For Sandy and Tracey, Wednesday breakfasts were a summer break tradition. The morning interludes allowed the two friends to stay in touch and, in the right private setting, share professional ideas without having to worry about being overheard by other teachers or students. Their preferred out-of-the-way place to converse and catch up was their favorite booth in the Blue’s Café at the corner of West Station Street and South Fraser Avenue in Kankakee. The local eatery was nothing much to look at from the outside, with its plain washed brown brick front, blue canvas awning, and red and blue sign crowned with a Pepsi bottle cap. But the food was always good, especially the homemade pies and the biscuits and gravy. And the service always came with a smile.
Anything you wanted to know about the events of the area could be learned by simply listening at Blue’s. The morning gathering of local bankers, businessmen, and lawyers left nothing to the imagination. If it was happening in Kankakee County, they were discussing and dissecting it—loudly.
At Sandy and Tracey’s table, the first fifteen minutes of conversation was dominated by Sandy, who described the interior of the old pole barn and the monumental size of the task her father had left to her. Tracey, of course, empathized and offered her help. They were midway through their bacon and eggs when Sandy got around to confessing that a stranger had been keeping her company in the barn. “I just might put him to work,” she added. “You would think he would offer to help, right?”
“Whoa, what?” said Tracey, bursting out laughing. “Is he hot?” she asked, leaning forward to whisper the question.
“Tracey!” Sandy felt the blood rise in her cheeks and looked around the edge of their booth to make sure no one had heard.
“Come on. It’s me—your partner in crime since grade school,” Tracey prodded. “Besides, we’re just a couple of old married women. Share.” When Sandy met her gaze without replying, Tracey nodded. “Okay. Your silence says it all. He’s hot. When can I meet your mysterious stranger?”
“He’s not mine and he’s not really a complete stranger anymore, Tracey.” Sandy was sure by now her face was as red as her girlfriend’s T-shirt.
“Look at you!” Tracey reached across the table and poked Sandy’s forearm. “You are blushing! Do you like him?” She paused. “I’m living vicariously through you, girl. Describe him—and don’t leave out a thing.
“No, I don’t like him—not like that,” shot back Sandy, who offered a slow shrug of the shoulders and tilted her head to the side. “He’s hard to describe. Kind of tall, brownish hair—bad haircut.”
“Bad haircut?”
“Well, not exactly a bad haircut. A chunk of hair is missing in the front, near where he parts it.”
Tracey grimaced. “That’s weird.”
“Yeah, it is a little,” admitted Sandy. “He is about six feet, well proportioned. That’s about it, really.”
“Don’t give me that. You know what I really want to know,” pressed Tracey, who smiled as she opened her mouth and filled it with a large bite of scrambled egg and toast.
Sandy used a forefinger to trace the wet circle her glass of orange juice had left on the table. “I’d say he’s … attractive.”
“So he’s hot.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “Are we back in middle school?”
Tracey’s head bobbed like a lovesick teenager. “Girl, we never left. We teach there, remember?” The observation triggered a mutual smile. Though neither said a word, each knew what the other was thinking.
Both were born to teach, but Sandy wanted to get away—far away. For years she had her sights set on California. Blue sky and sandy beaches were about as far away from Walton Center as she could get. Reality, however, intervened and the only job offer she received was at the school of their youth. Sandy reluctantly accepted, telling herself she would move west after one year. And then Tracey, who was hired by the same school a few weeks earlier, introduced Sandy to the new lawyer in town.
A Chicago boy, Steve Richards had been raised by a single mom in the Logan Square neighborhood on the north side in an apartment above the Terminal Restaurant. The young attorney with the Northwestern law degree thanked Tracey for the introduction, confiding to her after just two dates that Sandy Loucks was “the one.” “I have always dreamed of running a successful one-man practice in a small Midwestern town,” Steve explained, “meeting a local teacher, falling desperately in love, and raising a family.” Tracey, of course, immediately shared all this with Sandy.
