MEETING THE BOYS FOR COFFEE

MEETING THE BOYS FOR COFFEE

By Debbie Rice

For My Dad

Walter backs carefully out of his driveway and points the nose of his silver Buick LaSabre towards town. “Easy, easy,” he mutters, as he maneuvers around his neighbor's Herbie Curbie. He peers carefully over the steering wheel as the car glides down the street. His eyesight isn’t what it was at fifty. Or seventy. Or ninety, for that matter. But he does all right. He is not a danger to himself or anyone else. Never had an accident. Never plans to.

It’s a beautiful November afternoon and the leaves scatter before him on the road. Walter begins to sing, “When the roll is called up yonder; when the roll is called up yonder; when the roll is called up yonnnnderrrrr.....when the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there.” Walter is happy. He’s on his way to meet the boys for coffee as he does every day.

He looks forward to this little ritual. It’s awfully quiet at his house. His Lucille has been gone now for ten years, her ashes tucked away in the columbarium at church. Sometimes he has his donut with her on Sunday mornings. So unless he has a doctor’s appointment, or a church activity, he never misses his coffee time. Well, unless there is ice on the road. Driving on ice is stupid and Walter didn’t live this long by being stupid.

His is a small town and it’s true what they say. Everyone knows everyone else and everyone else’s business. People claim that’s the bad thing about small towns, but Walter never thought so. He likes knowing almost everyone he sees. He can remember when most of them were born. Shoot, he can remember when some of their grandparents were born.

Meeting the fellows every day not only gets him out of the house, it brings him into the heart of the town. While he sips his senior discount cup'o joe today, half a dozen people will stop and say hello. He might hear if Hank’s cancer is still in remission, or if Nellie’s granddaughter got into that fancy school down south. It’s Ruby’s day to work and he’ll find out if her cat came home. It was missing yesterday and she was worried sick.

In the hour or so that he sits there with Paul, Charles and Dick, the four friends will discuss local politics, local weather, and local gossip. They will rehash Friday night’s football game between the city school and the county school.

They’ll compare notes on which widows make the best casseroles and if Charles should invite Mabel to church with him. Everyone knows she’d go in a flash, but Charles has always been cautious in life. Too cautious in Walter's opinion. Walter doesn’t want another woman himself. Lucille was his one and only. But the casseroles are a different story. Bring them on, he thinks.

He carefully passes a blue pickup then waits for the light to turn green before making a left into the parking lot. He steers the Buick into a handicapped space and emerges from the car with his cane, one careful leg at a time.

On his way to the door he sees two people he knows. One from church and one from his forty-five years of work at the phone company. Yes, he tells each of them, he is fine. Yes, he agrees with each, it’s a lovely day.

Eventually Walter makes it to the door and steps inside. The first person he sees is Amanda Garrett.

When his daughter, Sarah, was in middle school (it was called Junior High in those days) Amanda was one of her best friends. When he sees her he still thinks of the little redheaded girl with braces on her teeth, even though Mandy Garrett is now in her sixties with a pleasant face and graying hair. He gives her a big smile and she comes forward to hug him.
“Walter!” she says, “Welcome to Wal-Mart!”

As she speaks, Zack, an acne-cursed teenager, wheels up in a motorized shopping cart. He hops off and offers it to Walter.

“Thanks, Zack,” Walter says. “How’s that cute little Allie?” Walter has enjoyed seeing the two youngsters (both Wal-Mart employees) flirt. He has noticed that lately Allie has been wearing Zack’s class ring, taped wrapped around the back to keep it from falling off.

Zack’s face falls.

“She gave my ring back.” Zack holds up his right hand, sporting the heavy ring, as evidence. “Said she didn't want to date just one person.” He leans in closer to Walter and lowered his voice. “That's not true, though. She's been dating Brandon Heinz, this jock from school.”

Amanda puts her arm around Zack. “Silly girl. She doesn't even deserve you, Zack.”

