I’ve always been fascinated at the calm before the storm for people who patiently accept the inevitability of an impending death. Most of us don’t know that it’s coming. Perhaps some, or many, would panic. It is the rare soul, who knowing that death is at the end, can greet it with a welcome smile and patiently accept that the anxiety and waiting is over as they meet their rest.
It was the kind of day that begged to have pie for breakfast. At least, that’s what Amber thought, as she finished wiping down the formica counters and setting up the register for the day, while Danny worked over the chrome oven in the back, his sweat beading at the edge of his hairnet, while the coffee wafted through the dining room. Softly, Marvin Gaye sang over the counter from the old antenna radio Danny had brought in last year, reminding Amber of her grandmother singing oldies while washing dishes in her farm sink. Outside, the sky had slowly turned to a gray overcast, with half the sun still shining in a blue expanse as the clouds crept eastward, from her view through the diner’s bay windows.
They had the tv muted, tuned to WKNV 39, the local news channel, as something to watch and distract folks when they came in for breakfast. For a Wednesday, it was surprisingly slow. The usual trickle of local yokels had come in early at 6, asking for their black coffees, rashers of bacon and sausage, with scrambled or over easy eggs. Despite the shortages and uncertainty, they’d managed to keep their breakfast prices low.
On the counter underneath a gleaming dome of glass was a fresh pie, delivered that morning from Jelly and Jams Bakeshop. The golden crust was flaky, and the smell of mixed berry had drifted up from the steam holes as she’d set it down on the cake stand and covered it with the dome to keep out dirt, dust, flies, and the sticky fingers of Shelby Gaworksi, who thought he could sneak a bit here and there. He’d been coming into this place since she was a little girl, not perhaps as wrinkled and leathery as he was now. That had been twenty years ago, though.
Amber readjusted her apron and set the dirty dishes in the back for Van to pick up and place in the dishwasher. Once he got here. A quick glance to the clock told her her he was 15 minutes late. Damn kid. She had one more table to clear when the bell over the door jingled a cheerful tinkle.
In walked a handsome older gentleman with a wide, square face and jaw, his gray hair cropped close under his ball cap, wearing an olive green Orvis oilcloth jacket. A crisp, neatly ironed button-down of blue cotton that matched the color of his eyes, peeked out from the top of the collar. He wore new blue jeans, recently broken in, and his polished bespoke leather shoes spoke of business travel, not hoofing it. He came to the dark gray counter, sliding in smoothly on the worn red leather stool, and picked up the menu sitting at the place, his long pointed nose moving slightly as he scanned the items back and forth. Amber walked from the back and opened the door to the counter, smiling brightly at him.
“Good morning,” she said cheerily, door squeaking as it swung back behind her.
“Good morning indeed,” he replied, smiling friendly as all back at her.
“Have you been here with us before?”
“Naw, m’am, I haven’t. Was taking a stroll and got some bad news, so I thought I’d stop in and have myself a slice of pie.” He spotted the mixed berry steaming on the counter under the shining dome. “Is that fresh?”
“Baked this morning local. Can’t find a better slice anywhere.”
“Well, I’m sold.” He looked back at his menu, brow furrowed and lips puckered in a bow. “How about, a hot cup of coffee with extra cream, a side of two eggs over easy, bacon and sausage, and a large slice of that pie. Oh, and a tall glass of milk.”
She scribbled in her short hand, repeating the order.
“I’ll put the order in for you now,” she gave a half smile and put the order on the counter for Danny, who looked up as she dinged the bell. He nodded acknowledgement, grabbing the slip and getting to work.
As she started working on the coffee, the old man checked his watch.
“Can I get that pie now? Bit peckish and it’ll hold me till the eggs and sausage.”
“Sure thing. Coffee too?”
“Yep.”
