The Kitchen Table
In the morning, the light hit the kitchen window at a sharp slant, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the red linoleum floor.
I woke up at five-thirty out of forty years of habit. For a brief, disorienting moment, I looked for the water-stained plaster of my old bedroom ceiling in Duluth, bracing myself for the cold draft that usually crept under the door from Doug’s uninsulated hallway.
Then I heard the soft, methodical clinking of a spoon against a glass bowl from down the hall.
I put on my slippers and wrapped my robe around myself, stepping quietly into the kitchen.
Hope was sitting on a booster seat at the small wooden table, wearing a pair of pajamas patterned with green frogs. She had a bowl of cheerios in front of her and was very carefully picking out the individual cereal rings one by one and arranging them in a neat circle on her placemat.
When she saw me, she froze, her tiny spoon suspended halfway to her mouth.
“Good morning, Hope,” I said gently, keeping my distance so as not to startle her.
She looked at me with huge, dark blue eyes—Arthur’s eyes, unmistakable and clear. “Are you staying for breakfast?” she asked.
“I’m staying for a lot of breakfasts,” I told her, moving slowly toward the counter. “If that’s alright with you.”
She pondered this for a second, her small brow furrowing in deep concentration. “Daddy made coffee. But he said not to touch the pot because it’s hot.”
“Smart daddy,” I said.
I poured myself a mug from the vintage glass carafe sitting on the counter. The coffee was strong and slightly bitter, exactly the way Arthur used to brew it.
Jesse emerged from the bathroom a moment later, his hair wet from the shower, dressed in his work uniform—navy blue trousers and a matching shirt with a patch over the pocket that read EAST SIDE AUTO BODY – JESSE.
He stopped in the doorway, momentarily surprised to see me sitting at his table. A faint flush came over his cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. “I try to leave for the shop by six-thirty so I can drop Hope at Mrs. Gable’s down the block before my shift starts at seven.”
“You didn’t wake me, son,” I said, sipping the coffee. “I’ve been waking up at five-thirty since 1982.”
Jesse walked over to the table, bending down to press a kiss into Hope’s damp curls. “Did you eat your fruit, buggy?”
“I’m saving the bananas for last,” Hope announced solemnly. “Grandma Marlene has a gap in her teeth.”
Jesse caught my eye, looking suddenly panicked. “Hope, that’s not polite—”
“It’s fine, Jesse,” I laughed, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged kitchen. I looked down at the little girl and smiled wide, showing the small space between my two front teeth. “Your daddy has one too. Did you know that?”
Hope looked up at Jesse in surprise. Jesse hesitated, then offered a small, rare open-mouthed smile. Sure enough, right in the center, was the exact same narrow gap that had run through four generations of the Pruitt-Kowalski family line.
Hope gasped, clapping her hands together. “We’re a set!”
Jesse’s shoulders relaxed, a quiet, soft warmth coming over his face. He sat down at the table, taking a piece of dry toast from a plate in the center.
“Mrs. Gable takes care of her during the day?” I asked, leaning back against the counter.
“She’s an older lady down on the corner,” Jesse explained, chewing slowly. “Her grandkids moved to Texas last year, so she minds a couple of the neighborhood kids for four bucks an hour. She’s nice, but… her hip’s been giving her trouble lately. She can’t take them to the park much.”
I looked at Hope, who was currently trying to balance three Cheerios on her thumb.
“You don’t need to pay Mrs. Gable four dollars an hour anymore, Jesse,” I said softly.
Jesse stopped chewing. He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “Mom, no. You’ve been through enough. You’re sixty-five years old. You shouldn’t have to spend your days chasing a five-year-old around.”
“Jesse Kowalski,” I said, using the voice I hadn’t used in fifteen years—the voice that meant business. “I have spent the last six years sitting in a drafty living room watching snow fall on Doug Pruitt’s hardware store, wondering if my son was dead in an alley somewhere. Do you really think I want to sit in an empty room when I could be taking my granddaughter to the park?”
Jesse looked down at his plate. His throat worked as he swallowed.
“She likes the swings,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “She likes it when you push her real high and make a noise like an airplane.”
“Then I’ll practice my airplane noise,” I said.
Hope looked back and forth between us, sensing the weight of the moment even if she didn’t understand the years behind it. She reached out with a small, jam-sticky hand and patted Jesse’s arm.
“Don’t cry, Daddy,” she said softly. “Grandma knows how to do airplanes.”
