Sunday Breakfast

On Sunday mornings, Henry Jacobs woke early and made breakfast for he and his wife. He had been retired for four months and for him the Sunday breakfast also served as a mini-celebration of his freedom from Davidson and Son’s Warehouse. Besides, as he and his wife got older, it was important to appreciate the small moments together.

With slightly aching hands, Henry alternately worked two skillets and a toaster and had just made a fresh pot of coffee. The discomfort in his hands was indicative of his deteriorating health; getting older had inflicted a general soreness over his entire body. His wife had sometimes felt it too, particularly early in the morning, but she generally fared better than he did. Henry tended to worry about her for other reasons though. Next week’s visit from their son and his family would likely be an ordeal.
A few minutes later, per her routine, Martha shuffled lethargically down the stairs, into the kitchen, and straight for the coffee pot. For some reason the sight of his half-sleeping wife had always cheered Henry more than it perhaps should have.

“The eggs will be a minute,” he said. “We’re out of cheddar cheese though.”

“Hmmm?” It was not a question, just a wearied acknowledgment. She stirred cream and sugar into her coffee.

Martha was a stout woman, healthy, and usually of good spirits; but recently an uncharacteristic sadness sometimes came over her. She was old too, Henry thought, taking notice of her faded blue rollers. These caused him to smile as well. Ever since they had been married, she went to sleep with the same blue rollers nested in her once brown but now white-gray hair. He certainly had not anticipated the daily sight of the blue rollers when he had proposed so many years ago.

Henry supposed that there were a lot of things he had never anticipated. The importance of an old and rusting bicycle in their garage was one of these. He planned to talk with her later about that.

Behind Martha, he noticed last year’s pictures of their grandchildren. A few weeks ago, they had received more recent high school photos of Paul and Christine but had not yet put them in a frame. There was still five days to do this, so he was not too concerned.

The eggs were nearly done so he turned the heat down. In the other skillet, he used a pair of tongs to turn the bacon as it sizzled and popped.

Martha took another sip of her coffee which seemed to rouse her slightly. “No cheddar?” she eventually asked. “I thought we had some.”

“I put some parmesan in – that’s all we had.” He showed her the half-filled shaker.

“It’s better than nothing,” Martha said. She began rifling through the newspaper.

A few minutes later, their breakfast was ready (about the same time that Martha had filled her second cup of coffee) and following a quick prayer, the husband and wife of forty-four years partook of their Sunday breakfast.

“The eggs aren’t bad,” she said. “The parmesan is actually pretty good.”

“So you’re awake now?” he asked. She made no response and he took a quick sample of his eggs. “These are good. Pretty soon all restaurants will be serving parmesan cheese omelets.” He tasted his eggs with exaggerated enjoyment. “Mmmmm-mm!”

“I’ll get some cheddar for next time,” she said, smiling just a little.

Henry nodded his head in amusement. “Well, it’s good to try new things,” he said. He looked at their small table, which was a perfect fit for the two of them, and realized that he needed to find the table inserts for next week. “I suppose we should enjoy the peace and quiet while we can,” he said.

“I don’t want to think about it,” Martha said.

While Henry was not looking forward to the upcoming visit, he thought it unfortunate that Martha was already expecting the worst. Considering how poorly she had gotten along with her own parents, it seemed unfair that Martha should have such a strained relationship with Michael and his family. Perhaps he and Martha were partly to blame, but Henry suspected that the real problem was something else: Michael had married poorly.

Miranda was certainly attractive, but attractive in a way that tended towards glamorous -- in fact, she had once done a small amount of modeling. She was also uptight and demanding and had never found much use or appreciation for he or Martha. While the years should have shielded him from excessive expectations, Henry had hoped that being a grandparent would have been more fulfilling.

Maybe it was wrong to blame Miranda. She was certainly loving enough towards Michael and her children, but that love did not often extend to others. Even worse, Paul and Christine were now teenagers and had taken on some of the more selfish characteristics of their mother.

“So they’re staying for five days?” Martha asked.

“Starting on Friday.”

“Five days is a long time.” She took a wearied bite of her omelet. “What are they going to do for that long? What are the kids going to do?”

Henry shrugged. “Probably the same thing as last time. They might go to the mall or the movies. Or he’ll play on the computer and she’ll talk on the phone.”

“I suppose it is kind of boring here,” Martha said.

“Yeah, but they don’t try.” Henry recalled previous efforts: games, restaurant outings, picture albums. But the kids wanted to be left alone; most likely they would just be counting the days until their visit was over. Meanwhile, Miranda would spend her time reading a mystery novel or pouring through Florida travel brochures. Henry suspected that their subsequent vacation to Florida (almost customary at this point) was their way of “rewarding” themselves for enduring their time with he and Martha.

