Title: A Hero's Sin
Author: Buttons
Rating: PG-13/T
Genre: Drama/General
Chapter 9—Morning Breakfast
It was early in the morning when I rolled out of bed. My hair was sticking to the side of my face and I dragged the sheets behind me as I made my way to the kitchen. The window beside my bed, over the fire escape, was wide open, gaping like a mouth.
I fumbled with the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to boil. I then heated the iron and put a cup and saucer on the kitchen table. With sleepy eyes I inspected myself in the cracked, full-length mirror on the wall and ran a trembling hand through my hair. My eyes. I sighed and ran a finger across my brow. Pale green eyes. They're not my mama's, because hers are blue, and their not my father's, his are grey. They're all mine. I pinched my cheeks so that colour rose in them.
I rifled through my dresser, pulling out a faded blue skirt and my soft white shift. I chose a white blouse with a rounded collar and hastily ironed it. I remember, I was careless. I burned a spot between my thumb and my index finger. The scar is still there now, it reminds me of my excitement, of that inexplicable feeling. I poured myself the tea, still clutching the bed sheet around my shivering body. Shivering from the cold and from excited anticipation.
"Why are you up so early?"
Her question startled me. I almost spilt the hot water on myself, but steadied my hand and saved myself from a second burning. My mother stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Her hair was down and she was wearing a long white nightgown. Her toes clung to the wooden floor, something she did when she was cold. I remember that she looked very frail; very thin.
"I'm going out for breakfast."
My mother pulled the window closed over my bed and proceeded to take a cup and saucer out of the cupboard. I poured her some tea and she drank it plain. I dressed swiftly, buttoning the blouse rapidly and clipping the skirt in place. I laced up my brown leather boots deftly. When I looked up my mother was gazing at me with a strange, sad look on her face.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
She smiles a bit, but her eyes are still glazed over. "You're just growing up, that's all." She looks to me and runs her finger around the rim of the teacup. "You're taking a chance. With a boy. And I want to stop you, to keep you safe, but I can't bring myself to get in your way. I don't want you to get hurt like I did."
There were fine wrinkles around her mouth and forehead. Her eyes were surrounded by crow's feet—laugh lines even though she doesn't laugh very often.
"Don't worry Mama." I won't get in over my head.
She nodded, but she looked worried all the same.
0o0o0o0
The street was cold and Irving Hall was dead this early in the morning. The chair that was familiar to Medda was vacant and was propped on top of the small table. Her ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts which had grown frosty in the early morning dew. Emmanuel was wearing a grey jacket with the collar upturned. His black newsboy cap was creased and worn-looking. Even though it was December his face was tanned.
"'Morning," he said. He exhaled and his breath showed in the cold air. The streets were dead, still tired and wintry. "Sleep well?"
I shoved my gloved hands into my pockets and scrunched my neck into my collar, hiding it from the chill of the wind. "Yes. And you?"
"Very well." He stubbed his cigarette out into Medda's ashtray. "Shall we?"
We walked briskly down the streets, longing to get out of the cold, but cautious of hidden ice patches. My toes were feeling numb and I wished I had put on another pair of socks. After a three minute walk we ducked into a small restaurant café. The air was thick with the smell of cooking oils and the waiters were dressed in red-and-white striped vests and crisp white shirts. Emmanuel greeted the seating host as if old friends.
"Do you bring many girls here Mr. Espinoza?" I asked.
Emmanuel smiled and unfolded the cloth napkin onto his lap. "I'm afraid to say that you're the first."
"Really? Why me?" I felt a strange thrill, being a flirt like this. What my mother would say…but she wasn't there and I pushed her face to the back of my mind.
Emmanuel took a second to answer; he arranged the salt and pepper shakers and fingered his silverware. "Something about you Nichole; I'm curious."
I tapped my toes on the floorboards, mostly to get the feeling back into them. "About what? I am not a very secretive person Emmanuel."
"You were secretive enough last night. About the job."
I felt my cheeks flush and I stared to my lap so that he wouldn't see them. "I told you, I need the money."
A sad, knowing look passed over Emmanuel's face. "A man," he whispered. "That's what it is, isn't it? And now he's gone."
I nodded, tears growing and my nose burning. The happy, floating feeling inside of my was dying.
"Listen, Nichole," he said, peering at me with concerned eyes. "I don't care about it. Any of it. Any man is a jerk to leave someone like that, and I don't care about the baby."
The baby…? I looked up, my tears already receding and confusion setting in. "What baby?"
Immediately Emmanuel looked uncomfortable. "You mean you're not…?"
Not what…not… "I'm not pregnant," I hissed, careful to keep my voice down."And the man is my father."
Emmanuel said nothing. He stared at his fork and bent the prongs back and the forth before looking back at me. He opened his mouth but made no sound.
"Can we talk about something else?"
"Nichole, I—"
"I don't really want to talk about it. My father is not someone I talk about with my friends, let alone someone I met less than a day ago."
"I was going to say that I probably don't know how you feel. But you can tell me"
Across the table I glared at him.
"No, really," Emmanuel smoothed out a wrinkle on the tablecloth. "If it helps, I'll tell you about my parents. Both my parents died when I was two months old."
Instantly my eyes softened from the glare. "Are you serious?" I whispered.
Emmanuel's eyes met mine. "Yes."
My anger dissolved into awe which quickly turned into sadness. A warm tear fell down my face. "I'm sorry," I mumbled. "But he left before I was born and I've never met him. I just…" I hiccoughed and dabbed at my eyes with the napkin. "I just want to find him." So that I can ask him why he doesn't love me.
"Are you ready order?" A sheepish waiter gave me an apologetic shrug.
Emmanuel reached across the table and touched my hand. "Yeah, I think that'd be nice."
End Chapter