Nicole Nelson, pleased with herself that she had successfully taken her two children, six-year-old Riley and four-year-old Renee, for their annual pediatric check-up with the promise of a Panera pastry if they were well-behaved, found herself watching her two girls negotiate whether one bear claw finger was equal to one-fourth of a blueberry muffin. Nicole smiled listening to her daughters bargain, and in that moment she surprised herself by how she was flooded with such love. She remembered how she and her brother, Noah, fought over such matters when they were children, how they always needed an intervening parent to resolve their differences. Her girls, though, were managing just fine without her. As two bear claw fingers and one-third blueberry muffin moved from plate to plate, a deep calm found its way to her. Then, a voice from a nearby table broke into her world.
“Lovely girls you got there,” an elderly man said.
“Thank you,” Nicole replied, taking in the man who appeared harmless, perhaps just lonely and just wanting to make conversation. Strangers, she took pleasure in remembering, often made flattering comments about her girls. “Can you both say thank you to this gentleman?” They both look up from their treats to do as their mother had suggested. “The oldest one is Riley and the youngest is Renee, but she prefers to be called Rainbow.”
“Well, hello Renee and Rainbow. It’s nice to meet both of you.”
“Say hello girls,” Nicole urged and they complied. Nicole was pleased with their performance. “Do you have any children?”
“Yes, four boys. The first went into the Navy. The second joined the National Guard. The third became a member of the Special Forces and the fourth—he never served. He’s a Democrat,” the man answered, enjoying what he considered the wit of his own remark. Nicole, knowing the man assumed she shared his perspective and expected her to appreciate his humor, gave a small laugh, but instantly felt uneasy having done so. She was uncomfortable by his insertion of politics, a politics that she surely didn’t support. Her discomfort, though, went beyond his assumption of commonality. His comment brought her to Noah, a democrat, who died in his second tour of duty in Iraq in a war he did not believe in. He called it a war of sand, sun, and stupidity. But Noah served because he believed it was his duty. “Finish up, girls. We have to get going,” she said, swinging her body away from the man.
In the car, she felt her anger build and tried to hide the tears that were running down her face from her daughters in the back seat. She wished she would have said something, said that he was wrong, said that he shouldn’t talk about his own son that way, said that her brother deserved respect for what he did. She wanted another chance to speak up, and for a moment considered going back in to tell the man what she thought, but she wondered what she would do with the girls and doubted if she would have the words she wanted or the ability to control how her words might come out. She left the parking lot feeling agitated and continued to blame herself for letting the man think what he said was acceptable. She became increasingly sure it was not.
Several weeks later, Nicole Nelson dropped her girls off at their schools and decided to stop by Panera for a cup of coffee and a bagel. After picking up her order, she saw across the dining area that same man sitting alone at a table. She felt her body flush, her heart race. She knew she had to act. This was her opportunity, but her emotions were overwhelming her, making her question again if what she would say would be right. She found a table as far away from him as she could. He did not see her, but she held him clearly in her sight. She tried to get control of herself. She stared at him, searching for what she could do. Take several deep breaths, she said to herself, and as she did, she flashed on the time Riley was teaching Renee how to play “rock, paper, scissors.” She reached for the notepad and pen in her purse and scribbled three sentences, each on their own line. When she finished writing what she decided to say, she wrapped her bagel and cream cheese in a napkin, put all her belongings in her purse, and checked to make sure the lid on her coffee was secure. She stood up, determined, and marched to his table. She slapped her note down. She turned just as quickly and left.
The man was confused. He did not recognize the woman who seemed so angry with him. He picked up the paper and read: “I am a democrat. My brother was a democrat. He died in Iraq.” Crazy democrat, he thought. Sorry she lost her brother. He held the note and turned to another table where two other men were sitting. “You won’t believe what just happened,” he said.
It took Nicole several minutes in her car before her breathing returned to normal. For a moment, she felt an ease she hadn’t felt since her last encounter with that man. She had her say. She did what she needed to do. She did it for Noah and for her girls. She knew they would always standup for each other. Backing out of her parking space, she caught a glimpse of the three men laughing. Seeing them in such good spirits, she realized her gesture was nothing but a joke on herself. She drove away, wanting to forgive herself.
Ronald J. Pelias spent most of his academic career calling upon the literary as a research strategy. Now he just writes for the pleasures and frustrations of putting words to the page.