“Did Michael say why they’re staying for so long?” she asked him.

“No, I figured it would just be three days. Or maybe even less.”

And it will be all four of them? Miranda and the kids too?”

“As far as I know.” Henry allowed himself a hopeful moment as he picked up a bacon strip with his fingers. “I cleaned out the garage,” he said. “Or most of it.”

“You’ve been cleaning out that garage for three weeks now.”

“I’m not just cleaning,” he insisted. “I’m cleaning and organizing.” He thought of the bicycle in their garage and felt himself cringe. Henry had been meaning to mention it to her for a while but so far had said nothing. In his mind, the bicycle needed to be gone by Friday as its continued presence would be detrimental to a meaningful visit with their grandchildren. The bicycle was too prominent a symbol, too inviting of unwanted comparisons.

Henry spoke first of the toolbox and various efforts he had made in organizing and labeling. He then talked about finding his old hand axe. In spite of forty-four years of marriage, he was slow in getting to the point. Maybe it was because of forty-four years of marriage, he thought. “There’s still some boxes I haven’t gone through,” he continued. “We still have all those salt and pepper shakers -- are we still collecting those?” He hesitated again, inhaling sharply. When he spoke again, it was softly and with a trace of regret. “And then there’s the bike. We should probably do something about the bike.”

She startled momentarily at the mention and then a general sadness came over her. “You mean Jonathan’s bike?” she asked.

Two summers ago, a hyper but generally good-natured teenager had cut their grass. Jonathan had only worked for them for three months, but during that time he had made a good impression. His youth and enthusiasm had brought a welcome energy to their household.

Nobody’s used that bike for two years now,” Henry said, trying to sound as sympathetic and as reasonable as he could. He did not want her to cry. “You know Paul or Christine won’t ride it,” he said, recalling how repulsed they had been when he had suggested that on a previous visit. “Maybe… maybe, it’s time to give it away.”

Martha shook her head as if to ward off the suggestion but then suddenly stopped. Her body became rigid and her lips pulled tight as if she were holding her breath. “No,” she finally said. “We should keep the bike. What if he comes back?”

Henry realized that teenage boys were unpredictable and could just disappear for no reason, but in Jonathan’s case, he had had sufficient reason to not return. “Martha, it’s been two years,” he argued. “We would have seen him by now.”

“It’s been two years?” she asked absently. “It doesn’t seem like that long.” Her eyes glazed over and she smiled from a distance.

At the time, Henry had been quietly pleased that the summer had ended and that Jonathan would no longer be cutting their grass. Henry had worried that Jonathan’s continued presence would be too upsetting for Martha, but in reality it had been the memory that had proved too upsetting.

“I still have those cookies that he likes,” Martha said. “I should make some more.”

“Make some for the grandchildren,” Henry suggested.

“I suppose,” she said with mild enthusiasm and then quickly brightened. “I’ll make some for Jonathan too. Just in case.”

Henry shook his head, suddenly worried that his wife had gotten her hopes up. “Even if he does come to visit, I don’t think he’ll have much use for the bike.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s sixteen years old now. Maybe seventeen.”

“Just sixteen,” she said.

“Still, that’s the same age as Christine.”

Her face soured in objection. “He’s not anything like Christine.”

“I know.” Henry cut the remaining piece of toast in half and gave a half to each of them. “That’s part of the problem though. We’re keeping that bike as if he’s going to come back, even though we know that he isn’t.” She began to protest but he continued: “And in five days our actual grandchildren are coming to visit. Not Jonathan. Our actual grandchildren. And maybe… and maybe we should just try to make the best of that.”

“We’ve tried before,” she argued. “We try every time they come.”

“And we need to try again.”

Martha gave a distracted smile. “He loved that bike,” she said. “Remember how his eyes used to light up when he was on the bike – he had the best smile.”

“I’m just saying that they only visit once a year--”

“And remember when he rode all the way to the Quick-Mart to pick us up some pretzels? I couldn’t believe it – he didn’t even tell us he was going.”

“It’s a good thing he didn’t tell us,” Henry said.

“He was a good kid,” she said. At that, she got up to refill her coffee while Henry helped himself to the remainder of the bacon. On purpose or not, she had been successful in diverting him from his intention with the bike.

Henry conceded that there were good aspects to their memories of Jonathan. On occasions, even after they had paid him for the lawn-work, Jonathan would linger, content to visit or take the bike for a ride or sometimes join them for dinner. One time, he had even stayed until dark, helping Martha with one of her jigsaw puzzles, the one of the Grand Canyon. Henry suspected that Jonathan did not really like jigsaw puzzles, but Martha liked them so he had stayed and helped. Henry acknowledged that happy moments like those should be cherished, but he worried that too much emphasis on two-year-old memories had cost them some perspective.

