Same day. Same time. Same place at the counter. That was how I came to know Bobby Goren.
My mother died on a Monday. Breast cancer at the age of 53. She brought 7 children into the world, with me as the last. My mom and dad had been married for 35 years when she passed away. She attended church every Sunday of her life. We buried her on the Thursday. When the Sunday rolled around, and it was time for my mother to go to church, that was the first time I truly ever saw my father cry. So, I took the morning shift at the diner, while the rest of my family went to church.
"What can I get for you?" I looked at the large man sitting at the counter, his city newspaper folded meticulously beside him. He looked at me, contemplating me.
"I'm sorry to hear about your mother." He offered, still studying me. I looked at him, not prepared to say anything. I could not even offer him the wooden smile of platitude type acceptance that had been a fixture on my face for the past week. "You must be Bess, the baby."
I followed his gaze to the photographs plastered all over a bulletin board near the cash register. I blinked, and could feel hot tears in my eyes, raw emotions bubbling up so strongly in my throat I could not swallow. I looked at the photographs of my life that my dad so proudly displayed in his diner. I could see the photograph that this man was looking at, all seven of us on a swing set, some swinging, some pushing. I was the baby, about 18 months old at the time of that photo.
"Yeah, I was the baby." I choked out the words as I choked back my tears. It had been a very long time since I felt like the baby in the family. My mother's illness had taken a hard toll on all of us, some of us rose with strength, some of us fell apart, and some of us did both all at the same time.
I took his order, and doubled back as the short order cook. Cal, who did a lot of the cooking along with my dad, was in the way back kitchen prepping for the lunch crowd. At 8:00am on Sunday morning, everyone was at church, so it was easy enough for me to take care of the customer or two who straggled in before 10:00am.
"You go to school in the city?" He asked, as I placed his plate in front of him and refilled his coffee. Not too hard for him to figure out. I followed his eyes down the counter to where my laptop sat perched amidst a pile of grad school papers. I nodded. He had been reading his paper, I could see certain sections had been leafed through and set aside.
"You live in the city?" I asked. It was his turn to nod. "What do you do?" I asked.
"Cop." He looked tired. The way he said the word made it seem like he was reconciled to it, not that he particularly thought it was a great thing. I watched him pop the yolk of his sunny side up eggs, spilling the molten yellow center across the toast. I left him to his breakfast, wondering why a city copy was a regular in my family's upstate diner.
It was my turn. That's what my sister had said to me. She hadn't been particularly mean in the way she said the words, it was more an observation, a statement of fact. And she was right, it was my turn. If my family needed me for the Sunday morning shift at the diner, then I would journey out of the city and every Sunday I would work 6:00am to 11:00am.
"What can I get for you?" I stood in front of the same man as the Sunday before - the city cop with the city newspaper. This time I automatically poured him a cup of coffee. He looked tired, more so than last week. Or maybe it was because I was less tired. I could see his phone vibrating wildly on the counter. He looked at the number and answered. I walked away, to afford him a bit of privacy.
"Hi mom. Yeah, an hour, I'll be there." He mumbled, but the diner was a small place, and was quiet and empty, so I could not help but hear him. "Yeah, soon." He said, and clicked the phone closed. I left him for a few minutes, and headed into the back to check with Cal. When I returned, there was cash on the counter to cover the coffee, and he and his city newspaper were gone.
"Do you think it's going to rain?" He asked me, and I looked outside at the grey morning sky. I actually liked the rain. It seemed to momentarily relieve the sins of man.
"Maybe." I said, not revealing that I wished it would rain.
"I like the rain." He looked out the window, and back at me. I noticed he had no newspaper today.
"Does your mom live around here?" I asked, and he jumped, making me regret my intrusive question. I was thinking about the prior Sunday when he had answered his phone.
"I visit her, on Sundays." He said, not really directly answering my question about where she lived. "She's at Carmel Ridge." He looked me in the eye as if looking for some kind of reaction. "She has cancer." He continued, surprising me with his candor. Carmel Ridge was not a cancer treatment center, it was psychiatric facility. So, I wondered why he would say the one thing and follow with the other. It was like he was poking me, a bit harder each time. "So, I visit her on Sundays." He repeated, and I nodded.
"I like the rain." I said.
The following Sunday, when I came to clear his plate, he was on the phone. So, I couldn't help but hear his side.
Yeah, um.
Right, but…
This afternoon?
Today's Sunday.
The Captain said what?
Look, Eames...
It's Sunday.
No.
Fine, this afternoon.
Are we, um?
I'm sorry.
"Is everything Ok?" I don't know why I asked the question. I could tell everything was not Ok. He slammed his phone shut, laying it aside, and started fiddling with the coffee stirrer sticks, lining them up with great precision, side by side.
"Work thing." He mumbled, his hands shaking slightly. I wondered, who was Eames? His partner maybe? I watched him, his left hand now quivering above the sticks laid out in perfect parallel. With a violent flick of his fingers he sent the dozen or so sticks flying across the counter and onto the floor.