He observed her quietly as she removed the glass dome gingerly, for it was heavy, and grabbed the pie tin, working to slice it quickly for him. Gooey purple lumps and juice oozed out the sides, bleeding onto the crisp white plate. Amber set the slice down, then grabbed the coffee pot. He waited patiently for the coffee to come, not once even moving toward grabbing his fork. He was watching the television screen, reading the closed captions as the anchor delivered an introduction to a feature the station had shot earlier that week.
The steam from the coffee rose in enticing curls from the lip of the porcelain cup. Ripping open the cream, the man poured it in, and blowing on it, took a test sip.
“How’s the pie?” Amber asked, wiping down a cup that had streaks from the old dishwasher.
Chowing down on the first bite, the older gentleman chuckled, shaking his head with enjoyment.
“It’s delicious. Really. Whoever does the pie crust gets it just right.”
“The secret is leaf lard, or so they tell me. I’ll tell Sarah and Riley it made a good impression.”
“You know, it’s hard to make one of those, especially when you’re in a new place.”
“Yeah? I can see that. What brings you to Frogtown?”
“Oh, the usual. Family lives here.”
“Ah. You got people at Mount Weather?”
“You could say that.” He smiled, going back to his pie and sipping his coffee.
“Oh. Damn. I forgot your milk. Hold on.” Amber turned away and went to the small fridge behind the counter. She popped her head back up. “Did you want whole, 2%, or skim?”
The gentleman made a face. “Not skim. I only want the good stuff. Whole milk.”
“Whole it is.” Sweat dripped down the side of the jug, and she was careful not to splash. Prices had been awful these days for all kinds of food, and it wasn’t helping them in a slow economy. She’d taken the opportunity to get him his milk; the government employees and military types who came through because of, or perhaps, in spite of, Mount Weather, weren’t really forthcoming with special projects inside the base, especially these days.
She set the glass on the table in front of him, and glancing around, saw he was, for the moment, the only patron left in the diner. The other girl had gotten herself fired for being on her phone too much. Idiot kid. It was a shame, being short-staffed. But while there was a lull, she was going to fold the napkins. She glanced at the clock. Van was now half an hour late, and there’d been no word.
As she folded, stacking blue polyester corner to corner neatly, she heard the sound of the emergency alert system warning ring out on Danny’s radio. Peering out the windows, the sky was still the same half-sunny, half-overcast blue and gray it had been when the old man walked in.
The familiar jarring warning buzz issued for several seconds, before a calm but authoritative male voice rang out.
“This is not a test. The U.S. Government has issued a national emergency/emergency action notification message.
“The United States has been subjected to a Nuclear Attack. The North American Aerospace Defense Command NORAD has detected the launch of 15 nuclear missiles aimed towards the mainland United States. Six of the 15 missiles launched have been intercepted. The nine remaining nuclear missiles will strike the following locations in the next 15 to 20 minutes: Los Angeles, San Diego, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, New York City, Philadelphia, Washington D.C. Within a 300-mile radius of these areas, everyone should seek out a fallout shelter as soon as possible. Nuclear fallout is a by-product of nuclear attacks, and prolonged exposure to it will almost certainly kill you …”
Amber turned her gaze to the television, where a red screen had replaced the reporter speaking, the official seal of the United States centered in the image. There then flashed a new screen, which repeated “This is not a test. The U.S. Government has issued a national emergency …”
She turned her attention back to the radio, still spurting a pre-recorded message from the speakers.
“… get inside, stay inside, stay tuned for more information. Prepare to stay inside for at least 24 hours unless officials provide other instructions, or your building is threatened by fire or collapse. Follow instructions from officials – this can save your life.”
Danny had come out from the kitchen, a look of shock and uncertainty on his face, as he limply held a towel in his large, calloused hands. The old man had finished his pie and took a long swig of his coffee, following it with his glass of milk.
“Danny … we gotta …”
“Go. I’ll follow in a moment. I gotta lock up here and grab all the cash from the draw’r.”
