Emily answered, breathless, on the first ring. “Where the hell are you?”
When I told her what had happened, she gasped, recovered, then sounded almost relieved. “I panicked, Mom, I swear to God, I panicked when I looked in your room and neither you nor Daddy was there.”
It was a dig, but I couldn’t resist. “Did you think we’d run away or something?”
“Not funny, Mother.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” The coffee had come, so I added some sugar and cream and gave it an absentminded stir. “Look, pumpkin, will you do me a favor?”
“What is it?”
I paused for a moment, not quite believing what I was about to say. Although I’d rather not see Darlene ever again, I had to be fair to Dad. He would want her to know.
“Mom? Are you there?”
“Sorry, I was just fixing my coffee. Look, honey. Would you call Darlene Tinsley and tell her about your grandfather’s accident? I have her number written down in the flip-top phone book in the kitchen.”
“OK, but you owe me.” Emily paused. “You know I don’t like her very much.”
“Be nice, now. She’s your grandfather’s friend.”
“For sure. And, Mom?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
I pushed the End button and stared at the tiny display screen, nearly overcome with emotion. During Emily’s troubled teenage years, I would gladly have paid a million dollars to hear her say those words. I laid down the phone and took a grateful sip of coffee, rich with cream and sugar, letting it roll over my tongue and down my throat like a soothing balm. I took time to survey the busy restaurant, but the cheerful orange booths and bright orange-and-yellow vinyl chairs and barstools did little to sunny up my disposition.
“Do you want to see the menu?” Paul asked, even though we both had it practically memorized. In any case, the main menu options were plastered all over the walls on colorful disks the size of dinner plates.
#311. The Parris N. Glendening. A baked potato with broccoli and cheese.
#14. The Bill Clinton. Turkey breast on whole wheat toast.
Al Gore was immortalized as a chicken sandwich, and when I got to Senator Barbara Mikulski, the open-face tuna on a bagel, I wondered, not for the first time, if there weren’t just a bit of editorializing going on, with a decidedly Republican bent. Years ago, the Jimmy Carter sandwich had been peanut butter and bologna. I rest my case.
But it was too early for sandwiches.
Ruth ordered her usual bagel and Paul and I decided on the mushroom-and-cheese omelet which (Oh, joy!) comes with fries.
We gave our order to the waitress. Then, thinking about the copy of the citation in my purse, I said, “I wonder if Daddy knew what he was signing.”
Paul shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, honey. He’d have been in even bigger trouble if he didn’t sign the darn thing. His driver’s license would have been confiscated immediately.”
“Does he have a lawyer, Ruth?”
“I don’t think so; maybe in Seattle, but not in Annapolis.”
“I’ll call Murray Sullivan,” Paul volunteered.
“Don’t you know anybody else?” I hadn’t laid eyes on Murray since the time Paul was accused of sexual harassment by a female midshipman and our marriage had nearly fallen apart. Thinking about it still hurt. I glanced at Paul sideways through my eyelashes. From the wistful look on his face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.
He shrugged. “OK. I’ll see what I can do.”
I smiled at him gratefully.
Directly behind my husband’s head there was a fourteen-year-old birth announcement, progressively yellowing, and every spare inch of wall was covered with photographs, drawings, and letters of appreciation to Chick and Ruth Levin who, framed newspaper articles reminded us, had passed away in 1995 and 1986 respectively.
Son Ted and his wife kept up the family business and its traditions now. It may have been dying of neglect in the public schools, but the Pledge of Allegiance was alive and well at Chick & Ruth’s Delly. The American flag hung behind the cashier, near a sign that read “Cashier/Carry Out/Hotel Check In,” and every morning at eight-thirty, slightly later on weekends, everyone stood for the pledge. I had been sitting so long, I welcomed the opportunity to shake out the cramps in my legs and persuade my right foot, which had gone to sleep, to rise and shine.
After the pledge, we settled back into our seats and I reached for the last french fry, but Paul’s fingers got there before me. “You know,” he said, licking his fingers, “after that I’m feeling so patriotic I may have to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ ”
I covered my ears with my hands. “Please! Tell me when it’s over!” Although he tried, Lord knows he tried, Paul couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
“It’s a difficult song, anyway,” Ruth commented. “Way out of my range, especially the rockets’ red glare part.”
“Dad doesn’t have any trouble,” I said softly. He’d taken me to an Orioles game the previous fall and I’d stood beside him, marveling as he sang the heart right out of that anthem in his rich, full baritone.
Over my head, a bagel danced on the end of the pull cord for the fluorescent light fixture. “What turns so many veterans into homeless alcoholics?” I wondered out loud. “All those guys sleeping on heat grates in Washington, D.C.?”
Ruth got my drift. “That won’t happen to Daddy, Hannah. He’s got his pension.”
Paul signaled the waitress for a refill on our coffee. “She’s right, Hannah. Darlene could steal your father’s affection and everything of value that he owns, but she couldn’t take that away from him.”
“Yes, but there’s more to life than money,” I said. “Much more.”
Sunday and Monday we took turns visiting the hospital. Even Dante, who had Monday off, stuck his head in before disappearing for a reunion with his little family. When I showed up around noon, Daddy was in high spirits, propped up in bed reading a Patrick O’Brian novel. There was no sign of the d.t.’s. That doctor was totally wrong. He got us all spun up over nothing.
Daddy laid the book facedown on his blanket. “Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“You just missed Darlene.”
“Oh?” I said. “What a shame.” To be truthful, I was glad I didn’t have to deal with Darlene. The way she acted around my father, all kiss-kiss and lovey-dovey, made me gag. After a few minutes of small talk, I was brave enough to ask, “What do you see in her, Daddy?”
“She’s fun. She makes me feel young again.” He slipped off his reading glasses and looked directly into my eyes. “And that’s worth quite a lot in today’s market!”
“I’m sure that’s true, but as long as we’re talking about today’s market, there are hundreds of widows out there for every available man. Why not date somebody closer to your own age?”
“Seventy? Ha! I’m seventy years old, sweetheart. I’m running out of time in the life expectancy sweepstakes. I don’t want a relationship with someone I’m going to have to worry about losing at any minute.” He closed his eyes for a moment and I knew he must be thinking about Mother.
“Darlene could get hit by a bus tomorrow, Daddy. You never know what’s going to happen.” I pointed to his bandaged head. “You just proved that.”
It was the first time I’d heard Daddy laugh since Connie and Dennis’s wedding. “I could get hit by a truck?”
“You could get hit by a truck.”
He stared out the window where we could see the bare dancing branches of the trees lining Franklin Street. “When your mother died, something inside me died, too.” He turned his head toward me and winked. “Darlene’s relit the spark.” He snapped his fingers. “There’s life in the old boy yet!”
I tried not to think about what form relighting that spark might take. “Does that mean you’re serious about this woman? Is she The One?”