rolly’s diner

Rolly’s diner kills me every time.

We arrived early and were seated at one of the few available tables, one in the far corner near the windows. We carefully threaded our nine-year-old son, Calvin, into an infant high chair next to Michael. I sat across from Calvin feeding him snacks as he banged and arched and squealed and coughed. An elderly couple was seated next to us, though within minutes—and not surprisingly—opted to move. The woman, wearing her Sunday best under a silver coiffure, got up to leave and told us, in a kind, French Canadian accent, that Calvin didn’t bother her, that it must be hard for us (with a kid like Calvin) and that she was sorry. Michael and I both smiled in appreciation.

As Calvin continued his antics, I fed him cut-up pieces of strawberries, breakfast sausage and almonds. I was glad my back was to the restaurant. I wasn’t in the mood to witness copious diners gawking at our crazy kid. Between bites, Calvin reached over to give his dad hugs. I glanced back to see where the couple had moved to and caught the gaze of another woman, probably in her late seventies or early eighties, with a tame, dark blonde hairdo that matched her ensemble. Within moments she appeared at our table, the soft scent of her perfume like rosewater radiating from her beige sweater. She leaned in to tell us what a wonderful father she thought Michael was then added, “and he's handsome, too.” She went on to ask Calvin’s age then we told her about his deficits, his epilepsy, the drugs he has to take which seem to make everything else worse. She said that her youngest son, now fifty-two, had worked for years with developmentally delayed children and adults at Pineland, a nearby facility since converted for recreational use. She mentioned how he has no children of his own because in his words, she explained, “he’s had plenty.”

Though her visit was brief we learned that she was twice widowed, has kept both of her husbands' last names, has four children plus three step-children who treat her as if she is their mother. She showered Michael and me with more compliments about our parenting skills, to which our eyes moistened and brimmed. Then she squeezed my arm and told me how lucky I was. I touched her hand, which was warm and soft as rose petals and I said, “I know.”

After we learned that her name is Irene, she left us to finish our breakfast. When the hostess came to warm our coffee she told us that our bill had been paid by someone who had admired our patience with Calvin, someone who had already left the restaurant. As the words came out of the hostess' mouth, we quietly wept then dabbed our tears away with Calvin’s ratty washcloths—not the first time we've cried at Rolly's.

While Michael finished his meal I scooted in next to Calvin and he turned his focus to me, wrapping his arms around my neck and slipping his little hands down my collar to rub my back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the first woman standing next to me again. She leaned down and, in broken English, said how sorry she was for us and that she hoped that it would change. “I like kids,” she said, “even other people’s kids,” to which I smiled.

As we gathered our things Irene came over. I took down her address so that I could send her this post in the mail. She told us that if we are ever in her neighborhood we should stop by. “I have a big house and I live alone,” she said, then gave me a warm, motherly embrace and added, “I love you guys.”

On the drive home I asked how Michael felt having our meal paid for. He said it was nice, but then paused and described some slight unease being the object of someone’s pity. “Pity gets a bad rap,” I said, and went on to explain that feeling sorry for another’s situation and wanting to do something kind for them is nice. “Pity doesn’t mean that we are being looked down upon,” I added, then sat silently happy for the rest of the ride home smelling Irene’s rosewater perfume on my cheek.

photo by Michael Kolster