A Cup of Coffee

She should have never offered to take her out for a drink.

Cathy sat across the table from Rose, a small, frail woman with white hair and rosy red cheeks. Just shy of her eighty-ninth birthday, Rose had lived in the same small house since she married her husband seventy years prior, on the edge of town overlooking the park, and Cathy knew her only from passing. They always seemed bright and full of happiness, Rose and her husband - walking their dog in the park, hand in hand. Cathy went to the park as a child with her mother, and again when her own children were young. It was a wonderful place, and always brought her happiness. She thought back to the park often, especially in the springtime when the sun was beginning to again grow bright and shining. But now, all she could think of was how much everything had changed, and how long it had been since her feet had touched that grass.

Rose sat quietly at the table, stirring her coffee with a small wooden stick. Cathy admired her dress. It was pink with white flowers on it. Rose had taken the time to match her hat and her brooch with the flowers, and had even painted her nails to match as well. Cathy knew it wasn’t a new dress, but the care that Rose had taken made it sparkle. And it sparkled ever brightly in contrast to the dark, gloominess that sank around the table at which they sat. Neither of them had said a word for over twenty minutes.

Distracting herself, Cathy tried to remember the last time she had been out to the park that bordered Rose’s house. Her children had long ago grown to like the mall more than skipping through the grass, and her own business – running the town’s only coffee house – had kept her very busy over the past few years. She had started the coffee house from scratch and, drip by drip, built it up to be a welcome gathering place for people in town. It was her livelihood, but it was much more than that. It was a heartbeat. It was at the coffee house that she met everyone, interacted with her neighbors and family, and it was here that she was offered the suggestion to volunteer with Phone Angels. Cathy had always wanted another way to give to her community, and Phone Angels seemed like a perfect fit. It didn’t require her to go anywhere, and she always had something to say.

Cathy cleared her throat. ‘So, Rose, how’ve you been?’ she uttered hesitantly. The words suggested much more familiarity and intimacy than her tone delivered. She was worried she might upset Rose or say something wrong.

‘It has been difficult since George passed,’ Rose whispered. She had made the obligatory response, but was reluctant to carry the thought any further. Cathy took a sip of her coffee and swallowed hard.

Rose’s husband passed away five years ago. Cathy remembered reading the two line obituary in the paper, but thought nothing of it. Actually, she hadn’t thought of Rose in years. Then, one day two weeks ago, Rose popped back into her life. She had received a new contact through Phone Angels and, at 9am on Sunday morning she called Mrs. Violet Harriman.

‘Hello! Mrs. Harriman? It’s Cathy from Phone Angels! I’m calling to see how you are, and to chat with you for a little while! How are you today?’ Cathy had begun her call with Mrs. Violet Harriman as enthusiastically as she approached almost everything in her life. On the other end of the line she heard a cough, and that was it. ‘Mrs. Harriman? Are you there?’ 

A tiny voice coughed again and then replied. ‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘Well hello!’ Cathy began again. ‘And how are you today, Mrs. Harriman?’

‘You can call me Rose.’ 

‘Ok, Rose’ started Cathy. ‘Umm, so.. how are you today?’

Rose had replied with nothing more than a sigh. For more than ten minutes, Cathy tried asking all the commonplace questions, but she received nearly nothing from the other end. She knew that Rose was still on the line – she could hear her breathing – but no words came out. What was even worse was the way that Rose sighed. There was sadness to it. The sighs spoke volumes against the silence that fell between the two of them. It was nerve-wracking, and Cathy worried that she was doing something wrong.

All the others she had spoken to, they at least droned on for nothing at all during the hour they were on the phone together. She had become skilled in the mhmms and oh mys and wows that were adequate enough to keep the talking going. On one occasion she had spoken with an ex-air force pilot who had flown a bomber in World War II and had a real conversation. But more often than not she relied on the same script to get her through. She convinced herself that that was enough, that calling was enough, fulfilling her duty to humanity and all. She could mhmm into eternity and that would be alright.

But when she was on the phone with Rose, suddenly everything shattered. There was no room for her mhmms, nothing for her to react to. The phone had become a tool of bewilderment. She panicked. 

‘Would you like to come down to the coffee house today, Rose? I can come pick you up and I will treat you to a cup on the house.’ WHAT DID I JUST SAY, Cathy choked. Here she was, on the phone with a woman who couldn’t say two words and now she was inviting her to continue the awkwardness in person.

