Helen discovered Dante’s Café the day her car careened into a fire hydrant and bounced onto the front step. Finding herself uninjured, and hungry, she promptly went inside and ordered breakfast. Over the next two hours Helen enjoyed an order of eggs benedict, a side of fruit salad and three cups of coffee all while answering the questions of two state troopers and arranging for a tow-truck.
That night Helen called the five ladies of the Breakfast Club to tell them about her adventure. “Dante’s is centrally located and offers a 15% senior discount,” she said excitedly, adding, “the food’s not bad and the waiter is absolutely adorable.”
The group began to meet there the very next week. That was two years ago. Every Wednesday morning since, the old ladies pushed two square tables into the west corner of Dante’s Café, dragged their chairs in close and began to whisper. Within minutes their laughter rocked every inch of the small diner.
Roger walked over, crisp white shirt, menus in hand. “What’s up ladies? How’re you all doing today?”
The ladies loved Roger. They ignored the breakfast specials and ordered their usual from the senior menu: various combinations of one egg, two strips of bacon, one pancake, a dry toasted English muffin, and decaf coffee or tea. Along with a request for separate checks, though none ever varied more than fifty-cents.
“Where’s Josie?” Roger asked. “I put on a fresh pot of decaf coffee just for her.”
“She had a doctor’s appointment this morning,” replied Ruth. “Said she’d be here next week. But I’ll have a cup of that.”
“Me, too,” mumbled Ginger, busily rubbing cortisone cream into a dry patch on her ring finger.
Roger deposited a basket of fresh bread on the table and took off to the kitchen.
“So, last night Bill and I were invited to a birthday party at our neighbor’s house,” Helen said chomping on a bagel. “They’re a nice young couple, but crazy as loons. They spent two weeks trying to teach their pup how to sing Happy Birthday. The silly mutt was trained to start singing the minute he saw Mary light the candles. It sounded something like this…” Helen leaned back in her chair, tucked a few strands of stringy brown hair behind her ears, and began to howl. Pretty soon the other four ladies joined in, all shrieking happy birthday in doggy harmony.
In-between bouts of hysterics they dabbed their eyes with coffee stained napkins, faces flushed under mops of hair… silver, gray, salt and pepper, one mahogany red, another deathly brown, all crowning pale skin flecked with age spots they called granny freckles.
“Interesting melody,” said Roger delivering the first platters of food. “You practicing to join the Red Hats or something?”
They took one look at him and exploded into laughter again. Their bellies shook the square tables so hard they toppled a glass of water. Estelle peed in her pants. Thank God for “Depends”.
Eventually they calmed down enough to eat. These two hours that the ladies spent at Dante’s had become their life-line; the one place they could discuss the challenges and anguishes of growing old without explanation or criticism. Their bond solidified with each unexpected loss, and blossomed with every occasional triumph. No matter what life threw at them Wednesday was always just a few days away. They were not alone.
As soon as Roger returned to the kitchen, Ruth pulled the obituary page of the local paper from her purse and began waving it around.
“Gordon and I were in L.A. when we heard the news about Seymour. We weren’t able to get back in time for the funeral. Could hardly believe it! Did a lot of people show? Did they have an open casket? Who led the service? He was such an odd fellow.” She stopped to catch her breath and stared at her friends.
Estelle mopped a dribble of melted butter from her chin. “Sad, Ruthie. It was all so very sad. He was only 64.”
“Really? He looked so much older. We heard it was a heart attack.”
“That’s what we heard also.” Bella blew her nose into a napkin, balled it into a tight wad and tossed it in the middle of the table. “Must have been. They requested donations to the American Heart Association.”
Ruth nudged Bella’s used napkin onto the floor with her elbow then discretely kicked it to the next table. She took a sip of hot coffee. “Gordon and I will be going over to make a Shiva call tonight. How’s Loretta holding up?”
“I think she’s numb,” said Helen.
“Probably still in a state of shock,” Ginger added. “Howard and I happened to be there when she got the call.”
“Call? What call? I thought he died at home?”
“Home, schmome,” cracked Bella. “He died on the golf course, playing 18 holes with his secretary!”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.”
Bella began to hiccup. “If it’s okay with you, Ruthie, I’d like to come along with you tonight. I need to pay my respects to Loretta also.”
“Can we forget Seymour for a minute?” interjected Estelle taking a florescent pink note pad from the side pocket of her leopard poncho. “Does anyone here know what to do with rhubarb? My neighbor dropped a huge bunch of it on my doorstep, and aside from washing off all the bugs, I’m not sure what to do next. It tasted terrible in the salad.”
