Pop Pop by Madeleine Mysko
Page Three
R.KV.R.Y. QUARTERLY LITERARY JOURNAL
SUMMER/FALL 2007 FICTION
Page Three
R.KV.R.Y. QUARTERLY LITERARY JOURNAL
SUMMER/FALL 2007 FICTION
He found a parking spot right in front of Britton’s Bakery. The second he turned off the engine there
was downpour of rain.
He looked over his shoulder. Valerie yawned, and smiled at him sheepishly. There was no sound from
the baby.
“It won’t take me long,” he said. Beyond the steamed-up windows of the bakery, he could see there
were only three people in line. “Anything I can get you? They’ve got doughnuts and sticky buns too.
Friends of ours really swear by the sticky buns.”
“I think I’ll try an apple fritter. I’m looking forward to that,” she said. “Oh—Looks like they’ve got
coffee.”
At the door of the bakery, a young man was pulling up the hood of his parka, awkwardly balancing
his cup.
“You want coffee?” Jim asked.
“I’d love some—decaf, please. Black.”
“Sure,” he said, and made his dash through the rain and into the bakery.
Waiting in line, he counted only a dozen or so apple fritters left in the case, but fortunately the
people ahead of him wanted the doughnuts and sticky buns. While the girl behind the counter boxed
up his order, he filled a cup with Decaf Breakfast Blend, figuring that was a safer bet than one of the
flavored ones. There was a stack of morning papers next to the coffee station. Two Dead in Iraq.
The girl handed over the box. It was heavy and warm.
“These must be right out of the oven,” he said, with as much cheer as he could muster.
“Yes sir.” She was already looking past him at the next person.
When he got back to the car, the baby was wailing. Valerie had taken him out of his seat and was
jiggling him, patting him on the back.
“You better keep the coffee up there,” she said, “until I get him settled down.”
He settled the coffee in the console and the bakery box on the front seat. He started up the car, but
figured he ought to wait for the go-ahead, since the baby wasn’t strapped in yet. Suddenly the
wailing stopped. There was a whimper, a muffled shudder, and he knew she’d put him to the
breast.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”
“It’s all right. We’re not in any rush.”
He turned off the engine and stared through the rain pouring down the windshield. He wasn’t
squeamish about breast-feeding—Betsy had nursed all three of theirs until they were at least a year
old—but he didn’t want to turn around and lay his eyes on Valerie with her T-shirt lifted up.
“Go on and break out your apple fritter, Pop-Pop,” she said. “When I email Scott, I want to tell him
you had the first one of the season.”
Scott must have let her in on the routine they’d established, how they’d make the early-morning drive
over to Britton’s and then immediately open the box and eat the first fritter in the car.
He forgot about the nursing and turned to glance in her direction. She had thrown a little yellow
blanket over her breast and the baby.
“You email him every day?” he said.
“A couple times a day. But he doesn’t have time to answer them all.”
He managed some small talk with her—about the weather, when it would break, and who was
arriving when for the weekend. Under it all was the sound of his grandchild’s desperate gulping at
the breast.
“There,” she said at last. “That ought to top him off, at least until we get home.”
She lifted the baby and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The baby was limp with sleep already, a
dribble of milk leaking from his mouth. She tucked him out of sight again, into his seat.
“I’ll take that coffee now,” she said.
He passed it back. “You want a fritter?”
“You’re going to join me, aren’t you?” Her smile was hesitant, and he saw that it was a big deal. The
instant they got back to the house, she’d probably be emailing Scott about it.
“Sure,” he said, because he had no choice.
He opened the box, and lifted up the first fritter of the season. “They’re big,” he said, holding it out
between them. “You want to split one?”
“OK.”
He pulled the fritter apart, and handed her the larger piece. “You can always come back for more.”
She bit in immediately. “Mm . . . Fabulous.”
