Page 13 of A Taste of Chardonnay

“Ron, what the hell are you doing?” I stopped calling him Dad the day he kicked me out of his house. He didn’t want me in his life, then he lost his title. Not that he ever lived up to it in any way.

My old man turned, his lip curled, a blank stare in his green eyes that—I hated to admit—were just like mine. “Brady.” He all but sighed my name. “I just want my special. I get it every Monday. You know that.”

I glanced at Michael, who shrugged, a look of pure sympathy in his eyes. Kenneth tried to keep the line moving, but everyone had stopped to stare.

“No, I don’t know that.”

“Of course you do.” He moved toward me. “Remember that time we went fishing on the lake, and I stopped here and got us the scrapple special, and we took it to go? We ate it down at the docks.”

The last time the old man and I had done any kind of fishing, I was eleven. It was one of the last times I’d ever seen him sober.

Realization dawned on me. Memories of a simpler time, flashing in my mind. A time when Dad was sober for about a year. A time when he was my dad in more than title.

“A scrapple special from Tony’s,” I said.

“Exactly. Remember how good it was? You can get one, too, if these buffoons would do their job.”

Tony’s closed down twenty years ago. Multiple businesses had come and gone at this location until Michael and Kenneth had opened Espresso Yourself.

Nero had told me he’d been forgetting things lately. Names of people and places, where he put his keys, how to get home… I didn’t think it was of any concern. Forgetfulness happened to the best of us. Also, as awful as it was, I didn’t fucking care. Why should I? The man never cared about me. He made my life hell. But right now he was making other people’s lives hell, and I needed to get him away from here.

“Ron, this isn’t Tony’s.”

“Yes, it is.” His adamant tone could have convinced someone who didn’t know better, but I did. Everyone in here did.

“It’s not. Tony’s closed twenty years ago. This place is a coffee shop now. Michael and Kenneth are the owners, and they are good people, but they do not make a scrapple special.”

Ron’s gaze darted back and forth, confusion tugging at the deep lines around his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

In that moment, he didn’t look like the man who threw punches at me as often as other dads threw balls and high fives. He looked old, feeble, and utterly lost.

I tapped his shoulder. “Come sit down.” I motioned toward an open table by the window and pulled out a chair. Ron sat down, mumbling to himself and shaking his head.

“Michael?” I said.

The co-owner nodded. “Large black coffee?”

“Please, and a medium with two sugars and milk.” Ron had been drinking his coffee the same way my entire life. I used to make it for him in the morning, in hopes of sobering him up.

“You got it.” Michael turned toward the cups.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

Ron’s confused gaze met mine. “I was hungry. I wanted a scrapple special. I forgot Tony’s closed.”

“Nero said this has been happening a lot. You forgetting shit.”

He ran a hand over his face. “I probably need more sleep.”

“What’s the doctor say?”

“I’m not going to the doctor because of an oversight.”

“Forgetting a place closed down twenty years ago is not an oversight.”

Michael came to the table and placed the two coffees in front of us. He turned around and came back with two plates. “I know it’s not a scrapple special, but it’s a bacon cheddar corn muffin, and my mother grew up on scrapple. She adores these muffins, so maybe you’ll like it. It’s on the house either way.”

“You don’t have to do that.” God only knew how much business Ron scared off this morning. Michael didn’t need to be rewarding him with free food.

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