Sea Urchin

NOTE: This story contains references to familial loss.

The need to drive hard and direct took over Tom. The highway opened up straight into the night without a vehicle to trouble his front or rear view. Just the sky a luminous green-black overhead, lit by the stars that glowed with the intent of falling to earth. One star appeared to have done that, up ahead, on that straight stretch of open road. No, wait. It was the murmur of the rest stop lights, reminding him that the other luminous display, that of his dashboard, was flashing a warning for low gas. Tom thrust the car forward to the entrance, making ground swiftly as if gliding on still waters. When he stopped and got out of his car, he looked up at the sky and those stars reminded him of sea urchins, swelling and resounding above him, as if he had somehow slipped into an ocean’s depths.

He exited the car, clutching his cell phone to his chest, and eyed the deserted forecourt in futile search of an attendant. When no one presented themselves, Tom helped himself to the pump. Removing the fuel cap, he then buried the nozzle deep in the filler neck. He hummed to the sound of the gas chugging through the hose and into the tank and the slopping, watery noise reminded him of the ocean-sky above. He gazed upwards in wonder, thinking of the football match, thinking of Jack, and holding his cell even tighter to his chest with his free hand.

The nozzle clicked and with that the tank was full. Tom withdrew the hose and replaced it back on the pump. Weighing his cell in his hand, he walked towards the small cafeteria, puzzling over the absence of people. Tom peered through the window to confirm what he suspected: there was no one inside, not even a manager or waiting staff. The place looked pristine though and there appeared to be coffee steaming in the pot. With a final look around the forecourt, Tom crossed to the cafeteria door and made his way inside.

It was clean: royally scrubbed to gleaming. Serving plates and mugs had been laid out on the counter, ready to be filled.

‘Hey, hello? Anyone there?’ called Tom. No answer so he crossed the floor to the serving flap, raised it and then sought out the coffee pot. It steamed in welcome. Tom poured himself a cup and then paused to savour the smell. The roast smelt fresh and robust but there was a faintly unpleasant, tangy scent behind it: Tom could have sworn it was rotting seaweed. Shrugging it off, he sipped the coffee and it tasted as good as it promised. But surely with hot, fresh coffee available, someone had to be working the kitchen.

‘I’ve just grabbed a cup of coffee,’ he shouted towards the kitchen door. ‘I’ll leave some money for it. OK?’

Still no answer. A wave of pressure hit Tom and caused him to stagger slightly. He pinched his nose between the eyes to help him recover his focus, squeezing his eyes shut at the same time. When he opened them, a man stood by the kitchen door, dressed in cook’s overalls and a brilliant white apron, staring at Tom with a smile that washed like a tide, low to high.

‘Sorry, I thought no one was here,’ Tom said, fumbling his coffee cup onto the counter.

‘Just passing through?’ the cook replied.

‘Ah, yes. Passing through. Going to see my brother.’

‘Long trip?’ The man’s smile came from beneath unblinking eyes.

‘Long trip, yes.’

‘Y’all need that coffee then.’

Tom held up a hand in reassurance. ‘I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. I’m no thief.’

‘I know, I heard you. That’s why I came out. I imagine a hot meal would do you right?’

The cook’s dreamy drawl moved like coral over a reef. Tom fought a sudden urge to sleep, to succumb to the strange depth pressure that twinged at his temples. He hadn’t realised how much he needed to rest.

‘That…that would be good,’ he murmured.

‘Ham, eggs and hot rolls. That’ll fix you up,’ said the cook. ‘Take a seat and I’ll get ‘em ready.’

Tom did as was recommended and returned to the other side of the counter. He chose a stool opposite the vast griddle and watched the cook busy himself with slices of fat ham and eggs with yolks full of bright yellow greeting. Tom turned the cell phone over in his hands, as he listened to the food start to sizzle.

‘You say you’re visiting your brother?’ the cook called over his shoulder. He poked a piece of ham with his spatula and it seethed at the provocation.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Next turn off to Crab Bay,’ replied Tom. The twirling cell paused as he looked up.

The cook stopped his cooking and turned to offer his high tide smile. ‘Nice place. Got a cosy feel to it. Quiet, good for families. You from there?’

‘Originally. I moved to the city for college and ended up staying there. Wanted more of a life.’ Tom wondered why he felt the need to explain his relocation.

‘You mean being alive. That’s a feeling that’s more than just motion. There’s a heartbeat in peace that comes natural, not enforced by activity.’ The cook returned his attention to the ham and eggs.

I didn’t fucking ask, thought Tom. Out loud, he said, ‘Different people want different things. My brother, Jack. He stayed.’

‘That so?’

‘It always did for him.’

‘Knew his heart then.’

The cook suddenly grabbed a clean plate from the side of the griddle and, with a deft flick of his wrist, flipped the ham onto the plate. He then quickly plated the eggs next to the ham and spun round to place the food before Tom. Tom’s stomach growled obscenely. He was about to pick up his knife and fork when the hot rolls were presented alongside the ham and eggs, fresh and crusty, begging to be torn up and dipped in the eggs. The cook poured himself a coffee as Tom dug into the hot food. His apron remained unspoilt.