"I'm sorry." He stammered as he stood, reaching for his cash to pay the bill. I got the feeling he felt sorry for a lot of things, sorry for things that he had no business feeling sorry for.
"What're you studying?" He had finished his breakfast and was now looking at me.
"What?" I replied, like I was some kind of dolt. I had been studying him. He looked heavier. His hair was getting a bit longer, a bit greyer, a lot more disheveled. He looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days. I wondered about the world weighing on him. I thought about how my family looked as my mother's cancer had progressed. Sometimes we were washed and shiny faced, putting on a brave show, being falsely strong for my mother, for the neighbors and friends who were always so concerned. Other times we looked like we hadn't slept in forever.
"What're you studying?" He asked again, and I followed his gaze down the counter top to the now customary spot for my computer and papers.
"Speech and language pathology, first year." I replied, identifying my graduate course of study. "What kind of cop are you?" I turned it around.
"I try to be a good one." He smiled, surprising me. He had a nice smile, his face, his eyes. I realized in the Sundays I had known him, I had not seen him smile. "Major Case Squad Detective, Manhattan." He said the words as if he were breaking down my door.
For a moment I simply looked at him. I was thinking about how his tone changed, imagining him all official, pulling out his badge. He was definitely a big man; I could see him using his size to get his way. He was a smart man; I could see him getting the intellectual edge on most everyone. But mainly, on Sundays, he seemed like a tired man.
"What makes a case major?" I asked, waiting for the technical definition of his squad.
"Politics. Important people. Things that oftentimes shouldn't matter, those things – they seem to make a case major." His smile was gone.
"Who is Eames?" I refilled his cup of coffee. He was lingering, a little longer than usual. This was his third cup of coffee.
"My partner." He replied, swiveling the coffee cup against the dish underneath.
"How long have you been partners?"
"About 6 years."
"Is Eames a good partner?" I wondered at what point he would shut me down. My questions were a bit personal. He looked at me, nodding, indicating that Eames was a good partner.
"She's a good partner." He said the words out loud, and I was surprised that Eames was a she. "So, what's it like, 6 brothers and sisters?" He asked, as if we were engaged in some kind of quid pro quo.
"Crowded." I smiled, "loud." I closed my eyes for a moment. "I shared a room with both of my sisters. So, it's strange now, to sleep alone." I allowed, realizing that my life was quiet in the city, I kept to myself, inside of myself. That up until about age 18 I shared every millimeter of my existence with some member of my family, and when I was away from my family the world seemed awfully quiet. "Do you have any siblings?"
"A brother."
"Younger or older?"
"Older. He's older." He replied, kind of rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. I could see him reaching for his wallet. I was piecing him together. His mother was in a psychiatric facility, terminally ill with cancer, his brother was someone he did not want to talk about, and he had a partner named Eames, and she was a good partner.
"You look like her." He said.
"Who?"
"Your mother, you look like her."
"Thanks." I smiled. It was a nice thing, to look like my mother. In fact, it was a nice thing to be like my mother. She was a good mother, a good person. She was loving, and kind, and she hugged us all the time. I could feel tears well up in my throat. I missed her hugs, I missed her smell, I missed her. "Who do you look like?" I asked.
"I don't know." He seemed perplexed, as if he had never considered it. "I don't really look like my mother or my father." He replied. "Or, my brother." He added.
"So you look like you." I teased, and paused for a moment. "How is your mother?" I asked, knowing this was really pushing the envelope. I expected him to reach for his wallet.
"The same." He said, rather enigmatically. I could not fathom what that could mean. How could she possibly be the same? She was hospitalized in a mental facility dying of cancer. Unless, she had been sick her entire life, or maybe his entire life. I looked at him as if I was looking at him for the first time. I knew that was the truth of it. She had been sick her whole life. And for him, this was just another moment in a life shaped by her illness.
"Have you ever been married?" He wasn't particularly young. He didn't wear ring, so I didn't think he was currently married. "My family they've been putting the thumbscrews to me about getting on with my life, finding a nice someone to settle down with. All of my sister's were wed well by the time they were 22."
"I work too much." He replied.
"So, you're married to your job."
"I guess so." He allowed, picking up his cup of coffee.
"Does Eames know that?" I asked.
"Know what?" He peered at me over the top of the coffee cup as he took a sip.
"That you're married to her." I teased and watched him choke on his coffee, spilling some onto his shirt. Laughing and sputtering, he set the cup down on the counter with a rattle, as if he found the thought of being married to Eames uncomfortably funny.
"I ran into my brother the other day." He volunteered the information before I had even set his first cup of coffee in front of him. "He looked clean, you know, sober, I guess." He stumbled over his words. "It was cold, I gave him my coat." He looked at me. "I got this call, from the ME, to ID a DB." I mentally translated all his acronyms into something meaningful, suppressing a shiver realizing that his brother was either a junkie or a drunk, living on the streets, and that the medical examiner had called him to identify a dead body that was possibly his brother. "It wasn't him, but I thought it was, it made me sick, you know, thinking it was."