‘Alright.’ said Rose. 

That was three hours ago.

Now, at the coffee house, the silence was unbearable. Even when she did think of something to say, every word got stuck between the gaps of her clenched teeth. Her mind raced out of embarrassment: How could she have nothing to say!? She should at least comment on the weather – something! It doesn’t matter if it’s important or banal. Just. Say. Something!

‘The weather has been terrible lately, hasn’t it? I don’t remember there being so much rain in ages. It makes me not want to leave my apartment, the terrible hassle of it all.’

‘Mmm yes. Terrible rain. Yes.’ muttered Rose, looking down into her coffee cup with a sullenly vacant expression.

Cathy bit her lip. Rose hadn’t been out of her house in nearly a year. The volunteers from Phone Angels had mentioned this when they sent Cathy Mrs. Harriman’s number, and why it was so important that she had made it to their list of callers. They had given her number to Cathy specifically because she was always so personable and enthusiastic. So when Cathy pulled into the driveway of Mrs. Harriman’s house, she wasn’t entirely certain she was doing the right thing. Then, upon seeing her, Cathy instantly realized that Mrs. Harriman was the Rose from the park all those years ago. The contrast between what she remembered and the woman she was interacting with now was startling, and that widened the gap between them even further in Cathy’s mind. Cathy felt her confidence drop. She was awash in a sea and had forgotten how to swim.

‘What a stupid thing to say!’ Cathy chastised herself silently as she took another desperate sip of her coffee. ‘Makes me not want to leave my apartment’ she repeated in her head. ‘How utterly insensitive..’

The minutes passed like hours and Cathy began to wonder how long she had to sit there with Rose before it wouldn’t be insulting to ask to take her home. Her thoughts were wandering away from the moment, away from the coffee house. She was entertaining ideas of what to make for dinner that evening, and about the television show she was going to be watching with her husband. She took a deep breath and focused back in on Rose.

‘Are you enjoying your coffee? It’s a new blend we received just yesterday. From a small farm in Venezuela owned by three brothers. It’s supposed to taste a little bit like caramel.’

‘Oh yes, it’s fine dear.’ Rose had taken barely a sip of the now tepid liquid that sat between her fingertips. She looked up briefly, and Cathy peered into her eyes. Behind the stare that masked Rose's thoughts, Cathy could see something, a glimmer, a thread waiting to be pulled. But Cathy was exhausted. ‘There’s nothing more I can do,’ she thought. ‘I’ve done all I can think of.’

Cathy took a napkin and wiped the corners of her mouth. ‘Well, Rose, it’s nearly two o’clock. We had better be going. I have some errands to run before I return home and prepare dinner for my husband.’

‘Alright,’ whispered Rose. She slowly pushed back her chair and pressed her small hands against the table to lift herself up. Cathy stood close in case she needed some help, and noticed that even her shoes matched her dress. Something twinged in her stomach.

Cathy led Rose to the car and opened the door for her. Rose slid into the seat with a small thud and buckled herself in. Cathy got behind the wheel and pulled out of her parking space a little quicker than usual. She was anxious to end the uncomfortable train wreck that her day had become. Under the cover of clouds, she retraced her route across town, back to the park that had been so bright so long ago. She pulled into Rose’s driveway and got out to help her from the car.

Hand in arm, Cathy led Rose to her doorstep. They both stood there, looking at each other, one waiting for the other to say something. 

‘Thank you for the coffee,’ trembled Rose.

‘It was my pleasure,’ replied Cathy. She reached out her hand to shake Rose’s, a final gesture. A final goodbye.

Rose reached out and grabbed Cathy’s hand but didn’t shake it. She covered one hand over the other and pulled Cathy’s hand close to her heart.

‘My George and I used to read each other the comics on Sunday mornings. I’d dress up in my Sunday best and would brew us a whole pot of coffee. We would sit and laugh for hours, and then we’d walk to church together. He’s the one that called me Rose. He said violets were pretty, but roses were beautiful. He said that to me on the first day we met.’ 

Cathy was stunned. She nearly broke down in tears.

‘Rose?’ Cathy asked, almost like a child asking for permission. ‘Shall I pick you up next Sunday at noon? We’ll have fresh apple pie at the coffee house. Do you like apple pie?’

‘Alright,’ whispered Rose. ‘I’ll see you then.’