Wanting to have some precious time together I said to my eight year old son, "Hey, Jimmy, how about going out with Mom for a piece of pie?"
"Will I be home by 7:30?"
Ouch! "Yes, you'll be back by 7:30."
"Will it be crowded? Do they have pumpkin pie?"
"No and yes."
"Well, I guess so."
We put on our jackets and walked to the car.
"What did you want to talk to me about Mom?"
Gasp. "Why would you think I want to talk to you about something?"
"Oh, you had that look."
"Oh."
After scissor-stepping across the parking lot, he exploded through the front door of the restaurant and checked out the coin return slot on all the phones in the entryway. Shown to a table, he quickly departed to check out the men's room, then reported back with all the details.
"He'll have the pumpkin pie and I'll have blueberry."
"Does he want whipped cream on the pie?"
"Jimmy, do you want whipped cream?"
"Sure, why not."
"So, Jimmy, how's school?"
"Regular."
"Is it better than last year?"
"The same."
"Oh. Ok."
The pie came.
"Do you still miss your old buddy Vincent?"His fork found the pie and severed a huge piece off the wedge— which then fell on the table between his plate and his mouth.
"Yeah, but I can go to his house this winter; that's what he said."
"Hey, that'll be great, won't it?"
"Yep."
"Is there anyone else at school that you feel close to?"His fork tried to retrieve the chunk but only slid it to the left where his hand then got involved in the action.
"Not really. Patrick is ok but he gets me in trouble too much."The pie was now in his mouth. Whew! The whipped cream was not. Ugh! It lay on the table in front of him like a white snake. I watched him clean it up with his index finger, then reach for the napkin in the middle of the table.
"What do you mean, trouble?"His hand was now on the napkin — and his sleeve was in his pie. My mind had two thoughts simultaneously: `Kissing, dancing!' and `Whipped Cream!' Before my mouth could speak either one, he was wiping the whipped cream off the table with the napkin and at the same time smearing it from his elbow onto the side of his jacket.
"You know, like kissing me when we dance."
"You and Patrick dance?"Too late. He was cleaning the whipped cream off his jacket with the napkin from the previous mess.
"Yep. But don't worry, we get our math packets done first."
"Jimmy, you're smearing that all over your jacket. Here, let me..."
"Do the other kids dance?"He was now ready for the next bite of pie. Being smaller, it stayed on the fork all the way into his mouth and left only a trace of whipped cream on his cheek (this time from his knuckles). Noticing it on his hand, he reached again for the napkin. I stopped him just in time by grabbing it first (Yuk!) and offered him mine. He reached across the table for it and put whipped cream on the other sleeve. Things were happening so fast now I could scarcely keep up.
"You mean when they get their math packets done?"
"You're not eating your pie, Mom."The waitress came with the check. I paid the bill and watched him scissor step back across the parking lot to the car. We rode home in silence (except for the sound of the zipper on his jacket going up and down in some unknown rhythmic pattern). I pulled into the garage as the man on the radio said, "The time is exactly 7:30."
"My pie? Oh yeah, my pie. Jimmy, would you say that you're happy?"
"Happy about what? Do you have any more napkins?"
"No, here, let me help you. . . you know, happy about things in general,like school, home, friends."
"Mom, you've got your sleeve in my pie."
"What?!?"
"Your sleeve is in my pie. But that's ok, I'm done anyway."
"Did you find out what you wanted to know, Mom?"He hopped scotched into the house. I stayed there a while longer in the dark car surrounded by perfect stillness wondering "What happened?" Would it have been different had he ordered a hot fudge sundae? The thought alone sent a shiver through me.
"What?"
"You know, all those questions."
"Hey Mom, aren't you coming in?"Getting out of the car I noticed it — the speck of whipped cream on the seat. Right next to it was his red baseball cap, the one he hangs on his bedpost each night. I picked it up and could almost feel his hair, blond and messed, always messed. Is he happy? I never really got the answer to that question, so I left it (along with all the other unanswered questions about the life of a small boy) in the dark garage in the car with the whipped cream stain on the front seat, and went into the house.