Coffee by Pierre Mare

Waking has never been easy. Even as a young girl, with the wonders of the day ahead, my vigor was slow to catch up with the clock. The promise of shopping and sodas in town could not rouse me from my Saturday morning slumber. My lazy flesh was unmoved by the threat of Hell and Damnation for a tardy arrival at Carver Street Congregation on a Sunday morning.

The sun-speckled shade of this tree, the warmth of this dreamlike afternoon, does not help me wake either. My limbs are stiff and painful. My sight is blurred. The tar scent of resin on the trees threatens to overwhelm my senses. My need for coffee burns.

I was introduced to the rich charms of coffee earlier than most. My Mama, driven to distraction by her sleep-befuddled daughter, put a dainty cup of it in my hands when I was seven.

“We won't talk much about this, you hear.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“It's not fitting for a child be given coffee, but I don't know what else to do, honey. Now drink.”

The first, hesitant sips did nothing for me, but as the elixir receded in the cup, as the aroma filled my senses, the muzziness cleared and the curves of the mauve drapes over the windows flung themselves into sharp focus.

The liveliness of that first morning was a thing of mystery to my father, but I did not tell him our secret. I used the energy to run in the garden. The greenery of the trees and shrubs, the white walls of the house and the bright yellow sunlight looked just like the drawings I made with crayons.

That afternoon, as I slumped on the settee, smiling and sated on the fullness of the day, Mama gave me a sip of coffee in front of Papa. I think she did it to accustomize him to the new way of things, to put a stop to the lie before it became difficult, but also as a challenge. Mama's eyes dared him to say anything. His eyebrows arched before falling into a frown, but he said nothing. Mama smiled. Women have their ways with men.

As I grew older, more accustomed to the strong morning brew, taking the cup became little more than a  ritual that roused my body. Familiarity breeds contempt. The coffee itself did not have much effect then, but knowing it was in my hands, and those first few jaded morning sips were enough to get me moving. School mornings lost their terror and timely attendance on Sunday assured me of salvation.

This afternoon, as I try to find my get-up-and-go once again, I need my cup more than ever.

Papa slumbers to my left, but all that comes out of my mouth when I call to him is a loud croak. Coffee will be my salvation.

There are stores, out through the gate. Bright signs in a row identify them. Whoever heard of a long block of stores without a diner for shoppers to rest their weary feet? My knees are stiff. My lower back throbs as if I have crouched for hours. The place where my hip broke sends shooting pains through my right leg. I cry out, but all that comes is another long croak. A place to sit, a steaming cup, will be perfect.

Aches and pains can be hidden with strong resolve. Aunt Aggie was a lesson to us all, the way she bore her final illness in silence, but still found the courage for smiles. Her example fills my head as I limp onto the street. The dirt that clings to my skirt is more of a bother to brush aside than my own infirmity. Then my good intent and fortitude is tested with a shrill yell.

“Oh my God! What is it?”

As the glue of my intent and focus is weakened by the noise, my hip stabs me again and my attempt at dignity falls apart in rage. Do I look like 'a thing' that this young woman should call me, her elder and better, 'it'? And that from one who wears the ragged blue jeans and short-sleeved blouse of a common labourer. Impudence!

A venomous slap to her face, given without much thought, adds an ache to my right hand, wrist and woes. She falls back, clutching her mouth, then wipes blood from her nose with an ill-bred wrist. As the tawdriness of the incident hits home. I am suddenly moved to offer her an apology but she backs away on her butt, her legs and arms scrabbling like a revolting, inverted spider. Her shrill shrieks add to my woes with a pulsing vice-like agony in my temples.

“Be quiet,” I shout.

The dryness of my mouth makes even those two simple words unintelligible. Papa was clear. Eloquence is important. I need the coffee now. The shame of my outburst, of my voice, of what must be a shambling, loping figure is almost too much to bear.

Dim, blurry shapes converge on me from the other side of the street. A semi-circle of shouting bodies blocks the way, but I barge through, arms extended. Something strikes me on the back of the head. If you have been struck unexpectedly from behind, you will know how awful it feels. It is not just the pain of the blow, but the shocking sense of hurt from the knowledge that someone hates you enough to want to strike you.

There, in the middle of the road, I turn in dismay, my arms extended to ward off my attackers. They spring back. At that moment an automobile plows into them casting them left and right like skittles. The chaos is complete.

No it is not. Papa has woken. I can't see much but I can make out the rich purple hue and girth of his  suit, the dusty front of his dress shirt and the limp, black squiggle of his favorite string tie. It is him! Did he see what they did to me? He must have. He casts aside the remaining crowd with the ease of insensate rage. Their screams are jagged and desperate, but defense of his only daughter justifies it.

The situation defies reason. The aggression is an unexpected shock. The town seems to have lost itself to inexplicable madness. First the attack on myself, then Papa. What has changed? Tears won't come from my dry eyes. All I have are rasping moans and bitter misery.

I am forgotten as more people blur past me, moths to the bright light of Papa's anger.  His advice to me as a child was, “If trouble starts, you go find somewhere safe and leave it to me.”

