Morning Coffee & Memories

“Let it ring,” he said through a morning cigarette, and to no one in particular. From somewhere in the kitchen, the cellphone sounds stopped, giving room for the silence to flood back in. It was like a warm blanket in the Alabama sun—a hug from a person you had no intention of hugging—but Ernest Kwiquette didn’t mind. In fact, he’d grown so accustomed to the silence that on days when people visited, all he could think about was getting it back.

Today was no different. He took another drag and ashed what was left in a lumpy clay bowl. On the side was painted his son’s name. It was a first-grade Father’s Day present, as old and used up as its owner.   

“Tate,” he called, though his voice was still warming up, and a fit of coughing led him to whistle instead. The old dog responded, his bark hardly louder than the house noise. He limped into the dining room and gave an excited bounce for a journey well finished.

“Good pup,” Ernest said, patting the dog’s head, and Tate licked at his owner's hand.

Ernest Kwiquette drank his coffee black, the same as his father had. Beau Kwiquette Junior said it was a family tradition. “It takes a real man to swallow tar,” he’d say. “Puts hair on your chest,” but Ernest knew otherwise. Food banks didn’t supply creamer, only powdered milk. Sugar was a treat.

He also drank his coffee lukewarm. The first factory to give him a chance after the war offered free coffee in their breakroom. Except every other veteran preferred the breakroom coffee as much as he did, so he would get to work before everyone else and fill a thermos with the tar. He never took a lot, just enough to get him by. The steam was always gone by his first break, and by lunch, it was cool as tap water. The habit grew on him like algae, but he never saw a reason to change.

He had been looking at a cardinal and nursing his coffee when children piled into the neighbor’s yard and scattered like ants. He paid them no mind; he was content watching the bird fuss at a clogged feeder hole. But when he looked up, he noticed a red-headed boy mounting the fence. The kid waved. Ernest nodded a greeting, unsure if he could even be seen through the window’s glare.

Seeing the kid pulled him back to a time when his yard was also filled with the shrieks of happy children. Those had been fun days, a time before his son was too busy with work to care about things like water fights.  

Of those memories, one stood out. It was his eighth anniversary. They were going to have a celebration with friends, a big picnic, because in his wife’s words, “why should we waste money eating by ourselves when we can have a party with everyone that’s seen us grow?” Ernest still couldn’t come to terms with the logic, but he relented after three days of protest, and by dinner, there stood in the backyard more casseroles, pies, and tin-plated sides than anyone could eat. His son had even helped decorate the table. It was a sight to behold.

They prayed before dinner. The kids and parents gathered together, and even his son was still while his father said the blessing. But Ernest paused when he felt a drop of rain fall on his arm. It rolled down his wrist and settled in the crease formed by his wife’s hand in his. Within seconds, rain formed puddles in the dishes, and try as he did, nothing could be done to save the food.

“It’s all ruined, Ernie,” his wife said, too surprised to cry. He held her close, unsure what to say but amazed at the beauty of the rain. “It's like thousands of tiny diamonds falling from the sky,” he said. Then, he picked her up, and he carried her into the storm. She screamed, then she laughed. His son followed suit, and soon after, the yard was filled with people dancing and laughing while the kids slid on their stomachs in the puddles. And though he had never been one to entertain, Ernest always smiled when he thought of that day.

He'd forgotten time, lost in the fondness of memory. Then, something smacked his window, and through the streaks of water, Ernest saw the same red-headed boy. He was holding a pile of water balloons and grinning impishly. Ernest yelled a string of obscenities. He threw his fist in the air, and Tate barked with whatever strength he could muster. They must have gotten the kid’s attention because the kid flailed his arms, screamed, leaped from the fence, and fell on the girl behind him. They were a mess of arms and legs, and Ernest grinned victoriously.

“Serves them right,” he said through a snort. “His parents ought to tan his hide for good measure.”

But when the parents came outside, the kids were treated with hugs and kisses, and not a single reprimand, scolding, or switch-picking occurred. Only moments later, the boy was back to laughing and running through the yard.

Ernest grunted and sipped his lukewarm, black coffee. He ashed his cigarette in the lumpy bowl, and he thought of the rain and how he danced with his wife. And the notion occurred to him that he hadn’t spoken with his son in a while, and maybe it was he who called earlier. But Ernest stayed at the table, and he watched the red-headed boy run through the yard. And he said to no one in particular, “Maybe next time, I won't just let it ring.”