and forth. The sweat’ll be coming off me like I was outside.”
Card took a sip of coffee and nodded. It was a conversation they’d had last summer, the one before that, and the one before that. The familiarity of routine and habit were probably the most security one could ask for in this world.
He looked at her as he dragged deeply on the cigarette. She was his age, maybe a little older. She had probably been pretty once, pretty in that way of open innocence which seemed peculiar to Irish Catholic girls in their plaid school uniforms. Now she was just plain, with tiny wrinkles beginning to spread out from her blue eyes. Her short dark hair was not styled but simply lay on her head as if resigned to the superiority of an unknown foe.
“How you been?” he wanted to know.
She shrugged. “What can I tell you?”
He nodded. Her life wouldn’t change and they both knew it. She got up at three-thirty every morning, drove across the Queensboro Bridge with Pat, helped him set up in the kitchen, unlocked the door at six, closed up at seven in the evening, back across the bridge and in bed by nine. Card knew her husband had been killed in ‘Nam, that her mother had died a few months later and she had moved back home to help Pat for a few months and the months had become years and the years a life.
“You?”
“Same ol same ol’.”
They sat quietly, smoking and drinking coffee. Maureen left for a few moments to talk to the two waitresses when they reported for work and then returned. Pat came out of the kitchen, put a plate of two eggs over easy, toast and hash browns in front of Card.
“Looks good, Pat,” Card said.
Pat shook his head. “You getting old, Card. You said something nice.”
They laughed.
Pat slapped him on the shoulder and returned to the kitchen. “You OK?” Maureen asked, after a moment. “You’re quiet this morning.”
He shrugged, chewing slowly.
“I’m not prying or anything, but, are you OK?”
“Hell, how should I know?”
Maureen smiled wistfully. “Yeah. You know, sometimes I’m glad I don’t have time to think. If I did, who knows what I might find? You know?”
He nodded.
“I mean, if I’d thought when I was a kid going to St. Joseph’s every morning that this is what my life was going to be like, I don’t know what I would’ve done. You know?”
He nodded again. “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
“You mean after I got over wanting to be a nun?” she laughed. “I don’t know. It was all kind of vague. Secretary, I guess. The one thing I was sure of was that I’d have a house and kids and who knows? Maybe even a white picket fence.” She frowned. “Pat has been after me to get the hell out. It has been eight years now since Michael was killed. I suppose I might have taken what the army gave me and the survivor’s benefits and moved somewhere, started over. But then, mother died three months after Michael. Between Christmas and Easter I became a widow and an orphan. I never knew my dad. He was killed in the Second World War. By the time I came out of shock after Michael and mother, I had already moved back into the house to help Pat and that was that. But, to tell the truth, it never occurred to me to move anywhere. Isn’t that sad, Card? Never crossed my mind. Where the hell would I have gone? And to do what? I didn’t have any skills and I’m nobody’s pinup girl.” She shrugged. “What the hell? At least here, I got friends. People like you. I got a place. Something to do. But you’ve heard all that more than once.”
Carl nodded. “Maybe a friend is somebody who listens as many times as you need to say it.”
Maureen smiled. “So, what about you? What did you want to be when you grew up?”
He ate quietly, as if he hadn’t heard, but he had and she knew. He thought about the dusty roads that went through the colored section of Willert, Mississippi, and the little boy who had played baseball with tin cans and sticks on those
Card took a sip of coffee and nodded. It was a conversation they’d had last summer, the one before that, and the one before that. The familiarity of routine and habit were probably the most security one could ask for in this world.
He looked at her as he dragged deeply on the cigarette. She was his age, maybe a little older. She had probably been pretty once, pretty in that way of open innocence which seemed peculiar to Irish Catholic girls in their plaid school uniforms. Now she was just plain, with tiny wrinkles beginning to spread out from her blue eyes. Her short dark hair was not styled but simply lay on her head as if resigned to the superiority of an unknown foe.
“How you been?” he wanted to know.
She shrugged. “What can I tell you?”
He nodded. Her life wouldn’t change and they both knew it. She got up at three-thirty every morning, drove across the Queensboro Bridge with Pat, helped him set up in the kitchen, unlocked the door at six, closed up at seven in the evening, back across the bridge and in bed by nine. Card knew her husband had been killed in ‘Nam, that her mother had died a few months later and she had moved back home to help Pat for a few months and the months had become years and the years a life.
“You?”
“Same ol same ol’.”
They sat quietly, smoking and drinking coffee. Maureen left for a few moments to talk to the two waitresses when they reported for work and then returned. Pat came out of the kitchen, put a plate of two eggs over easy, toast and hash browns in front of Card.
“Looks good, Pat,” Card said.
Pat shook his head. “You getting old, Card. You said something nice.”
They laughed.
Pat slapped him on the shoulder and returned to the kitchen. “You OK?” Maureen asked, after a moment. “You’re quiet this morning.”
He shrugged, chewing slowly.
“I’m not prying or anything, but, are you OK?”
“Hell, how should I know?”
Maureen smiled wistfully. “Yeah. You know, sometimes I’m glad I don’t have time to think. If I did, who knows what I might find? You know?”
He nodded.
“I mean, if I’d thought when I was a kid going to St. Joseph’s every morning that this is what my life was going to be like, I don’t know what I would’ve done. You know?”
He nodded again. “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
“You mean after I got over wanting to be a nun?” she laughed. “I don’t know. It was all kind of vague. Secretary, I guess. The one thing I was sure of was that I’d have a house and kids and who knows? Maybe even a white picket fence.” She frowned. “Pat has been after me to get the hell out. It has been eight years now since Michael was killed. I suppose I might have taken what the army gave me and the survivor’s benefits and moved somewhere, started over. But then, mother died three months after Michael. Between Christmas and Easter I became a widow and an orphan. I never knew my dad. He was killed in the Second World War. By the time I came out of shock after Michael and mother, I had already moved back into the house to help Pat and that was that. But, to tell the truth, it never occurred to me to move anywhere. Isn’t that sad, Card? Never crossed my mind. Where the hell would I have gone? And to do what? I didn’t have any skills and I’m nobody’s pinup girl.” She shrugged. “What the hell? At least here, I got friends. People like you. I got a place. Something to do. But you’ve heard all that more than once.”
Carl nodded. “Maybe a friend is somebody who listens as many times as you need to say it.”
Maureen smiled. “So, what about you? What did you want to be when you grew up?”
He ate quietly, as if he hadn’t heard, but he had and she knew. He thought about the dusty roads that went through the colored section of Willert, Mississippi, and the little boy who had played baseball with tin cans and sticks on those
Similar Books