The need to help him, to tell people that he is my wonderful, good, loving Papa is powerful, but the indecision in the face of his advice is confusing. The dilemma solves itself. A huge, bald figure, round as an egg, appears by Papa's side. It looks like Mr Morcelli the butcher, 'Humpty Dumpty', as we used to call him. He has big strong arms and hands as hard as clubs. There was a time when I watched in dismay as he dealt with a mob of boys who gave offense to his daughter. It is the same now. The screams grow louder. Figures stumble and fall. Just a few escape.

“I'll find you when it is safe,” Papa told me. “When things get quiet again, stand where I can see you.”

The row of shops should be my refuge but they look different, not as I remember them. There is no reassurance or feeling of sanctuary. Those few final steps are a painful challenge. I find relief with a forearm against the gap between two windows. My hips cease their painful grind against my pelvis. I would sit down on the sidewalk if I could, but figures inside turn towards me and stare. I want to apologize, to sit there and allow the pain of my bones to wash away, but the poise and decorum for which I should be valued will not allow me that comfort.

There is nothing for it but to hobble on. Fortunately, it is not long before I squint up to see the words 'Café Paradiso' on one of the signs. Italian coffee will do just as well as any other brew. This is where Papa will find me.

Inside, the warm and welcome aroma of the bean bids me welcome. If I could smile, I would, but the skin around my mouth is painfully tight. I would ask politely for a cup of coffee, if I had any faith that I would be understood. Instead I reach over the counter, collar the cashier and point to a coffee pot. He tears buttons from his shirt as he jerks out of my grasp.

No matter then. As things can't get any worse I reach over for the pot and a cup. The cashier's mouth opens and closes. I never liked goldfish, or ill-mannered stares, so my temper takes control once more. The cup that I lob at him misses its target completely, but he barrels through the kitchen door, out of sight and out of mind.

Free of the distraction, the mirror behind the counter catches my eye. My hair is out of place. The long sleep has not been kind to me. Sunken eyes with pinprick pupils in a mask of taut, yellowing skin stare back from the mirror. My bun has come undone. I wear a smile but it is a rictus grin, unnatural, and it frightens me. My arms are too stiff to reach behind my head to deal with the unruly wisps.

I take the pot and the cup to a table, brush aside the menu, the salt, pepper, ketchup and tub of dainty sachets. The frozen gapes of a family two tables down are not worth answering. Parents should know better, but the children can be forgiven.

A list begins to form: lotion for my dry skin, foundation for my complexion, clean clothes and perfume to mask the musty, slightly offensive odor, which can only be mine. Lipstick. I need lipstick. Someone will have to help me with my hair. I need a doctor for my bones, and to heal the damage I did to my fingers as I clawed and scratched my way back into the light.

The Hebrews believe that God and His purpose are unknowable, that the only knowledge we can have of Him is in the aspects which he allows us to see. What aspect of Him, what clue, can I find in my resurrection.

My fingers are stiff and clumsy. They suffer from years of inactivity. Coffee spills around the cup. Bending my arm and raising it to my mouth spills more. My lips will not kiss the rim, and what I thought would be my salvation slops down to stain my blouse. I throw back my head and pour the dregs over the teeth that my obstinate jaw refuses to part. The mother of the children weeps. Is this Hell?

Papa approaches. So does Mr Humpty. Other newly-awakened neighbors from Carver Road Cemetery follow, a loping, limping rabble. Mama will be among them. Aunt Aggie as well. God makes choices for all of us and so I leave the useless cup, pot and sloppy table to join those He has chosen to resurrect. Perhaps there will be some purpose to find there.

Love does not die with the body. I take strength and joy in this as Papa hoists his long arms onto my shoulders in an embrace of sorts. I snuggle in as best I can. His arms can bend less than mine but he lay longer in the grave than I. Papa roars. I moan. We are together once more. The love and sweetness that fills me cannot have a place in Hell.

There is no need for coffee. I have been awakened.

After a few precious seconds Papa disentangles himself and nudges me towards Mr Humpty. I teeter on stiff legs but Mr Humpty catches me, just as he did when I was a toddler on wobbly feet. It is not lipstick which lines his grin. His teeth have blood on them as well. His hand leaves a red print on the sleeve of my blouse. His other hand, the hand which used to offer a small sausage or a slice of bologna, now offers a lump of flesh. He folds my hand around the morsel like some special treat, just as he did when I was a child.

A scrap of paper, migrating along the road in a rising wind, wraps itself around my ankle, flaps insistently. I drop the lump of flesh, reach down and retrieve it, hold it close to my eyes. It is a chocolate bar wrapper. 'Heaven ®' it trumpets. 'Share the sweetness!' smaller letters instruct me.

Over my father's broad shoulder, the townsfolk that he and Humpty tore apart are in the throes of their own resurrections, bloodied and tattered but rising.

The Good Lord speaks to us with signs and portents. I am a mote in His Eye who will do His bidding with gratitude and humility. Just as I have been resurrected, I will bring others to Him, to share in His love, with the communion of the flesh, in spite of the challenges of my own weak and weary frame.

The mother and her children wail as I enter Café Paradiso again. She pushes the children behind her. I hold the wrapper out to them so that they can see and be consoled.