Background
Thirty something, Jameson, meets seventy something, Iris. They bond over coffee and become friends .
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This is the story of a friendship between two people. It is written in dual first person points of view. Each chapter is labeled to specify who is narrating.
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So far, thirty something, Jameson, meets seventy something, Iris, after his dog escapes. His marriage is falling apart, he hates his job and he's lonely. There is something about this senior woman that makes him feel hopeful. A friendship begins.
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IRIS
Poor Jameson. He has this look in his eyes when I disclose that Daniel has passed on. He's thinking about his own son now, Im sure. Hearing about the loss of a child always makes you want to hug your own. He's probably wondering how I survived losing him. I've wondered that from time to time myself.
Maybe, had I known it would be the last time I'd see Daniel, I would have hugged him a little tighter and held him close a little longer. But I was busy with the dishes when I sent him off to his baseball game. I was just waiting for my husband, Louis, to get home. We were going to walk to the field together.
Countless times, Daniel had gone ahead of us. We lived in a quiet and safe neighborhood. Nothing ever happened there, until it did.
A young woman, rushing home from work, took her eyes off the road for a split second. And Daniel, cutting across the street between two parked cars, instead of walking to the crosswalk at the end of the block. Just two random things, changed everything. It robbed Lou and I of our beautiful boy. And truth be told, probably robbed that young woman of sleep for countless years.
Jameson is ghostly pale, his eyes wide with pupils dilated. He starts to apologize but I reach over and squeeze his hand. "You had no way of knowing," I offer.
"We can change the subject, if you'd rather," he says quietly.
"No. Sometimes it's good to talk about him. I'd like to share him with you. I don't miss him as much."
"What was he like?" Jameson asks. He's interested in hearing about him, not just asking to placate me. I can tell the difference after thirty-five years.
I smile to myself, seeing the freckled face and his crooked little smile. "Mischievous, inquisitive. He was a beautiful little boy."
"Fin's like that."
"Encourage that. Let him be curious about the world."
Jameson nods as the waitress brings over our cinnamon buns and heats up our coffee.
"His current curiosity is about what fits down the toilet. So far, we have learned that small cars and little bouncy balls, will go down the drain. But slippers, paperbacks and cell phones do not."
"Maybe he'll become a plumber when he grows up."
"He told his mother that he wants to be daddy when he grows up." Jameson has a look of pride and longing on his face.
"Oh, that's sweet."
"I thought so, too. Doubt Claire was thrilled to hear it," he says, looking down at the iced treat before him. After a few seconds, he looks over at me. "So, was Daniel good at baseball?"
"Actually, he was very good. He was only eight, but he understood the game. His coach told Lou that Daniel knew the rules better than he did."
I look over at Jameson, wondering if he was getting bored with my stories but he is just listening intently.
"I was never very athletic. I guess I didn't really have to state the obvious," he says, a playful smile on his face.
"Nonsense. You're built like a runner."
"I ran. Yes, I certainly did. I ran from the jocks and the tough guys. Heck, I think there was even a time I ran from the nerds in the chess club." He laughs at his own joke. "Do you have a picture of Daniel?" he asks.
"I thought you'd never ask," I say, reaching down into my purse to fish my wallet out. I slide the photograph out of the plastic sleeve.
"May I?"
I hand him the picture and watch as he studies the yellowed photo. My child frozen in time at eight-years-old.
Jameson looks up at me. "He has your eyes. He was a cute kid."
"Thank you. I try to imagine what he would look like now. I guess it's really an exercise in futility. He lived his whole life in eight short years."
He gingerly places the picture into my hand.
I look down at the picture once more. Though it's faded and yellow, I can still see the details. Details that no one else notices, like the little bit of chocolate milk that was in the corner of his mouth, or the scab on his neck where he scratched a mosquito bite until it bled.
To the people who go so far as to ask for his picture, this is a remembrance of a distant life. Something kept safe in my wallet, to pull out occasionally, and refresh my memory.
To me, this little photo is everything I have left.
I tuck it away and break off a piece of the cinnamon bun with the edge of my fork. I look over at Jameson and raise my fork. "Bon appetit."
We both eat in silence. Me thinking about a little boy in a pinstripe uniform. And him, about his own son.