Their thoughts were interrupted when a waitress carrying two carafes of coffee, one regular and one decaf, stopped by the booth and asked, “Can I get you gals more coffee?”
Sandy was mixing half-and-half into her fresh cup when she leaned forward and whispered, “He came back yesterday.”
“And?” Tracey stared at her, her own spoon hanging in midair.
“And what?” Sandy stared back.
“Fine,” Tracey sighed with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “Keep it a secret.”
“I stopped by Berkelow’s for a bottle of ice tea yesterday,” began Sandy. She hesitated before continuing. “I bought some matches.”
“Matches for what?” asked Tracey just before finishing her last bite of toast. “You don’t smoke,” she said between chews.
Sandy visibly stiffened. “It’s not a crime to buy matches, is it?”
Tracey looked at her friend for several seconds. “No,” she answered slowly. “But the last time I checked, arson was still a crime. Will they let us meet for breakfast on Wednesday mornings at Stateville?” She cut short her laugh when she saw the look on Sandy’s face.
Her eyes were rimmed with dark circles, her brow furrowed in worry. Sandy lowered her voice another notch. “He asked me what I had in the bag. I told him—matches. It was like … like he knew.”
The conversation had taken a sharp and sudden change in direction. “Shadow, talk to me.”
“He went through this gruesome description of what it would be like to die in a fire. It was … awful. I could almost smell the smoke and feel the heat as he spoke.”
Tracey reached out and laced the fingers of her right hand through Sandy’s left. “Why did you buy those matches, Shadow?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered.”
“Wondered?” The pitch of Tracey’s voice shot up an octave. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
“Shhhh,” cautioned Sandy. “Keep your voice down!”
“Have I ever wondered what it would be like to burn down a building with me in it?” Her voice shook in a combination of anger and fear for her friend. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
Unable to look Tracey in the eye, Sandy stared down at her coffee cup. “Remember when we were in The Vanguard together, and we were competing at Geneseo for …”
Tracey squeezed her friend’s hand and cut her off mid-sentence. “Don’t change the subject. You know you can tell me anything.”
“Alright,” replied Sandy, lifting her eyes to meet Tracey’s gaze. “I want options. That’s all.” Her usually soft and smooth voice had taken on an unexpected edgy and forceful tone. “I’m sick of not having options in my life. I stayed in Walton Center even though my dream was elsewhere. I have been teaching at the same school I attended for what, eighteen years? I stayed home to help my mom while my brothers were off to bigger things and brighter futures.”
“But Shadow, you have a lovely family, a good career, and Steve,” Tracey answered.
“What about Steve?” she shot back. “At least one of us got our dream. He has exactly what he always wanted—a successful small-town law practice, a nice little home, and a family and a wife. Why is it I’m always part of making everyone else’s dreams come true while mine remain … dreams?” Sandy put her head into her hands and covered her eyes with her palms.
Tracey leaned back in the booth, her mouth open in dismay. “Shadow—where is this coming from?”
Instead of replying, Sandy lifted her head and stared out the café’s plate glass window lost in thought.
Tracey leaned in again. “I’m not judging you, Shadow. Put yourself in my position,” she pleaded, folding and unfolding a small paper napkin as she spoke. “My best friend just casually told me she’s contemplating turning herself into a roasted marshmallow, and that she harbors a lot of resentment about the way her life is unfolding. Now she’s surprised and withdrawn because I’m alarmed.”
Sandy stood quickly, knocking a fork to the floor. “I have to run,” she mumbled, digging in her purse for her wallet. “We’ll talk soon.” She glanced at the ticket, threw a five-dollar bill on the table, and walked away without another word.
“Wait! What? Shadow!” called out Tracey.
Tracey rested her elbows on the table and her chin between her cupped palms. Outside, her best friend climbed into her minivan and pulled away from the curb. Tracey bent down and picked up the fork. She had to help her friend, but she had no idea where to begin.