturing behind Henry. Henry didn’t know that word— cronies —but he guessed it referred to the two boys who had forsaken their spoons and were now drinking directly from their bowls. That meant Kurt was the thin, curly-headed boy with the spacey blue eyes who’d been striking the machine earlier. Now he seemed to be paying attention to Henry. He nodded at Henry, and Henry smiled in return, and the boy scowled back. Henry turned back to the woman.

“Matthew,” she said again. There was an expression on her face that suggested she really wanted to punch someone. Henry took a step back from the bar. “Do you mean Matty?”

“Do I?”

“Matthew,” she said. “No one calls him Matthew.”

“No one?” Henry said. Because he’d been given very strict instructions. Go to the Lumber Lodge. Ask for Matthew . Meanwhile the woman still had that look on her face.

“Almost no one,” she said.

Matthew, Matthew. Kurt’s mother must have said “Matthew” about a thousand times, like it was more than just a name. It wasn’t. It was just a name: his father’s name. Although it was true that almost no one called him that, except for his mother, and only when she was mad at him. And even then, when she called him Matthew, it was like she was impersonating someone else who called him by that name. Like when he called Kevin and Tyler his cronies, which was not his but rather his mother’s name for them.

“Cronies,” he said to them, loud enough to be heard over their slurping but not loud enough for his mother or this weird guy to hear over all her “Matthews.” Kurt gestured with his head in the direction of the door, and then wondered, Why do people do that? Because he was just going to get up and walk out the door anyway. And then his cronies would know what he wanted them to do, although that was perhaps overestimating their powers of cognition. Kevin and Tyler stared at him blankly for one beat, then another. They were fraternal twins, and also wrestlers, and wore that perpetually dopey look of people who are always trying either to starve or to stuff themselves. Also, they were often high. Anyway, they looked at Kurt, then at each other, then shrugged before returning their attention to their soup, which they were now drinking directly from the bowl. Jesus, maybe his mother was right to call them cronies.

In any case, he got up and walked out of the bar, daring his mother to notice. She didn’t. Matthew, she’d been saying to the guy. No one calls him Matthew . Once outside, Kurt leaned against the building, waiting for Kevin and Tyler so they could go do whatever. A few minutes later, the stranger walked out of the bar. He looked one way, and then the other, before crossing the street and entering Doc’s. In his fifteen years on earth, Kurt didn’t think he’d seen anyone over the age of four actually look both ways before crossing the street. In fact, by the time he’d finished this thought, Kurt himself had already crossed the street, not having looked.

The stranger was standing just inside in the diner’s doorway. Kurt watched the stranger from outside, watching him wait for Crystal, the waitress, to notice him standing there. There were no customers; it was the kind of place that almost never had any customers, and still, somehow, it stayed open. Crystal was standing behind the counter, reading the Broomeville Bulletin, but otherwise not doing anything, including noticing the stranger standing there. But still, the stranger didn’t do anything. He just stood there. Like an idiot. Finally, Kurt couldn’t stand it anymore. He crouched down so that no one in Doc’s could see him through the window and bellowed, loud enough for the people inside to hear him, “Hey!” Kurt then waited a second before standing up. When he did, he saw that Crystal had come out from behind the counter and was standing next to the cooler labeled LES DESSERTS. She blew a stray piece of brown hair off her brown eyes, but then it just fell back to where it’d been. She didn’t look happy. But then again, she never looked especially happy. Was it possible that no one Kurt had ever known had ever looked especially happy? Matthew, Matthew, he heard his mother say. As for the stranger, his back was to Kurt. His back gave away nothing: it looked neutral.

“Counter?” Crystal said to the stranger.

“Yes?” he said. It really did sound more like a question than an answer, as though he really weren’t sure after all that he wanted to sit at the counter. In any case, the guy didn’t move. He just stood there. Crystal had turned and walked back behind the counter. Still, the stranger just stood there! Kurt started to itch all over. Is there anything more embarrassing than someone who doesn’t seem to know that he should be embarrassed? Please move! Kurt thought, and just then Crystal, seeing the stranger still standing there, took a menu off the stack, bowed, presented the menu with a little flourish before letting it drop smack on the counter, as though to say, Here’s your frigging invitation. Only then did the stranger walk to the counter and sit on one of the stools. Kurt could see his face now. He didn’t look embarrassed at all, although he did offer Crystal a baffled little smile.

“Coffee?” she said.

“Yes, please,” the stranger said, although Crystal was already pouring it into a white mug.

“Black?” she said. And again the stranger sat there, not saying anything, with that confused, genial smile on his face. Kurt was beginning to wonder whether he was retarded or something. Possibly Crystal wondered the same thing, because she didn’t even bother to ask, Or do you want cream? She just reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew two plastic containers of half-and-half, which she tossed onto the counter, dice-like. “Thank you very much,” the stranger said, although he didn’t bother with the half-and-half. His English was formal, definitely foreign sounding. Kurt wondered where he was from. The stranger took a sip of his coffee and said, “It is excellent.”

“I’m so glad,” Crystal said, not sounding especially glad. She was standing directly across the counter from him, holding a pad in her left hand and a pencil in her right. The stranger smiled at her again, still; he took another sip of his coffee.

“Just the coffee?” she finally said.

“Oh!” the stranger said, apparently getting it. Or maybe he was pretending not to have gotten it before. Kurt was starting to think of this guy not as possibly retarded but as a wild card. Maybe you could be both? Even though in his experience, adults were never wild cards. They were always totally predictable, even, especially, when they thought they were being mysterious.