By Cathy Carroll-Moriarty
I’m surprised he came. But there he is at our usual booth by the window. Time hasn’t changed him much since our childhood days in Little Bohemia. Light colored hair with eyelashes to match. Indistinct chin. Small eyes set close together atop a small nose and thin line of a mouth. Only difference from middle school till now is that he can finally grow a moustache, though not much of one.
The years haven’t been as kind to me. But I haven’t been kind to the years I’ve been given, either.
He takes a drink of water and looks at his watch, probably one of the few people left our age who still wears one. I could leave right now. It wouldn’t be the first time I stood him up, in fact, he’s probably expecting me to. Instead, I take a deep breath in and saunter over to the table.
He looks up when I sit down. His eyes don’t light up, nor does he smile like he used to when he would see me. There was a time when I could count on both.
“I ordered you a coffee and a piece of your favorite torte.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’m not staying long. Matthew has an appointment.”
I have no idea which one Matthew is; he has a whole brood of kids. Maybe he’s the one with Muscular Dystrophy? I don’t insult him by asking. There was a time when I would’ve delighted in watching the pain and annoyance take shape across his flaccid features. But not today.
“So, I guess I should say what I need to say right off the bat.”
“Yeah, guess so,” he checks his watch again.
I clear my throat, “so the thing is…I saw the doctor the other day. Got some news.” Good lord, he’s not even looking at me. “I’m dying. There’s no treatment, at least that my insurance will cover.”
His eyes flicker with what might’ve been emotion. No, it’s gone, now.
“So, you need money or something? Is that it?”
“No…” Although money never hurt.
“Cause I’m not doing this dance again. I’m still paying off the last loan I took out for you.”
“I, um, I just thought you would want to know, that’s all.”
“Why would you want me to know unless there’s some benefit in it for you?”
“That’s not really fair…”
“Not fair? No, not fair was me missing Cecelia’s baptism to bail you outta jail. Not fair was me losing my job because I vouched for you. Fair doesn’t exist between us anymore.”
“We used to be close. For old times’ sake, I want things to be like they were.” I lowered my eyes for effect. “For you to be with me at the end.”
Abruptly, he stands, at least as abruptly as someone can stand up from a booth. His face red, his unremarkable brown eyes narrowed, “I don’t know what you’re playing at. But I’m not doing this with you. When I said I cut you off, I meant it. I don’t even know why I came.”
He shuffles through his wallet. “Use this to pay for the coffee and torte.” He tosses some bills on the table. “Don’t call me again.”
He stomps off, checking his watch again. Forgiveness and sentiment are among his many weaknesses, so I watch the door for his return. I don’t care that he doesn’t shuffle back inside. Andy could be a stubborn little brat and I don’t need him.
The waitress brings over the order, and I almost send her away. Almost. It is my favorite torte after all. The memories melt in my mouth with each bite. How he’d give me his lunch when he saw I was hungry during our days at St. Adalbert’s grade school. How he’d taken beatings for me from high school bullies. He’d never let me down until now; guess that’s how some people are.
I lick the fork to get every ounce of frosting. Setting the fork down and reaching for the money, I realize that he left two fifties. More than enough for coffee and torte. Smoothing the money flat and stacking the two bills on top of each other, I twist my face into a smirk. I could always count on Andy.
I pocket all of it and leave the cafe.
* * *
Cathy lives in the Midwest and has started a writing career later in life. When not writing stories and rewriting her novel, she enjoys book club meetings at a café in Little Bohemia , gardening, and luxurious Sunday afternoon naps. Her work has appeared in Ariel Chart, Adelaide, Grande Dame Literary, and Four Tulips.