Breakfast Discovery

Breakfast Discovery

Cold eggs and a half-eaten steak lay on John’s plate; he spins his fork across the surface in nervous little twirls. He never expected a “Denny’s” to be the key to his past. The food gurgle’s in his gut while swallowing back nervous belches.

He had only found out the secret to his life a week ago, never realizing he would be in this position so quickly. He didn’t sleep the night before and, since hauling out of bed to get ready for the day, could not stop shaking.

An old woman sits across the booth from him; her gray curls lay flat upon her forehead with bitter, pursed lips to boot. The lines on either side of her mouth match those on her plate, gravy groomed in two neat rows, trimmed like a well-kept lawn. 

“From Trudy’s Stop n’ Eat, I went into Little Ducky’s,” John says, filling the uncomfortable silence, “didn’t have much food experience at that point.” The old woman exhales and gazes out at the parking lot. John presses. “I guess that’s what got me started.”

           Their perky waitress sets a fresh glass of water in front of him.  He glances up at her, his bladder already at capacity. “Thank you.”

John’s blue eyes match the old woman’s; genetics were like that. One could never deny their connection and now, the truth sits before them.

“Ducky’s is where I met Christie. She was so sweet, so pretty,” John says.

The old woman raises an eyebrow.

“A year later we exchanged our vows and ten months later, Christopher…”

“Get to the point of all this,” the old woman says, “I wasn’t lookin’ for a biography. I can check those out at the library.” Her eyes narrow at him. “Don’t-cha want to know why I did it?”

She had been silent since he picked her up at the hotel. Her purse sat front and center, squarely on her lap; her bird-like hands gripping the handles as if John were a potential thief. He wasn’t sure if she was shy, nervous or just a cold bitch. John’s wife warned him not to open that can of worms. She reminded him that his life was perfectly fine, perfectly balanced; there was no need to ‘go there.’

“Why I just left you like that?” the old woman pushes, “No regard?”

           John nods, sipping on remaining flecks of water. An unexpected slurp breaks the tension, if only for a moment.  

“I was a young girl, Catholic. That’s it, that’s all.” She pauses, daring him to protest. She looks back out the window while bringing her hand up to the collar of her shirt, touching the top button. “Your father’s some machinist out in Hoboken, probably retired, who knows...” She points at him almost playfully. “But who cares, right?” she snorts. 

John cringes, his shoulders climb up to his ears; his eyes narrow at this newly animated woman who spoke of his biological father like he was the local bum. He had already found out he was dead in his internet search. John only found a photo of him, some archive that other family members put up in remembrance. He was pleased to see that his father’s eyes looked happy; it gave him hope that somewhere within his DNA, there was light.

The waitress grabs John’s plate as she plops down the fourth water of the morning, his bladder strained to the max.

“You have two brothers, you know; Jack and Robert; kind of like the Kennedy’s,” she chirps, almost pleasant. “Jack builds custom sheds and Robert, decks.”

“Kind of like Jesus, huh?” John glanced out at the parking lot, an attempt to locate his car for a swift exit. “Carpenters.”

The old woman sits up, gleaming.  It was the first time all morning she looked at him with soft eyes. She lifts her napkin from her lap and dabs each corner of her mouth. “Never quite thought of it that way,” she says.  “So nice of you to say, I’m quite proud of them.” She smiles.

John reels. She hadn’t smiled since picking her up. Her teeth were yellowed most likely from years of smoking. John caught a whiff of cigarettes on her when she got into his car. Until he pulled onto the interstate, her chomping gum was the only sound between them. He should have put two and two together, Nicorette. 

“Then that would make you Mary, right?” John asks, “or at least that’s what you wanted your parents to think, right?”

The old woman grabs the table with her spindly finger, a predator preparing to blindside its prey. “How dare you, I would have been thrown outta my house. You don’t know what it was like back then.”

“You’re full of crap,” John says.

The old woman nervously glances around the restaurant.

John has had enough. His wife warned him not to open the can. He glances down at his plate at the cold, masticated eggs—slimy, like worms. He looks for the waitress for the check and stands. A tolerant man, patient man working in the food industry; he had been honored, given plaques, banquets. He didn’t need another moment as he stands.

“I’m taking you back now,” he says. “I should have listened…this was a mistake.”

Their waitress passes by with a tray of sodas; without realizing, she bumps into him. An over flow of drinks splash over the top of the cups and splash down the front of his slacks.

The old woman stands and grabs her purse. 

John sees a dark, wet stain at the top of the old woman’s groin. His soda stain was nothing compared to this horrid woman’s piss stain.  The old woman notices the darkened spot upon his and snorts.

“Ha! Whattaya know, you are my son, huh?” She smiles again, this time a bit wider to reveal rot in her molars.

“The waitress just—”

The old woman places the purse in front of her pants in shame. “The only other thing you might get is the colon cancer,” she says, as she walks towards the exit. She stops at the hostess stand and grabs a handful of mints. “Loose bladder as we get old, runs in the family. Sorry, but that’s all I got for ya.”

--Pamela D. Hardy--