“You’ve got to cook rhubarb first!” said Helen sharply. “You can’t just eat it raw.”
“Cook it? Really? I didn’t know that.” Estelle wrote, cook rhubarb on her note pad, then turned to Helen. “How exactly do I cook it again?”
“Cut the stems into small bits, put them in a saucepan with water and some sweetener and simmer until tender. But don’t eat the leaves, they’ll make you sick,” replied Helen.
“Open,” Ginger muttered reaching for an onion roll.
“Open?” asked Estelle. “What’s open? The saucepan?”
“No, dear, the casket was. And Seymour actually looked good for a change.” Ginger grabbed another packet of orange marmalade.
“Well, somebody else must have dressed him for the occasion. He was usually such a slob,” said Helen.
“Yeah, but not last Sunday,” Ginger continued. “You know he was the best damn dentist I ever had. Did all the porcelains on my front teeth, and my root canals. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.” She opened her mouth and grimaced to show off her teeth.
Ruth nodded, stuffing the obituary page back in her purse. “Poor Seymour. I never could understand what Loretta saw in him. I mean, aside from all the money. And the boat.”
The ladies nodded in agreement.
After three more painful hiccups Bella rubbed her chest and screamed. “I can’t stand this anymore!”
“The easiest way to get rid of hiccups is to hold your breath for 10 minutes,” offered Estelle.
“Ten minutes is a bit long, don’t you think, dear?”
“Oh. Well, five minutes then,” said Estelle reaching into her purse for a little square cube of sugar. “That’s what always cures my hiccups, anyhow.” She smiled sweetly. Estelle carefully placed the sugar cube between her front teeth, took a long sip of tea, then coughed several times sending a fine spray of granules shooting across the table.
Helen brushed the sugar off her sleeve. “I heard you should eat a clove of raw garlic.”
“Or drink 3 ounces of vinegar,” said Ginger. “Slowly.”
“Or not!” Bella croaked through another barrage of hiccups and burps.
Their conversations rumbled on, topics switching rapidly from husbands to grand-kids, to health issues, vacation plans and general gossip.
Roger cruised by a fourth time topping off all the tea and coffee mugs. He pointed to a large clock on the back wall. “It’s almost 11:00 ladies. You asked me to remind you.”
“Boy the time really flew this morning,” said Ginger taking one more sip of coffee. She began fishing for her purse under the table. “I’ve gotta’ leave on time today. Howard and I have an appointment with our tax accountant. Will I see you all next week?”
“Of course,” they answered in unison.
Bella’s face crinkled into a wide grin. “And by next week I may actually be able to tell you what name Bonnie and her wacky husband have picked for the new baby.”
“Better births than funerals,” said Ruth.
“Me first to the bathroom today,” Estelle exclaimed shimmying her rotund little body from behind the table. She waddled toward the restroom, curly white ringlets of hair bouncing with each step.
Ginger called “Me next!”
“Okay, I’ll take shotgun,” declared Bella, her raspy voice bellowing though the diner.
The other four women looked at her like she was crazy.
“What?”
“I’ll take shotgun,” repeated Bella, more timidly this time.
“What the hell does that mean?” Ruth asked.
“I don’t know,” whimpered Bella. “It’s what my grand-kids always say when I go to the bathroom last. You all seemed to be in such a hurry. I figured I could wait.”
Ruth shook her head. “Bella, the kids call out ‘shotgun’ when they want to sit in the front passenger seat of the car. Remember the old Western movies? The cowboy with the shotgun sat up front so he could shoot bad guys. How that connects with going to the bathroom last is beyond me.”
Bella’s face turned as red as a tomato. “Whenever I take the grand-kids for a ride I always tell them to go to the bathroom before we leave. When it’s finally my turn, one of them usually screams ‘shotgun’ and they scramble out to the car. I always thought it was because I went to the bathroom last!”
“Oh, God help us,” Ginger moaned. The group shook their heads and dabbed at their eyes one more time.
By 11:15 they’d finished with the bathroom brigade, paid their bills and were finally ready to go outside. Roger held the door while the women, pulling hoods over their heads, exited into the light rain.
A group hug in Dante’s parking lot, goodbyes and smiles. Each hopeful the next seven days would prove easy. The five climbed into separate cars, slowly backing up, being extra careful not to hit each other on the way out.
Diana's Writing 