Coffee and Scones

Mason awoke to the sound of rain tapping gently on his roof.

He sauntered to his kitchen and flipped on the light, replacing gray shadows with an industrious yellow glow. Outside, heavy raindrops hammered on his window. He poured himself a freshly-brewed cup of coffee and sunk into his sofa, listening to the pounding of rain echo through the house. For the first time in weeks his mind felt at ease.

Just as Mason’s lips skimmed the mug’s rim to take a sip, the doorbell clanged and seemed to electrocute his arm, causing him to spill steaming coffee down his shirt. 

“Shit,” he grumbled as he trudged to the front door, wondering who would be out in this weather. 

When he opened the door, his eyes shot open. On his covered porch stood an elderly man, dressed in a sopping wet cotton jacket and black fedora that covered his face while he stared at his feet.

“Sir? Can I help you?” Mason stuttered.

The man looked up and removed his hat, revealing a set of wistful brown eyes. Sunspots covered his wrinkled skin. He was bald but had a slim line of wispy gray hair that ran from his ears to the back of his head. His thin lips curved into a fragile smile. 

“Yes… oh please. I left my home before this rain started, and now I cannot manage to walk back in this weather.” His voice quivered.

Mason displayed a look of confusion.

“I am scared,” the man added shamefully. “Of lightning.” He pointed to the ominous gray clouds, which appeared ready to burst at any moment. 

Mason snapped into focus. Although he never met this man before, he felt oddly comfortable around him; his eyes seemed to emanate tranquility. “Uh-yes. Come in, come in.”

“Oh thank you, Son.”

The man unbuttoned his dripping coat and cautiously stepped through the door. Mason offered a towel in exchange for his wet clothes. 

“Let me throw this in the dryer real quick for you,” Mason suggested.

“No no that shouldn’t be necessary. It’s a… quite nice coat. Just hang it on the porch for a bit that will be fine.” 

As he walked to drape the jacket over a chair, Mason snuck a peak at the tag: Neiman Marcus. Mason wondered what his living might be. Should be an interesting morning, he thought. 

“Sir, I forgot to ask, what is your name?”

“Oh - I’m Hubert Melamed.”

“Mason Gilbert.”

“Pleasure,” Hubert said with a nod. 

Mason led his guest into the kitchen. “Would you like coffee, Mr. Gilbert?”

“Please, call me Hubert. And that would be wonderful - my hands are quite chilled. ”

As Mason headed to the kitchen to pour a fresh cup, Hubert lowered himself into a chair by the sofa. He gazed out the window with a sullen look. Mason handed him the mug and joined in on watching water cascade down the glass.

Hubert raised a shaky hand to take a sip. “I’ve never seen it like this before,” he said monotonously. “The rain - I mean. Lived here fifty years and the streets have never flooded so quickly.” 

Memories of a childhood protected by sunshine rushed to Mason’s mind. “I actually just moved here from California. Still getting used to this rain thing.”

A chuckle escaped Hubert’s lips. “Ahh. A West Coaster. I’ve always wanted to visit.”

“It’s beautiful. What’s stopping you from going out there?”

“Traveling has never really been my thing. Since moving here I’ve pretty much confined myself to this little town.” His eyes shifted to his lap. “It just feels… safe.”

Mason thought he saw Hubert’s eyes redden with tears, but the man quickly blinked them away and changed topics. “Normally, when it rains like this, I sit on the rocking chair on my front porch and just watch it fall… for hours.”

Suddenly, Mason realized he recognized Hubert as one of his neighbors. While running through the neighborhood, he often passed a red brick house at the end of the road and observed an old man sitting in a rocking chair. And every time the man would raise his fedora and shoot him a subtle smile. 

Mason’s eyes shot toward the fedora hanging outside; it was the same one. He grinned. 

“Do you go for walks every day?” Mason inquired, fishing for conversation material.

“Almost. Usually for an hour or two. Today, though…” Hubert rolled up his sleeve to glance at his watch, and Mason caught a glimpse of something that marked his left arm. It appeared to be a row of several numbers, etched into his skin. Mason assumed it was an old tattoo but hesitated to ask about the meaning.

“-only 30 minutes.”

“Hubert, would you like a scone? Blueberry? I baked them yesterday.”

“Oh my - definitely. That is so kind of you. My wife Ruth used to bake the best pecan scones.”

Mason rushed to the kitchen but stopped in his tracks at a sight that made him gasp. A puddle covered the middle of the floor below a dark splotch on the ceiling, which released a steady stream of splattering drops. With wide eyes, Mason searched the room for an idea of what to do; this was a new issue for him. He snagged a bucket from the closet and placed it under the hole after soaking up the water with a towel. Cursing under his breath, he stared at the damp ceiling, dreading the thought of paying hundreds of dollars he did not have to call a roofing company.

“Everything alright in here?”

Mason whipped his head around and saw that Hubert had wandered into the kitchen.

“Yes. Don’t worry I’ve got it under control.”

“Alrighty, so I don’t need to-”

“Nope. I’m just gonna give Roof Repair a quick call,” he responded, walking past his stunned guest to grab his phone.

Several minutes later, Mason returned to the kitchen. “They’ll be here any min-”. He froze. 

Screwdriver in hand, Hubert stood next to a stepladder below the leak, which was no longer leaking. Silence replaced the rhythmic dripping of water into the bucket. Looking up, Mason noticed a slab of beige-colored material covering the hole.

“Wha-”

“You can call that company back. Tell them not to come.” Hubert folded the stepladder.

“What did-”

“Just a little putty and screwdriver action. I found this stuff in that closet over there. Hope you don’t mind. Should last you until the rain is over and you can get up on the roof yourself.”

“Uh… I… thank you. Thank you, Hubert. Where did you learn that trick?”

Hubert looked Mason in the eyes. He paused for several seconds before whispering, “The war, son. It rained every day in the ghettos… Now, where are those scones you mentioned?”