‘Tell me more about your brother,’ the cook said, gently caressing the handle of his coffee mug with his thumb.

‘Why do you want to know?’ Tom said, busy with his meal. He shoved a piece of egg-soaked bread into his mouth.

‘Slow night,’ the cook said, with a shrug. ‘Besides, being back-of-house, I don’t get to hear strangers’ stories often. Indulge me.’

Tom looked around the empty cafeteria. ‘Looks like you’re front-of-house too.’

The cook laughed, melodic and high-pitched. The faint run-off of water could be heard when he finished, making Tom cock his head in curiosity.

‘How’s the food?’ the cook asked.

‘Amazing,’ Tom said, genuinely impressed by how tasty the meal was. He couldn’t stop eating it, almost as if compelled to do it, as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

‘Good. So what occasions your visit home?’

Tom eyed the cook over a mouthful. The benign features of the man hid a perseverance, a resolve to peer into everything Tom thought he’d buried in his subconscious: things that even he had forgotten about. It made Tom wary but that face invited him in, made him want to reveal all he had to give.

‘Got two tickets for the game,’ Tom said, picking up his cell. He waved it in front of the cook who politely raised his eyebrows in enquiry. ‘Downloaded them this morning. Braves versus Giants. My brother’s not been well lately so I bought him these to cheer him up.’ Tom unlocked his cell screen and then checked his tickets on the app. ‘He’s going to love it.’

‘You see a lot of football with Jack?’ The cook took a sip of his coffee.

‘We did, when we were kids. Then…I don’t know…we just stopped going. I moved away and it was hard to find the time. You know how it is. But when things happen, you realise you have to make up that time.’ Tom touched his cell screen to keep the tickets in active view.

‘That is true,’ the cook agreed.

‘We were always close, even after I moved away. I didn’t see or speak to him much but could always feel him close by. It’s good to have brothers and sisters. They get you better than anyone. They transcend time, you could say.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ The cook looked keenly at Tom.

‘I suppose that years can pass but then you talk and it’s like barely seconds have passed. It’s a deeper connection than most you’ll have in life.’ Tom couldn’t stop the words spilling out, didn’t want them to stop. His delicious meal lay half-finished before him. Something in the streaks of egg, scraps of ham and remnants of roll made him puzzle and then scrutinise the meal.

‘I’ve eaten this before,’ he said, dragging the words out over a ridge of disbelief.

‘Well, it’s not an unusual meal,’ replied the cook. He took another sip of his coffee.

Tom lifted his head to meet the cook’s steady, unwavering gaze. ‘And I’ve met you before.’

‘Now where would that have been?’ said the cook, putting down his coffee cup.

Water lapped close by but Tom couldn’t see its source. Dazedly, he sifted through his memories, trying to pin where the cook and his trade resided. Where this place really was, whether it was really a rest stop.

‘You used to have a place by Crab Bay harbour. Jack and I, we used to buy your ham and eggs fresh from the griddle every Sunday morning when we went out fishing. Dad used to take us out on the boat and the grease left in our mouths would go so well with a flask of coffee.’ Tom inspected his plate and coffee cup again, shaking his head in wonder. ‘These were my favourites. Such good memories.’

The cook listened to Tom speak with a faintly knowing air but he let little expression past his amiable tranquillity.

‘Fishing and football. That was what Jack loved. I mean, I did too but I had other things I wanted to explore, other ideas to try out. But it was great, going out on the water, those Sundays as kids. I remember one time…’

Tom suddenly hawked out a strangled cry and grabbed the counter. He leapt off the stool, still clinging to the formica, and began to shake intensely. He thought his bones might splinter so violent were the tremors that coursed through his body.

‘Everything ok?’ the cook, asked. He seemed receded, somehow, far away.

‘I remember…’ gasped Tom. ‘The depths. He slipped. Jack slipped. I should have been paying attention but there were these sea urchins all around, came up at us in a huge cluster. It was so strange and I wasn’t paying attention to what Jack was doing…’

The cook became a translucent, phosphorescent green. His calm smile dissipated along with his form into a tidal surge of water that splashed against the counter and sent the coffee pot spinning from its place. Tom’s plate and mug were swept away and the force of the wave crashed against his chest, knocking him down. Soon, the cafeteria floor ran with hungry, violent water. Tom struggled to his feet, spluttering and gasping; he stumbled towards the door. He wrenched it open against the rising flood and then spilled out into the forecourt.

The water followed him. Tom raced towards his car and reached it as waves mopped at his feet. He threw himself inside the vehicle and then slammed the driver’s door shut, panting hard. The cell phone containing the precious tickets still remained welded to his hand. As Tom unlocked the phone to view the tickets he was struck by the awakening of his senses telling him that there was no Jack to gift them to. He looked through the windshield in search of his brother, lost in that vast ocean that rose higher and higher until it consumed the rest stop, but all that returned was a cluster of sea urchins, shining luminously like fallen stars.