Late-Night Milkshake: A Short Story

Sixteen-year-old Jolene flirted with boys often. The tall boys in skinny jeans and the skinny boys in baggy clothes. The boys who’d never used a razor before. The brawny footballers who took a fifth year to pass their classes. Her quick and high-pitched giggle made her short brown hair bounce up and down.

With her back straight and even with high-heels on, Jolene stood below most boys’ shoulders — but that meant when she looked up at them, her round brown eyes looked bigger than they actually were. The boys who looked into them felt an instant familiarity; an attraction punctuated with a sharp inhale.

Jolene, while not quite beautiful, was very pretty, and overcame any of her physical inadequacies with an unusual intelligence and an uncanny ability to rationalize the absurd.

The town she lived in, Cain Springs, was remote. It lacked malls, theatres, and restaurants — save for one 24-hour diner with a neon sign and sour coffee. It was here Jolene had convinced herself from a young age that, in a small town where no one visits and no one leaves, she could best amuse herself with boys.

Everyone who met Jolene enjoyed her company. She had a sharp sensibility because she studied the people around her. The length of someone’s step, the way someone rolled their jean cuffs up, the way someone snuck nervous glances at her. When she sat in the diner with her back to the door, she could tell who walked in by the scent of their cologne or by the pitch of their key jingle. 

She saw subtleties because she looked for them. In a quiet place like Cain Springs, knowing everyone was commonplace; but really knowing everyone, as Jolene did, earned her a reputation as sly, intelligent, and charming. 

Jolene had learned to notice unspoken nuances from her parents. Not that they intentionally taught her, but they fought, often and with closed fists, and Jolene had learned to pick up on things. She knew when animosity hung in the air like a laundry line, or when the tension in a room had not yet vacated. 

The fighting kept Jolene out of the house, and everyone knew she liked to pass the time in the company of boys. Mainly, Jolene blamed her father — for a childhood she longed to forget, for the barren refrigerator, for the bruises on her mother and the periodic cuts on her wrist. She knew that her father had a loose screw or a taut fiber in his skull. That’s where the batterings came from, Jolene thought. Her parents never asked about school or friends or what Jolene did for fun. The most you could say about the three’s relationship was that they lived together.  

When he wasn’t blind with fury, Jolene’s father was at work most of the time — construction — and when he’d come home he stared into his smartphone and grumbled under his breath at news headlines. Alcohol pushed her mother to walk about in an irritated and foggy stupor most days. Jolene didn’t mind because she had reasoned to herself from a young age that all parents were like her parents. It was just part of growing up. 

She did not like to be home with her parents during the day, though her father’s rage and the sharp tongue of her mother made her feel secure at night. Residents of Cain Springs were not unfamiliar with crime. I’d like to see some clown just try and break in here one night, Jolene would think, to see what father’d do to ‘em.

Jolene played the role of the flirt for the mental sparring, the repartee. The boys at school couldn’t keep up, and even the older, working boys, fell flat. Her mother didn’t like it. She was scornful. “Don’t be so full of yourself,” she would tell Jolene. “You think you’re so good? Charm’s never led to an honest day of work or a strong spine.” 

Jolene, at the familiar jabs of her mother, brushed them off because she knew she could get what she wanted. Long ago, her mother could get what she had wanted, too. But, as all daughters eventually do, Jolene had stolen her good looks and acuity. Everything to Jolene felt easy to attain. She always had control. Her mother now despised the confidence that she’d lost and Jolene had embodied.

On occasion, Jolene would meet a young man she thought could match her wit. Someone who could surprise her. But, in time, those boys, too, fell short of Jolene’s expectations in some other measure. 

Then she met George Leon. 

When Jolene first saw him, he had been sitting in a booth alone at the diner late one evening. The two made eye contact and she straightened her back in surprise — here was a man in Cain Springs who she’d never seen before. Rarely did a stranger come to town. 