Walter doesn’t know Brandon from Adam, but suspects he has clear skin and doesn’t have to spend his after-school hours ferrying mechanized vehicles to handicapped shoppers. Forty or

so years ago, Walter might have slapped Zack on the back and made an off-hand comment about more fish in the sea. Not now, though. Now he knows that if Zack is blessed enough to grow old, he will probably see Allie’s face during rainy day naps. And she will always be young and beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” Walter says. He means it, too. Zack's a good youngster. In what spare time he has, Zack volunteers at the Humane Society cleaning the cats' cages. In Walter's book, anyone who likes cats must be a saint straight from heaven. He can’t stand the sneaky creatures himself.

Zack jogs back to where the seated shopping carts are lined up in a row, like horses at the starting gate. He will make sure they are all charged up, ready for the next disabled person that comes through the door.

Walter settles his cane in the cart’s basket and rolls along toward the café at the back of the store, glancing up and down the aisles as he passes. He sees pretty little Carol Foster in Electronics talking to a man in a denim jacket. Or rather, the man is talking to her. She’s looking at the floor. Walter doesn’t like this. He’s seen the bruises Carol tries to hide under her long sleeves. He wonders, not for the first time, about the complexity of love and fear.

Glancing at his watch, Walter decides he has time to make a detour to the toy aisle. He needs a gift for his youngest great grandson’s fifth birthday party on Saturday. Now is as good a time as any to pick something up. He peers at the boxes of Legos and scans the rows of action figures. He can’t get Carol out of his mind. Maybe he’ll mosey over to Electronics and ask her about video games for little boys. He thinks for a moment and then leaves the toy section and heads to Electronics.

As he nears the counter where Carol is standing he can see her smeared eye makeup and trembling lip. Even her red hair seems to hang in limp defeat. She sees him and tries to smile. Following her gaze, the man with her snarls at Walter.

“Hey, Gramps,” he says. “Move along.”

“I just want to talk to Carol,” Walter says calmly.

“Not today,” says the man. “I’m going to talk to Carol. You are going to turn that thing around and get out of here.”

“Not today,” says Walter, and this time the man sees the gun in Walter’s hand.

“Whoa! Take it easy. I was just fooling around with you.” The man holds his hands out in front, palms forward, like a mime in a box. Then, he glares at Carol and walks briskly away, his shoulders hunched as if to deflect a bullet.

“Are you OK?” Walter asks Carol, putting the gun out of sight between his leg and the seat of the cart.

“Uh, sure. Yes. Thanks, Walter.” She gives him a shaky smile and then an outright laugh. “You sure are something!” She comes over and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

Walter tips an imaginary hat to her and then resumes his trek to the café.

By the time he gets to the café, the other three fellows are already there. It’s Dick’s turn to buy the coffee and Walter’s cup is ready and waiting, steam wafting from the top. He rolls up to the table and lays the gun on the table.

“Whew! Look at that!” says Charlie.

“What make is that?” asks Paul. “Fisher Price?”

“Nah. Fisher Price is too righteous to make guns, even cap pistols.” Walter says. “I think this came from China. It's made of eco-friendly plastic, though.” he observes, peering at

the packaging which he had tucked behind his back, out of sight. “Whatever that is.”

“You know,” says Dick, “If you didn’t look too close, you might think that gun was the real thing.”

“Yep,” Walter says.

“What are you going to do with a toy gun?” asked Dick before taking a careful slurp of the hot coffee.

“Not sure,” says Walter. “Never know, though. Might come in handy sometime.”

“Hello, Fellows!” a feminine voice drifts over to them followed by a sweet-faced woman in her eighties. It's Mabel Ketteridge. She is dressed in a pastel blue velour sweatsuit and matching Reeboks.

Mabel walks over to Charles and pats him on the shoulder. Charles smiles up at her uncomfortably, his face flushing. “Are you boys enjoying your coffee?” She is presumably talking to them all, but her eyes are only on Charles. Charles mutters something and ducks his head.

Good grief, thinks Walter. There's no fool like an old fool. Enough of this.

“Speaking of coffee,” says Walter to Mabel. “You know where you can get good coffee?”

“Um,” Mabel is startled. “Well, um. Where?”