“What do you think he’s doing now?” Martha asked.

“Probably the same thing that most teenagers do,” Henry said. “Spending time with his
friends. Staying out of trouble.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hopefully staying out of trouble.” He glanced to his wife who was only partly listening to him.

“It would be nice to hear from him,” she said weakly. “I just worry about him sometimes.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” he said. “Maybe he’s somewhere worrying about us.”

She laughed politely. “Well, it would be nice to hear from him.”

Henry nodded in agreement. For an instant, he felt an undeserved anger at Jonathan for being so oblivious. But that was unfair. “I’m sure he’s moved on to other adventures,” Henry said. “Time goes by pretty fast when you’re young.” And also when you’re old, he thought.

For the moment, they returned their attention to the newspaper, first Martha then Henry. There was still an hour before they would leave for church so there was no reason to hurry. Still, the morning crept forward and Henry felt a growing anxiety for what would come next.

“I hate that I said that to him,” Martha eventually said. Her face became puffy and turned the slightest shade of red.

Henry reached out and patted her hand, realizing that she was close to crying. “Don’t go through this again,” he said. “That was two years ago, and he knows you didn’t mean it.” Henry remembered the day clearly enough. Jonathan had picked up a ceramic teapot from their mantle and in a moment of mischief had pretended to throw it in the air. Unfortunately, in the act of pretending, he had lost his grip and the teapot fell to the hardwood floor and shattered into a hundred fragments.

Martha collected herself for the moment, wiping the tears from her eyes before they could spill down her cheeks. “And I cursed at him, Henry…. I cursed at him. And he was such a good kid.”

“I know,” Henry said. “It was just a slip of the tongue. He knows you didn’t mean it. Besides, I’m sure he’s heard profanity before.”

“But not from me! If it had been anything else.” Her voice trailed off.

The teapot had been a gift from her grandmother, one of the few items that she had treasured and kept from her childhood. From what Martha had told him, happy memories of her family were rare. And the teapot seemed to have had a special fascination for her which was even more pronounced at holidays and when the family got together. Henry wondered if there was some specific childhood dream associated with the teapot but she had never shared that with him.

“I don’t think he forgave me,” Martha said miserably.

“He said that he did,” Henry assured her, holding her hand between both of his. “And you apologized to him -- a couple of times.” Her face became wrinkled when she frowned and during those moments Henry thought that she did look old. “Besides,” he said, “Jonathan came back the next two weeks, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t stay for dinner.”

“No, but he didn’t always stay for dinner anyway.” That much was true, but it was also true that Jonathan had seemed nervous, that there had been an uncomfortable awkwardness between he and Martha. Sometimes, Henry thought, it was better to forget those sort of details. “So what should I do with the bike?” he asked, asserting himself once more. “I could take it to Good Will, let some other kid have a chance to ride it.”

“No, not just yet,” she said. “Let’s give it another few days.”

“Are you sure?” Martha did not answer and Henry understood the futility of his question. Martha was hopeful if not realistic. Of course, Jonathan would not be stopping by in the next few days any more than he would have stopped by the previous week or the one before that. The time for that had passed, the same way that doors had closed on other possibilities -- it was one of the consequences of growing old. Henry decided that his earlier assessment had been wrong -- getting rid of the bike was an unimportant gesture.

Looking ahead, maybe their grandchildren had grown more appreciative since their last visit, and maybe they would see the adventure and fun of riding a bike while they were still young enough to do so…. And maybe the whole family come together and enjoy an activity of some sort together. Henry smiled sadly and shook his head. Mostly, he hoped that some good would come from this upcoming visit, that Martha would not give up too quickly, and that maybe Michael’s family would make an effort in return.

Once the summer was over, he would most likely give the bicycle away and be done with it – maybe it was best if he made the decision for both of them on this. By then it might not hold such importance for Martha. He figured that in most ways, he had already moved on, but that Martha was still clinging to some small part of a memory. Memories were important too.

Martha had finished the last of her coffee and went upstairs to ready herself for church, while Henry began cleaning the table and washing dishes. He thought it good that he could help out, at least in this small way. Unfortunately, the subject of Jonathan had brought a bit of gloom to their Sunday morning. Anticipation of next week’s visit had contributed to this as well. Perhaps the visit would go better than expected – there was always a possibility. As for Jonathan, Henry hoped that the boy was doing well, and that he would soon be forgotten, like so many smaller memories during the course of a lifetime. Henry pinched the remnants of the bacon and had a final taste of Sunday breakfast.