He had a dark, symmetrical and handsome face, though because it betrayed no emotion, he was not attractive. Without wrinkles and under the dim overhead light, it was hard to discern his age. A black stubble lined the man’s chin and continued mid-way down his neck, accentuating his jawline and giving him a knightly, mysterious aura. His hair — shaggy and short and the color of almonds — needed combing. His ears kept locks of hair from shrouding his small eyes and oval face. Even from across the diner, Jolene thought the man blinked too slowly and too infrequently. 

She couldn’t tell how tall he was, though he looked built and powerful. He took a drink from a glass of coke, which had sweated a ring of water on the table, and the muscles in his neck rippled like strong currents as he swallowed. Thick fingers appended his dirty hands — the hands of a man who relied on a certain physicality to earn a living. 

In meeting his handsome gaze, Jolene felt unsettled. The top and bottom halves of his face did not convey the same emotion. His mouth had widened into a barely-perceptible smile, yet the corners of his eyes remained motionless, like wax. Jolene felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. 

“How do you do, miss?” His voice was breathy and low. He sounded tired but sure. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” she said. Jolene had paused mid-step.

“Well I’m George Leon. Where are you going?” 

“It’s getting late,” Jolene could hear the uncertainty in her own voice as she replied.

“Not yet it’s not.”

She already had her hand on the door when George Leon began to shift his weight and move toward the end of the booth. Men and boys had never stupefied Jolene, but this time, rather than waiting for him to stand up, she pushed out into the brisk and black night and heard the stranger call out after her: “You’ll be seeing me, miss.”

As she reversed out of the gravel lot and retreated from the glow of the diner, George Leon stared at her through the window from his booth, scratching the bristles on his well-shaped chin with his large, bearish hands. 

The next morning, Jolene woke up late to an empty house. 

Her father was at work, and she guessed her mother was out on errands. Jolene was glad to have the Saturday to herself. She turned on the kettle and pulled out coffee grounds. Her bare feet were silent on the cold tile floors, and while the water boiled she looked for something to watch on TV.

Sitting on the couch, Jolene turned around to open the window behind her. Through the dusty screen, she heard birds chirp and watched trees sway gently. Sunlight bathed the weeds and dying grass in the backyard. Peaceful is alright, Jolene thought to herself, though it is a bit dull. The cool and fresh air felt good on her skin, and she liked to listen to the outdoors while sitting inside.

After several hours she began to nod off, the breeze washing over her like a blanket. She slumped over old pillows and her whole body rose with each sleepy inhale. The shrill screech of the kettle did not wake her.

When Jolene woke up, she was lying on her back in the dark. The birds had stopped singing and a colorless, fading daylight covered the outdoors. The sun had set and the room inside had grown cold. Local evening news played on the TV with no sound. A reporter interviewed a distressed woman on camera with the 24-hour diner in the background. Then, videos of a local children’s toy drive began to roll. 

Jolene closed the window, and wondered what was keeping her parents out for so long today. 

Like a falling curtain, night had arrived abruptly. Jolene scrolled through her phone looking for nothing in particular. She felt relieved to hear the shudder of a car engine approaching outside. Finally, she thought. I hope dad is in a good mood tonight. 

But several minutes passed and the garage door did not open. Jolene sat up, curious. She shrugged. Several more minutes passed and she began to scroll through her phone again. They probably forgot something and drove off, she told herself. Minutes continued to tick by. 

Then: Thwump. Thwump. 

Jolene stood up. Hollow, unfamiliar steps paced outside on the front porch. Thwump. Thwump. Thwump.  Jolene peered down the hallway toward the front door. Thwump. Thwump. The door was locked. The porchlight outside was off and while she could see nothing through the front windows she still heard movement.

Ding-dong.

Jolene didn’t move. Who could be here so late at night? She didn’t recognize the footfalls. In her stillness she thought the sound of her breath echoed. Another moment passed: Nothing moved outside or in. She approached the door to put her ear to it when it made a gentle knock knock knock.

