11 - breakfast with mother

Treading barefoot down the long hall, I smelled bacon frying. I had been an inconsistent vegetarian before, drawing the line at eating four footed creatures. Partly that had been my idea, partly it was my daughter’s doing. I stopped and looked at a collection of family pictures arranged along the wall. I wondered what had happened to her, to her children, my grandchildren. Did they still exist somewhere maybe mourning the demise of old Paw Paw? Or were they accidents that were yet to happen - that would never happen now?

Mother was standing at the stove using a fork to turn the bacon which sizzled in a cast-iron frying pan. She leaned back to avoid the splatter. It was already warm in the kitchen and she was wearing a sleeveless housedress. With her free hand she wiped a strand of reddish brown her from her forehead. She said over her shoulder, “Hey stranger. Hungry?”

Reaching around to get the coffee pot from the back burner, brushing against her moist shoulder, I said, “Well yes, I am.” I would eat the bacon. Things had changed.

“Good. It will be a minute.”

I sat down at the yellow Formica top dinette table, not too different from the table in my room - my other room. The places where my father and Tommy sat last night at supper had been cleared. I looked at the white enamel clock built into the back panel of the stove. It was 8:30. They must have already gone to work at Shelby Millwork. I worked there too this summer but nobody had said anything about me going in today.

Mother finished the bacon. She carefully poured grease out of the frying pan into a bowl then put on the eggs.

I turned to my coffee and the Observer. The date on the paper was July 11th, 1960. The lead article was about the Democratic National Convention which started today. Although Kennedy was the likely winner there was still a possibility for Johnson or Stevenson. I wondered if I could place a bet.

Mother said, “Here you go.”

Using the tips of her fingers as tongs she served four pieces of bacon and two slices of toast, white bread, heavily buttered. Then she forked the eggs onto my plate. The eggs were slightly brown from the bacon grease. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she sat at the place normally occupied by my father. She shook a cigarette loose from a pack of Kents, pulled a match loose from a book, lit the cigarette, and blew a cloud of smoke in my direction.

I expected to cough but this T.G.’s body seemed used to it.

I said, “You know those things are going to kill you some day.”

She frowned, “That’s fine talk coming from you Mr. Cigarette Smoker.”

I had forgotten, After secretly stealing cigarettes since I was 15, last year I had started smoking in front of my parents. There was a pack of Winstons on the desk in my room.

I said, “Maybe I’ll quit.”

Dramatically stubbing the cigarette out in a small glass ashtray, she said, “Well if you quit, so will I.”

Reaching my hand across the table, I said, “You’re on. It’s a deal.”

She hesitated, then put out her hand, which was smooth and strong. “Deal.”

I returned to the paper and she picked up another section. In a few minutes, she said, “T.G.?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering - your father and I were talking - are you still going to switch to Carolina this fall? Because if you are, the paperwork has got to be done.”

I remembered. After mediocre Freshmen and Sophomore years at N.C. State in their pre-engineering program, I was going to switch to liberal arts at Carolina, which if history repeated itself would lead eventually to a journalism degree, a job on the local newspaper and the rest of my life.

“I don’t know. I am not sure now.”

Putting down her newspaper, sliding her chair away from the table, she said, “Well, you’ve got to decide soon.”

“Sure. And, thanks for fixing my breakfast.”

She seemed surprised by that.