Sixty Plates and One End Slice

Thursdays

Gene told the coffee men. That is how news travels in our town.

His nephew drove him to the elevator on Friday morning to look at the wheat bids, and by noon everybody knew.

The care center sells guest meal tickets at the front desk for seven dollars, for family who want to eat with their people. Most weeks Dena sold three or four of them.

On the second Thursday she sold nineteen. Old farmers, two of the elevator men, a couple of retired teachers, and three ladies from Mom’s church circle who had eaten at Opie’s every Thursday for twenty years.

They did not come for me. I want to be honest about that. They came to see Opie.

They had been meaning to visit her since the fall and had not known how, and now they had a reason and a plate in front of them.

Mom held court at the front table. The coffee men pulled their chairs around her wheelchair the way they used to pull them around her counter, and she told them the price of eggs was robbery and the Chiefs needed a better line.

On the third Thursday, Dena sold thirty-one guest tickets. I made seven extra loaves and every slice went out.

Gene asked if there was any way he could buy a whole one to take home, and Dena said absolutely not.

I heard from three different people that Opie’s Cafe was half empty that day at noon. I did not ask. People just told me.

I did not feel good about it. I want to say that plainly. That cafe was Mom’s life’s work.

Every empty booth on Main Street was money Mom’s name was losing, and Lacey’s house was still behind.