“Miss, it’s me, miss,” came a man’s voice from the other side of the door.

She immediately recognized the breathy, guttural voice as that of the stranger in the diner. “It’s Jolene, innit?” he said softly, mere inches away on the other side of the thin wood panels. “I’m here to keep my promise, miss. I said I’d be seein’ you.” 

Jolene could hear the smile in his voice. She imagined the grizzled stranger standing in the dark with a twisted grin, a step away from her. How did he know her name? How did he find out where she lived? Again Jolene wondered where her parents were at this hour. She didn’t reply to the voice beyond the door.

“Can you open up now, miss? It’s jus’ me. You know, George Leon.” Jolene felt her knees lock. She stood, unmoving. “It’s gettin’ cold out here and I don’t have my coat. You must have somethin’ warm in that big house of yours.”

“My parents are coming home right now and dad’ll kill you if he sees you here!” Jolene shouted, louder than she expected. She heard George Leon laugh a gentle laugh, then it grew louder. “They ain’t coming home tonight, miss,” he replied. “Why should they? It’s only their daughter’s home alone, is all.” 

“What? What are you talking about?” she said. She turned on the porch light and looked out the front window. There was the stranger from the diner, George Leon, leaning lazily on the front door. He looked up and saw Jolene through the window and his face twisted into a smug confidence and his eyes grew large. 

“I’m seein’ you now, miss. Here I am,” he said. Jolene stared back at him. He stood there, calm and still leaning on the door, his hands pushed into his pockets like anchors of a ship. “Just open this here door, miss,” he said. “Or do you like it better when I have your name in my mouth? ‘Jolene,’ like that right? How’s that make you feel? More comfortable for you?”

Jolene pulled her phone from her pocket. No battery. Her expression looked tight and urgent in the reflection on her screen. Where were her parents?

“I’m calling the police,” Jolene said to the stranger through the window. “They’ll be here and my parents’ll be here any minute.” 

George Leon stared at Jolene. He took his hands out of his pocket, one at a time, slowly, as if they were delicate props, and he began to rub his hands together. He kept staring at Jolene and his hands enveloped one another over and over and over again. George Leon smiled as his hands seemed to devour one another. 

“It’s no use, Jolene. See? I know exactly who you are. What’re you worrying about? No police coming tonight, Jolene.” 

Jolene wanted to cry but no tears came. She felt like she should panic but her anxiety did not rise. Her heart beat fast and she could feel the adrenaline rushing to her head. 

“Let’s make this easier, miss,” he said. “Why’n you come with me to the diner and let me treat you to a strawberry milkshake. You like strawberry? My favorite fruit, miss.” Jolene remained at the window, standing in the dark holding her dead phone. The stranger stopped leaning on the door. He stood straight up. Now she could see the outline of something beneath his coat — a knife? A gun? Jolene couldn’t tell. He put his palm over the vague outline for a moment. Jolene shivered.

“I’ve had a lot of practice with wood doors, miss,” he said. “Not much to ‘em. Quick lil’ push and a yank, ’s all.” Jolene looked down at his hands again. Muscular and calloused. Working hands. Sturdier than most. She looked up at his muscled neck and oval face. His mouth was bent into a smile, but, like she noticed in the diner, his eyes looked separated, distant from the expression on the rest of his face. His eyes — pastel grey — had a cleanness to them, a coldness, and together they created a youthful visage. 

“Why’n you just open this door and come on with me to our lil’ diner so we don’ have to make a mess for your parents,” he said. “If I know one thing it’s that George Leon knows how to treat a girl. Swear to you, diner’s all we’ll do. Gentleman’s promise.” He placed one of his meaty paws on his chest. “All you gotta do is open this door and we’ll be going.” 

