Dessert
Perched beside the beach, the Pelican was crowded on an unseasonably warm Friday evening in October in that part of California. Carol and Art, regulars, had their customary corner table. Carol had squeezed herself onto the bench seat against the wall, and Art had settled himself across from her, his chair pushed back to allow for his girth. He was seventy, and she was sixty-eight; they’d been married forty-seven years.
Carol had been looking out the open window to their left at the waves for ten minutes before the waitress brought their drinks; a martini for her and scotch for him. The waitress didn’t need to ask for their orders. Carol glanced at Art, and he was still studying his cell phone. He wore a rumpled T-shirt with the emblem of the company he owned. She wore a blue jumpsuit with curling gold brocade along the sides of the pants and across the chest. Her hair was dyed black, white showing at the roots. His was gray, short, disheveled. He slid a finger across the screen of his phone and grunted. She took a sip of her drink and looked back outside.
Another few minutes passed before the table next to them emptied. Carol turned and watched the busboy clear things away. A young couple approached him hopefully. The busboy grinned, nodded, and pulled the chair out for the woman. She thanked him, and the man slid onto the bench seat across from her. He was tall and fair, the woman dark, slender, with kind eyes. Carol watched him reach across and take her hand. Little more than a foot separated their tables.
Carol blinked, looked at Art on his phone, and then returned her gaze to the ocean. The smell of it wafted in the air, and the beach stretched a long way in each direction. She heard the ice in Art’s drink tinkle. The sun lowered toward the horizon, the sky around it bruised purple and orange. A seagull called.
Carol heard the young couple order wine and appetizers to share. They exchanged pleasant conversation with the waitress. At one point, the three of them laughed together. Carol sipped her own drink and thought about the potted plants she’d cared for that day; over the years, she’d added to the collection until there were almost a hundred spread around their property. She thought about the afghans she’d been knitting for a homeless shelter during the afternoons while she watched television. She thought about Art sitting for hours at the computer in his study, doing what, she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember when he’d first begun sleeping there; it had been soon after he’d retired several years before.
From the corner of her eye, Carol saw the young man lift the woman’s hand to his lips and kiss it. Outside, the bottom of the sun had touched the line of ocean. It seemed to her to linger there, then grudgingly lower itself until it blinked away. When she glanced over, the young couple was watching the sunset, too, still holding hands. The man smiled at her. Carol heard Art tapping the screen of his phone. She looked back out the window and was aware of the shuffle of feet, the hum of conversation, the soft rumble of the waves.
She watched the light fall quickly outside until the sky above the horizon was a calico cat. When she looked at Art, he’d turned his attention to a football game on a television mounted high in the corner of the bar. She watched his belly rise and fall with his hands folded around the tumbler on it until the waitress set their meals down in front of them: lobster tail for her and a cheeseburger and fries for him. They started in on their food in silence.
While she ate, Carol could hear bits of the young couple’s quiet conversation. They talked about their days at work: she was a hospital social worker, and he was an elementary school teacher. They spoke about a play they were going to afterwards and of a hike they’d planned for the next morning. At one point, their appetizers arrived, and they began on them together. Carol heard the familiar sound of Art’s lips smacking together as he chewed.
Twenty more minutes passed. Except for their glasses, both tables had been cleared. The bar was less busy. Carol could hear the hush of the waves’ retreat on the beach. She looked at Art as he grimaced at the football game on the TV. But when the waitress brought a large, candle-lit saucer and placed it between the young couple, they both turned and watched intently.
“Happy birthday,” the waitress told them and went away.
The young couple smiled at each other, nodded, and blew out the candle together. A large wedge of ice cream pie sat in the center of the saucer with melted chocolate drizzled over its whipped cream topping and in a swirl around its base. The man took the candle out of the pie, held it across to the woman, watched her suck the whipped cream from it and set it on the table. Each took a spoon and cut off a mouthful of pie.
The man closed his eyes as he swallowed, opened them, and said, “Oh, my.”
“Yum,” the woman replied. “Yum, yum, yum.”
Carol and Art continued to stare. The woman looked over at them and said, “It’s our birthdays. His was last week. Mine is tomorrow.”
Art nodded.
“Best wishes,” Carol said. They were the first words either had spoken since before they’d driven from the house. “Best wishes to you both.”
They watched the young couple eat the pie: mocha ice cream in a dark crumble crust. When it was halfway done, the man turned and said, “Would you like some? We’ll never finish it all.”
They shook their heads. “Thanks, though,” Art said.
The waitress brought checks and set them down on their tables. Carol and Art let the narrow folder stay where she’d set it. The young woman put money in theirs. The man took another long bite, and she did the same.
“Enough?” he asked.
She sighed, “I give up.”
They both smiled and rose from the table. Carol watched them find their way through the crowd and out the door. She looked at Art; he was still studying the pie. She did the same until they finally turned to each other.
“Well?” Carol said. “They did offer.”
“We couldn’t, could we? We can’t.”
She blinked, looking at him. “I guess not,” she said. “No.”
He frowned, drank off the rest of his scotch, then raised the tumbler in the air, searching for the waitress. She came over and took his empty. Art glanced at Carol, pointed to her glass, and raised his eyebrows. She shook her head.
Carol looked back outside where it had turned completely black; only the narrow, white curl of the waves was visible as they turned over near the shore. She thought about eating the pie with Art; she would have used the young man’s spoon, and he would have used the woman’s. She thought of the USO dance where she’d met Art all those years ago, how handsome he’d looked in his naval uniform, the erectness of his bearing, the promise in his eyes. She heard the waitress bring Art’s drink and ask if she could get them anything else. He said, no, they were fine.
Carol glanced a last time at the pie, which had become little more than a small island of ice cream in a puddle of chocolate. “You’re right,” she thought. “Everything is fine. Just fine.”