"Was Eames with you?" I asked.
"With me?"
"You were at work, the ME, I figured that was work?" I provided my segue.
"Yeah, she was with me." He was kind of nodding to himself. "She's a good partner." He had said those words before, and they had sounded appreciative. This time as he said them, they seemed hollow, as if he wondered if he was a good partner. "I haven't slept in a while." He admitted, a bit randomly. I looked at him, I had become accustomed to his disheveled appearance.
"I'm sorry." I said the words before I could stop myself.
"For what?" He looked at me.
"I haven't gotten you any coffee yet." I replied, and he let me off the hook for daring to show him compassion.
"I saw you in the city the other day." He looked awful. His focus was off, his hands were shaking. I thought that maybe he smelled a bit like the scotch he had consumed the night before.
"You what?"
"In the city. I saw you." I repeated, wondering if he had heard me.
"I heard that part." He looked at me, rubbing his hand across his forehead. He looked a little sweaty, a little pale, a lot hungover.
"Part of my graduate program, I spend some time at the school for the deaf." I supplied. I placed a glass of water in front of him. He pushed the coffee aside and drank the water. I had seen him with his partner Eames. She was a petite pale brunette, with serious brown eyes. "I almost waved, but that seemed a little silly." I refilled his water.
"Why?" He started to drink the second glass.
"I don't know, you were working…" I looked at him. I had ended up sitting down the hall and had overheard a conversation between himself and his partner.
I don't need you getting in to this. I don't need you constantly running interference for me with the Captain. I can take care of this. His tone was agitated, and I could tell by the subtle shifts in volume that he was pacing.
I didn't... I heard her voice, calm, impassive, trying to interject something.
Just let it be, just let me be. He bit out, and I could hear his footfalls down the hall.
Eames had rounded the hallway and had found me sitting there. Clearly, I had overheard the exchange. I could see her badge displayed on her coat; I could see her emotions in her brown eyes. Sorry, he's just, well, you know… She moved her shoulders as if she was trying to shrug off the exchange. I did not say anything, and I definitely did not let on that I knew him. She cared for him, I could see it her eyes, I could see it in the way she walked away from me, running her hands through her longish bangs, trying to clear her view of things.
"I'm always working." He brought me back to the present.
"What were you working on last night?" I asked, thinking that rehydrating himself with the water was probably making him feel slightly buzzed again.
"Getting incredibly drunk." He deadpanned, running his fingers across his forehead.
"How'd that work for you?" I placed a plate of buttered toast in front of him.
"It worked pretty well last night." He allowed. "But maybe not so well this morning."
"You should eat." I gestured to the toast.
"It's just a matter of time." He said, fiddling with the toast.
"A matter of time." I looked at him, thinking that his words applied to many things. A matter of time until he sobered up, a matter of time until he imploded, a matter of time before he collapsed from exhaustion, a matter of time before his mother succumbed to the cancer.
"Until you find a nice guy to settle down with." He smiled to himself.
"Who do you think you're more like?" He asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother or your father?"
"I think I'm more like me." I replied. I had the feeling he was thinking about himself, testing the question with me.
"What do you mean?" He echoed my question to him, back to me.
"I'm me. You know. I guess some of me is about them, but I make my own choices, I choose my own path." I refilled his cup of coffee. He fiddled with his fork, thinking about something.
"I don't want to be like them." He mumbled to himself. His words took me aback. "I'm not, you know, um, like them." He met my eyes, as if to convince me of something.
His mother died on a Thursday. Putting an end to our Sundays. The funeral was on a Monday, and I attended. A lot of people were standing around him, shaking his hand, touching his shoulder. He stood, slouched, his suit a bit wrinkled. I had never seen him in a suit.
"Bobby." I said his name softly. He looked at me for a moment, studying me with his head slightly cocked to the side.
"You look nice." He said, in his awkward way. He had never seen me outside of the diner. I was wearing a navy blue dress, my wheat color hair twisted into a knot near the nape of my neck. I could feel some of the thick strands beginning to escape. Impulsively I stood on my toes and embraced him. I could barely reach around his height, his bulk, but I did my best and pulled him close. At first he stood, resisting. Then he gave way and wrapped his arms around me, placing his head on my head.
"Do you think it's going to rain?" I asked when he set me back on my feet. The day was grey, the air felt like rain. We were standing on the steps of the church. I was thinking about him, about a nice man.
"I like the rain." He said, and I remembered a conversation we had months ago.
"The rain, you know, it's like it relieves the sins of man." This time I said the words aloud. He looked at me, and he nodded.
"Oh, Alex Eames." He opened his stance to include the petite brunette that had walked over to stand with him. "Bess Brenneman." He made the introduction. I shook hands with his partner. She studied me, as if trying to place me.
"Nice to meet you." Eames smiled. After a moment she turned to Bobby. "We should go." She said, placing her hand on his arm. It was time to leave the church, to go to our cars and head for the cemetery. I looked at her hand, a strong hand, a good hand. He was in good hands.
End.