Jolene felt empty now. Her parents were out at who knows where. Her phone was dead. A stranger — calm and powerful and insistent — stood just outside her door. She felt her breath start and stop and rattle in her dry mouth. She felt, for the first time, out of her depth. The situation did not belong to her. She would have no say in the outcome. The only vote she could cast was whether the two would leave a splintered door in their wake.

“A milkshake,” the stranger said. He spoke even more softly now. “How about it, miss. You know this door is just a little thing right here. Wood door here means nothing. How about that milkshake.”

Jolene stood. Time seemed to slow. She looked down at her bare feet. Earlier in the week she had painted her toenails bright red and some had begun to crack. The tile floors were even colder now but she no longer seemed to notice. She thought about the neon glow of the diner and the sound of the waitress spraying whipped cream, fluffy and light like clouds. She looked out the window. No lights from the neighbors. No cars driving by. Jolene could see nothing beyond the porch other than black darkness. Peaceful is rather dull, Jolene thought to herself.

“Hey,” George Leon said, as if reminding her it was time to go. 

What’s a late-night milkshake? I do like strawberry, Jolene thought to herself. And he’s being awfully polite, isn’t he? He doesn’t even want to come inside anymore, Jolene reasoned. George Leon has been smiling at me this whole time, hasn’t he? Sure, Jolene thought, there won’t be much conversation with a simple guy like this — but what’s a milkshake? He doesn’t even want to bust the door anymore. 

She looked at the stranger again. He stood, smiling. Polite and patient and not causing commotion. Those are good qualities, Jolene thought. And strong hands just means he can take care of himself. Probably means he’s an honest man with an honest living…I mean, he’s just standing out there waiting for me to…hell, what’s one milkshake? 

Jolene unlocked the door and stepped out into the black and quiet night. 

Later, Jolene’s parents came home to an empty house. In their drunkenness, nothing was amiss and they collapsed onto the couch. Everything was still and dark, except for the soft snoring of the old couple and the inviting glow of the TV. The news was re-running its earlier program, which had played while Jolene was sleeping earlier. 

On the screen, staring out with unblinking, dead eyes, was a police pencil sketch of George Leon. 

The headlines changed and a story about a children’s toy drive began to roll.

Next morning, Jolene returned before her parents awoke. 

The cold tile floor stung her bare feet. Her nail polish had chipped off completely, and now gravel filled the space under her nails and between her toes. Other than her feet, her appearance was altogether normal. Her garments had not been torn and her hair had the same dishevelment as any teenage school girl. At a glance, her small frame was unchanged. If Jolene had chanced upon someone on her way home, the passerby could have only said a cheery “Good morning!”

She walked slowly into the living room. The TV was still on. Her parents lay there, each with their mouths agape. Her father made a gurgling sound with every exhalation. Standing there before the slumbering bodies, looking around the room and staring out the window into the early dawn, Jolene wavered. The unfamiliarity of it all seemed to push her off-balance. 

She could see, physically, everything before her, but processed none of it with any amount of discernment. Like visiting a new home, Jolene looked at every item in the room as if they were novel and previously unobserved. What a nice place to live, Jolene thought to herself. These sleeping adults look so peaceful. 

She glanced at the TV. Reruns of the news still played but Jolene saw only moving, silent frames of pixels and light. A television, she thought. Huh. A bit disorienting, but a nice thing to have. The flicker of the screen hurt her puffy, tired eyes so she looked away.

She picked up her sneakers from beside the couch. Jolene looked around again. She felt as if she was watching herself observe the room around her. Detached and disembodied. Distant. She looked at the unrecognizable faces of her snoring parents. Warm bodies, Jolene thought. Must be nice. 

Shoes in hand, Jolene walked out of the house, stepping barefoot on the chilled and coarse gravel. The clattering hum of the vehicle in the driveway called out to her. She opened the door to the truck that wasn’t hers and stared for a moment at the limp body in the back seat. The blood on his shirt had all but dried up and the single bullet wound had made the air redolent of decay. She did not look at the old building behind her as she drove into the morning light.

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