A Cup of Coffee
“As long as there was coffee in the world, how bad could things be?”
― Cassandra Clare, (City of Ashes, 2015)
Bobby’s mother lay comatose in a room by herself. As he and his dad entered, they always heard a TV playing quietly in the corner. It was not clear if the TV was intended for Kay’s comfort or for theirs, but it was always playing.
Before each visit, Bobby’s dad would stop and purchase a single, white chrysanthemum to take to his wife. The florist would wrap the flower in thin cellophane to protect it from being disheveled by a breeze during their short walk to the nursing home. She charged him perhaps a quarter.
After they entered, Bobby’s dad would kiss Kay on the cheek as he placed that white chrysanthemum in a small vase located on a nightstand beside her bed. Her room was so drab and dreary that that single, white flower brightened what otherwise would have been an unbearable experience.
They would sit on either side of her bed. His father would hold Kay’s hand and talk to her softly for thirty minutes or so. She stared off into space the whole time without acknowledging their presence. Bobby just looked at his mom the whole time, trying to remember what she was like before the stroke. His last view as he left her room was of that simple, white flower in that little vase.
His mother’s funeral took place a little over a week since his last visit to see her. Now, a month later, Bobby could hardly recall the occasion, except for the white chrysanthemums arrayed about his mother’s casket. He had seen them as he stopped at the threshold to the funeral parlor where his mother lay. The flowers were barely visible from the doorway of the dimly lit room. It was perfectly silent, except for the organ music playing softly through the intercom and an occasional, muffled cough.
He freeze-framed that memory of himself in that doorway, unable to step inside, unable to grieve properly. It was like the time the following summer, when he walked through the front door of a country store in Nova Scotia in the morning twilight. It was all too familiar... save for the jingling of the bell.
***
His father had been driving all night, and the sun had just risen. The campground, where they were headed, was still hours away. Now, all he hoped for was a hot cup of coffee.
The countryside was sparsely populated, and their prospect for finding somewhere to buy a cup of coffee was bleak. As they rounded a corner, his father spotted a building that appeared to be a small, general store. A few cars were parked outside, and a dim lamp lit the interior.
He pulled over to the side of the road, parked the car and handed Bobby a one-dollar bill. He asked Bobby to go inside and buy him a cup of coffee, like he had done on so many previous trips.
As Bobby approached the front door, he could sense something was amiss. Despite the numerous cars parked outside, there were no sounds coming from within except the faint sounds of recorded organ music. He slowly cracked open the door, striking a small bell that hung above the entrance.
All who were seated turned to see who had arrived late to the service. Startled and embarrassed, Bobby froze in place, just as he had at his mother’s funeral. A coffin lay on the counter, where a cash register should have been, and a fresh pot of hot coffee, intended for the congregation, sat next to it. Behind the coffin was a vase in a stand containing a half dozen, white chrysanthemums.
“Welcome. Won’t you take a seat. We’re just about to begin.”
The voice was calm and reassuring, the voice of someone who did such things for a living. Bobby stepped inside and sat down.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here...” intoned the minister.
As the ceremony began, the memory of his mother, for whom he had not properly grieved, flashed before him:
My earliest memory of you was our doing dishes together after evening meals. You would wash and I would dry. I remember vacuuming on weekends and I recall the gaudy ceramic ash trays that you made. I recall the way you squinted as you smoked. One Saturday, rather than watching Loony Tunes on TV, you gave me my first dance lesson. Oh God! Swing dancing with you was almost more than a young boy could bear. But dance we did. I was perhaps nine or ten when you failed to awaken me at the usual time one weekday. Not wanting to be late for the school bus, I ventured into your bedroom in order to awaken you, but you were still asleep. To my amazement, you were also half naked. I was embarrassed for you. I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a kitchen towel and returned to restore your modesty before waking you. I miss the fresh lobster tails that you brought home on Fridays after work and the smell of the sun-dried bed sheets that you hung on our backyard line. But most of all, I remember my first dance with you.
The service concluded and the congregation began shuffling out. It had all happened in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Thirty minutes had passed.
His father had fallen asleep and was awakened when Bobby opened the car door.
“Where have you been?” asked his father.
“Getting a cup of coffee,” responded Bobby.