Diana

“If anyone would like service today they’d better come up to the cash register.” A young woman frowned, shifted her weight onto one hip, curled her lip and raised one eyebrow at the next person in line. A line trailed from the counter to the door with kids in college sweatshirts and Eagles jerseys, seven-day workweek folks folding their arms and tapping their feet so they can get to the office, and police officers decorated with shiny medals standing in front of and behind me. My Cadillac hardly fit. My heart began racing but I knew I had to pull through if I were to get Di’s coffee. I gripped my Cadillac, breathing in and out, making my way up the line slowly for such a rushed place.

The smell of coffee drenched the air, mingled with scones, muffins, cream, and some kind of pumpkin flavoring that was in season. There were lots of little tables with wooden pumpkins, a bar lined with tall stools along the window facing the still-cobblestone street, and a section with cushioned armchairs and a green velvet couch. Two stations were set up with creamer, sugar, spices and flavoring, stirring sticks, napkins, and cardboard sleeves for the hot drinks. The windows were coated with the condensation of the café’s warmth against the cold October bluster as fallen leaves of orange and brown danced across the sidewalk.

The menu had such tiny writing, though I knew the sizes by heart. In my day it was “small,” “medium,” or “large,” not “tall,” “grande” and “venti.” Back when Di and I used to bring Joseph with us to a mom and pop café after Mass on Sundays it was all “small,” “medium” and “large.” Times were more honest, even on menu boards. “Tall” was a ridiculous way of trying to make a small cup seem like it was a better deal for something more than three times the cost than it used to be. My lanta.

What was it Di loved? She always had plain coffee during the week. Maybe some of that pumpkin stuff all over the pictures. She loved pumpkin. At least, she did used to bake pumpkin seeds every Halloween for Joseph before the Good Lord called him Home.

I looked up and saw a young woman looking at me with her raised eyebrow. Her nametag read “Diana” and her lips were moving. I sighed and reached for my ear.

All of a sudden the world blasted on. The rush of some kind of steamy latte hose, the crushing of ice in the screaming blenders and the scoops diving in the ice buckets threw me askew. Girls were on the other side of the café shouting orders and plopping drinks on the counter for whoever got it first.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sir, you’ve been babbling and I can’t hear you. What do you want?”

I gestured to one of the pictures with a frothy looking pumpkin drink. “One of those pumpkin drinks.”

“A grande Spiced Pumpkin Latte?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ok, sir, that’ll be three seventy-nine.”

I felt for my wallet in my pocket and struggled to grasp it with my cold, trembling hands. I counted out the money and handed it to her.

“Grande Pumpkin Latte! Next!”

I glanced around and felt someone brush past me and caught them rolling their eyes. Where did I go? Oh—there was a crowd of people by a counter off to the side… ok, that’s where the drinks wound up. I shuffled my Cadillac and pushed forward.
After a few minutes a girl slapped a white drink on the counter and shouted “Grande Pumpkin Latte!” I excused myself and picked up the drink, placed it on the shelf on my Cadillac, and tried to squeeze out.

Crash!

Someone slipped by and knocked over my Cadillac. With it went the drink, now spilled all over the floor. The necklace I’d
worn with a wedding band that matched mine flew in the air.

“Ohhhhh…”

“Sir, do you need help?” One of the boys in the Eagles jerseys stooped to pick up my Cadillac first, shuffled it towards me and said, “Here’s your walker.” He held up the empty cup. “What was this?”

Grown men do not cry, but I felt something hot and wet splash my face. “Oh… uhh… a medium… a grande—”

“A grande Pumpkin Latte?”

“I think so, yes…”

He picked up the necklace at his feet. “Is this yours too?”

“It’s my wife’s.” He smiled and handed it to me.

“Ok, we’ll get you another latte. Sit over here.” He guided me to one of the green velvet couches. I winced as I sat—so difficult to sit on the tailbone these days. And the back is curved, so sitting flat against a seat is not possible. But I sat where I was placed and sighed. The buzzing was around me, but at least there was no threat of me falling. “I’ll be right back. Stay right here,” he said gently.

Within a few minutes, he returned with the same beverage. He placed it on a table beside me, offered his hand, which I grasped and winced as he hoisted me up to my Cadillac. “Ready to go?”

He adjusted my Cadillac in front of me, hooked his arm in mine while carrying the drink in his other arm. His sheer size forced people away from us, and soon I was in my car ready to drive home, no problem.

“Are you sure you’re ok to drive by yourself?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Take care.”

“I will. Thank you young man.”

He smiled again, his blue eyes glowing. “No problem.”
With that, I wrapped my seat belt around my belly, clicked it, and drove to an empty house that hadn’t been my home in fifty years.