“Church!” Walter says. “Nobody makes coffee like the Baptists. You come to services on Sunday with Charles and stay for the fellowship hour. You'll see what I mean.” Everyone stares at him.

“Good coffee.” he repeats and kicks Charles under the table.

Charles jumps. “Darn good coffee!” he says loudly.

“My,” said Mabel. “Well if you feel that strongly, maybe I should try it.”

Charles pushes his chair back and stands up. He faces Mabel and smiles at her.

“Yes, yes, you should,” he says to her. “May I pick you up at 10:30 this Sunday? And maybe we could get a bite to eat after church?”

“Oh, yes!” she says, her face glowing. “That would be lovely.”

The two oldsters look at each other a few more minutes and then Mabel mutters something about her ice cream melting and pushes her cart away.

“Well, that was smooth,” said Dick.

“I don't care,” said Charles. “It's done. We'll see how it goes.”

“It will go fine!' Walter assures him. “Just fine.”

The talk moves to sports and local politics. Eventually the coffee is gone and an hour has passed. They say goodbye to each other until tomorrow.

Walter pauses on the way out of the store to pay for the toy gun. He waves goodbye to Zack, and steers toward the door. Once outside he sniffs the crisp autumn air appreciatively and waves at a teenage girl in an old Ford Escort who stops to let him pass in front of her car.

He slows as he nears his car. The Escort pulls into the space next to his and the girl opens the car door. He notices the temporary handicapped tag dangling from her mirror. She maneuvers a large black air cast, bravely decorated with pink polka dotted ribbons, in front of her and onto the pavement.

The girl herself is rather plain, but her skin is the color of the milky coffee Lucille used to love, and her hair is interesting. Walter tries to remember what that style is called. Bean rows? That can't be right.

He waits until the girl locks her door and turns in his direction.

“Thanks for stopping for an old fella,” he says. She breaks into a smile and Walter revises his opinion. The girl isn't plain at all. The smile makes all the difference.

“Have an accident?” he nods toward her cast.

“I tripped over my cat,” she says. “Didn't hurt the cat, but sure sent me tumbling. We just moved here and Kitty Sue is a little nervous. Keeps getting under my feet.”

Hmmm, thinks Walter.

“Well, I'm sure you will enjoy it here. This is a mighty friendly town,” he says as he slowly gets off the cart. “I'm Walter,” He extends his hand.

“Sally,” the girl smiles shyly.

“Here you go. Hop on,” Walter points to the cart. “You can do your shopping on this,”

“Oh, I don't know how to drive that thing,” the girl looks at the cart like it is a wild horse.

Walter starts to tell her there is nothing to it, but changes his mind.

“It's not hard,” he says. But there are some things you need to know. “Go ahead. Get on.” She does.

Walter shows her a button and lever and how to start and stop the cart.

“Just keep going straight until you get inside,” he says. “After that, the vice-president in charge of in-store

transportation will come over to help you. His name is Zack, by the way.”

“OK,” She moves forward a little and giggles. “This is kind of fun.” She moves toward the store, driving the cart in fits and starts.

It's late afternoon when Walter pulls the Buick into his garage and pushes the button to lower the door. He heats up a bowl of tomato soup and makes himself a nice grilled cheese sandwich to eat while he watches Jeopardy.

At nine o’clock sharp the phone rings. It will be Jill, his youngest daughter. She calls him every night at nine with comfortable predictability. He picks up the phone.

“Hey, Dad!” she says. They talk for a few minutes about her children and grandchildren. He still can’t believe his baby has grandchildren.

“So, what did you do today, Dad?” she asks, as always.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” he says. “Coffee with the boys.”

Carol Foster doesn’t leave her husband that day, or the next. But by the time the New Year rolls in, she will have moved in with her mother. Walter never saw bruises on her again. Fatigue, sometimes, when she returned to college, but no more bruises.

“I kept seeing you with that toy gun,” she told Walter one day. “You were so brave. I decided maybe I could be brave, too.”

Two years later, on the day of Carol’s college graduation, Walter was in the third row. Five years after that, on the day of Walter’s funeral, Dr. Carol Foster was in the second row.