---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v224) (the September 2011 Issue, You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This is also in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Autumn Again” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

Order this writing in the book Fragments (a cc&d collection book)		get the 322 page September-December 2011 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

the Luncheon

Anne Turner Taub

    It was a lovely, little ladies tearoom in which everything was conducive to good conversation—tiny, round tables with fresh flowers, lace-edged napkins, pink tablecloths, and a menu that consisted primarily of green salad and pink yogurt. The waitresses wore green uniforms and pink heart-shaped aprons, with matching pink hair bows.
    The patrons tended to be elderly ladies although occasionally the head of a male relative would surface like a buoy in the sea of white hair. The lady customers would look at the whirling young dynamos that served them and try not to think the thoughts they were thinking. Some of them would be curt when a young thing came up. Others would take on a motherly role, accepting the inevitable. They had their own thoughts as they watched the waitresses—wearing their youth as they wore their uniforms—pinkly, carelessly, and freshly laundered—dashing around trying to keep up with the myriads of hesitant but urgent “When you have time, dear, would you...” And the yearnings of the old ladies would be buried so deep that they never knew they were there. They would think it was hunger and wonder “why doesn’t she come over.”
    The waitresses, on the other hand, saw the customers only as objects to be fed as quickly as possible and forgotten equally as quickly. They knew they had the god-given gift of years before they could “ever be like that.”
    Martha and Emily Wells were two sisters both advanced in age, although Emily was quite a bit older. Martha looked at her sister wistfully. Emily had been so beautiful and talented. Now she was gaunt and haggard with the last-stage ravages of cancer. Martha carefully folded Emily’s walker out of the way by the table, then sighed, her heart full of tears. Emily had lost all her hair because of chemotherapy treatments and was now a frail reminder of the beauty she had once been. Not only had she been beautiful; she had been a fashion designer and had worked with the best couturiers in the field. Her vanity had not died with the onset of cancer. She had designed magnificent scarves to cover her bald head and she wore fine leather gloves in pastel shades to cover her thin arms and hands. Jewels that looked as though they had mysterious and romantic histories covered her neck and ears. Even today her name stirred memories of pleasure and admiration among those in the business.
    In time the waitress, whose name tag identified her as Mary Lou and who had yet to see the dark side of 21, came and took Martha’s order. Then looking at Emily, she asked Martha, “What is she having?”
    “I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
    “Now, dear,” the waitress addressed Emily in a voice so loud that several customers turned and looked their way.
    “You don’t have to raise your voice,” said Martha. “She has very good hearing. In fact, it’s better than mine.”
    “Well, young lady,” the waitress asked in the syrupy drawl one often hears addressed to children, “what are we having for lunch today?”
    “Caesar salad, I think,” said Emily.
    “That’s hard to chew, dear, how about some nice soup?”
    Silence.
    “Are you sure she hears me?” she asked Martha.
    “She does. Perhaps she just wants her Caesar salad.”
    The waitress shrugged and was about to take the menu from Emily’s hand when she noticed the ring on her finger.
    “How do you like that!” she exclaimed. “My mother has the same ring.” The ring was constructed of a fire opal in the center of lapis lazuli petals with one gold leaf.
    Emily said nothing.
    “There were only five of them made,” the waitress continued. “My mother bought it in Greenwich Village. The artist was very famous and only made five because her four-year-old daughter died in a traffic accident the day she made the last one, and she swore she would never make another ring.”
    She looked at Emily’s impassive face. ”Do you have any idea how valuable that ring is today? It’s considered a collector’s item.”
    Again, Emily did not respond. “I guess you don’t,” said the waitress as she walked away, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head.
    Martha turned to her sister in puzzlement. “Why didn’t you tell her you were the artist that designed and created that ring?”
    Emily paused a moment, then said wryly, “I don’t know. I guess it’s because I’m not deaf and I’m not demented. Or maybe it’s because I am neither and don’t like being treated as if I am.”
    Martha smiled to herself. No amount of age or illness would ever take away her sister’s insight and sensitivity.
    A week later the two sisters came back to the restaurant for their weekly luncheon. Just as a waitress with the name tag Betty approached their table, Mary Lou dashed over to the other waitress, talked to her, and stood there to take their orders. Then she looked at Emily and said, “Pardon me, but my mother wanted to know if you are Emily Martin, the fashion designer.”
    “Yes,” said Emily cautiously, “I am.”
    “My mother was sure of it. When I told her about the ring and the scarves you wear, she got very excited. She remembers you from all those years ago. She said not only does she still have your ring, but she still has her original Emily dress, and the Emily ring, which she bought when she had a big win in Atlantic City. She loves that dress—she still wears it. She loves it because she says it never goes out of style—not like classic shirtwaists which wear forever and you get sick and tired of them but they cost too much to throw away.”
    “What does the dress look like?” asked Emily.
    “It’s a cocktail dress; I think the color is called robin’s egg blue.”
    “Does it have a cowl neckline with two sapphire clips?”
    “Yes, that’s right. It does.”
    “That model was the Belle Dame creation. They featured it in Vogue magazine that year for the fall fashions.”
    “Wow! Wait till I tell my mother!”
    “Well,” said Emily, “tell your mother how pleased I am that she likes my work.”
    Martha sat there quietly smiling as this went on. She will never call her a young lady again, she thought.
    After lunch and as they were leaving, Mary Lou looked at Emily and said “Could I ask you a favor, Mrs. Martin?”
    “Of course, if I can help you, I will.”
    “Would you mind autographing a menu for my mother; she would be so thrilled.”
    As Emily bent to write it, Mary Lou grinned. “My mother will never believe she got a real Emily Martin autograph.”
    Emily looked at the young girl a moment, paused, then dug into her pocket and took out a handkerchief. “This is one of my original Emily handkerchiefs, with my initials embroidered in the corner. Do you think your mother would like it?”
    “Oh, would she! Thank you. Thank you.” She was almost crying.
    After lunch as they were leaving, Mary Lou rushed to hold the door for them.
    “Well,” said Martha, “I don’t think she will ever ask you if you want some “nice” soup again.”
    “And who knows,” said Emily, “next time she sees a person a million years old, she will treat them as if they are real people, instead of basket cases. Do you think this will have a cumulative effect?”
    “I don’t know, I hope so.” said Martha and she grinned wistfully; she was going to miss her “big” sister so much when she was gone.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...