“But there isn’t time—”
“Get your ass outta here, call your sister and your dad. Get going!” His angry shout jolted her, and Amber grabbed her phone, which had been sitting under the counter out of sight. The sound of her feet pounding the linoleum echoed as she ran through the front door, headed toward her car.
Danny had busied himself with opening the register and grabbing all the money in it, before heading to the back to grab what was in the safe. He had forgotten about the old man, but remembered as soon as he saw him still sitting there, drinking his coffee and his milk.
“Yo buddy come on,” Danny said, clapping his hands as the emergency alert message began to repeat itself. Inhaling deeply through his nose, the older man smiled and said, “I’m good where I am.”
“Hey, man, this ain’t no joke. Come on!” Frustration clouded Danny’s heavy brow.
“There’s no where on the mountain for me to go. My brother and the Secretary of Defense are 40 feet below now, and have been for the past hour. No point outrunning what’s about to come.”
“Are you crazy man?”
The older man shuffled off his stool, pulling a twenty from his pocket and handing it to Danny.
“I’m not in a rush, but you are. Here, for the pie. It was a delicious way to go out.”
Danny looked perplexed, moving from the twenty in his hand to the face of the old man, smiling knowingly, peacefully, at the cook and owner of the diner.
“You’re damn crazy.” Danny started for the door, checking his pocket for his keys, not looking back at the geezer.
The old man grabbed his coffee and sidled into a booth, facing the direction of D.C., and incidentally, the television as well. Outside, he heard the start of a car engine, as Danny sped off in a green SUV, presumably to safety or some kind of underground bomb shelter.
He sipped on his coffee and thought quietly to himself, as the alert message sounded again and again about the approaching missiles.
Gerry, his brother, had warned him about forty minutes ago, that there was going to be a strike, with the most likely list of targets, including D.C. Seattle hadn’t made the list, apparently. He pulled out his phone, reviewing the text message he’d sent Cort and Brady, his sons, one currently underwater on a nuclear sub in the South China Sea, hopefully, to survive what was about to happen. Brady was in southern Iowa, presently on a farm, preferably way down below in the shelter he’d built some years previous, given his knowledge of his Uncle Gerry’s line of work.
It was strange, an uncanny sensation of knowing what was about to come. Malcom and Gerald had run through countless scenarios over the years, some false alarms, some deathly close. But today was the real deal. He felt … a tremble of fear in his chest. With what was coming … the death toll was going to be stupendous. It was a lucky thing that Gerry had warned him when he had. At least he’d had the courtesy of one, final meal before walking the Green Mile.
But nonpersonnel did not have a place underground in the military bunker. Malcom knew that. He’d been visiting Gerry, since his brother had been under more stress lately with the increased threat of war on the horizon. Gerry had been on-call all weekend, though they had managed to sneak away for an hour or two the last few weeks, here and there, to go fishing at the creek that ran through Gerry’s property. At least Cort and Brady were going to be safe.
Sitting there, the clouds continued to roil toward the east, leaving the western sky clear and blue, like his wife’s eyes, before they’d gone milky and blind. He had missed seeing them, after all these years.
He sipped his coffee. It wasn’t sweet, but bitter, strong, the smell giving him an ache for his childhood home and the wafting scent of it coming through the kitchen as his mother cooked breakfast and his dad set the table before the kids came down. He wouldn’t have made it to the shelter; he didn’t have a car, but those other two did, and they likely would have made it, certainly by now.
The pie had been sweet, a last farewell and good last taste of everything that he was going to miss. As he drained the milk before settling on the coffee, he saw, distantly, an explosion of light, 70 miles east.
He sipped his coffee, patiently, waiting. It had been a good life, and he didn’t regret it.
Not one ounce.
Rachael Varca is a writer of more than fifteen years experience. She writes at Inking Out Loud, a collection of essays, poems, short stories, and home of the serialized novel, Heart of Stone. To see which books she’s working on for Commonplace Thoughts, visit her at Bookshop.org.