He gazed down Atlantic Avenue, through the rain blown hard now by gusts of wind. He remembered
a fair morning when he and Scott had parked up by the beach, with the bakery box lying open on the
seat between them. That was the year they planned the family reunion and the big quoits
tournament with the cousins. This year, he’d made up his mind there would be no games on the
beach, not without Scott. To that end, when he packed for Stone Harbor, he’d deliberately left the
quoits up in the attic. But Betsy had come behind him and packed them anyway.
He pictured Scott pacing off the stakes on the beach—the tide out, the sand wet and packed, just
right for quoits. He pictured Scott picking up a quoit, curling with it, letting it go in perfect form. From
the back of his mind the dread was approaching, crushing whatever it had not already swept from its
path. His throat tightened, and he had to breathe shallowly.
“This time next year Andy will probably be walking,” Valerie said. “Scott says we ought get one of
those cabanas—the kind with the poles—so we can keep him out of the sun. Because you know he’s
going to love the beach. Just like his daddy and his Pop-Pop.”
Family’s growing, Pops.
Jim pictured the paper napkin in his drawer, Scott’s sketch on the back. Before he could get a grip, he
was imagining how terrible it would be—something happening to Scott and then afterwards finding
that sketch under the pile of socks, holding it in his hands, recalling the day they’d made big plans for
the future, as though the future were ever sure.
Valerie chattered on. “Scott says while I’m down here I ought to take a look at them, and do some
pricing.”
He would like to have reared around and let her have it: My son is in Iraq, for Christ’s sake. Who are
you, and what do you know about anything?
She leaned forward, her hand on the front seat, close to his shoulder. “Do think they’d carry them in
the hardware store?”
“Excuse me?”
“Those cabanas—Do you think they’d carry them in the hardware store?”
“Probably not.”
She removed her hand from the seat. “Aren’t you going to eat your apple fritter?”
He gave a short laugh. “For some reason I don’t have much appetite. Do you want this other half?”
“Sure,” she said softly.
He handed it to her, and started up the car.
“I guess it’s hard for you, with Scott not here,” she said. “Maybe you wanted to drive over by
yourself.”
“No,” he said, but it came out too forcefully. He tried then to soften it with a smile, turning to glance
over his shoulder. “Really, I’m glad you came along.”
For several blocks he could feel the tension, as though there had been some awful argument. In his
distraction he missed a turn he knew like the back of his hand. They wound up on an unfamiliar block
of North Wildwood, passing a couple of seedy shops and a bar on the corner. The rainwater,
dammed up by a wad of trash at the curb, was eddying out into the road, and he was thinking how
sad the face of that bar was in the light of morning, how very much the image of regret.
He took note that the rain was letting up, and turned the windshield wipers to low. Suddenly, from
behind the telephone pole, there appeared a wild-eyed, wild-haired man whose wet clothes were
plastered to his bony frame. The man stepped off the curb, and lurched blindly into their path.
“Jesus Christ,” Jim cried, slamming on the brakes.
next page
was downpour of rain.
He looked over his shoulder. Valerie yawned, and smiled at him sheepishly. There was no sound from
the baby.
“It won’t take me long,” he said. Beyond the steamed-up windows of the bakery, he could see there
were only three people in line. “Anything I can get you? They’ve got doughnuts and sticky buns too.
Friends of ours really swear by the sticky buns.”
“I think I’ll try an apple fritter. I’m looking forward to that,” she said. “Oh—Looks like they’ve got
coffee.”
At the door of the bakery, a young man was pulling up the hood of his parka, awkwardly balancing
his cup.
“You want coffee?” Jim asked.
“I’d love some—decaf, please. Black.”
“Sure,” he said, and made his dash through the rain and into the bakery.
Waiting in line, he counted only a dozen or so apple fritters left in the case, but fortunately the
people ahead of him wanted the doughnuts and sticky buns. While the girl behind the counter boxed
up his order, he filled a cup with Decaf Breakfast Blend, figuring that was a safer bet than one of the
flavored ones. There was a stack of morning papers next to the coffee station. Two Dead in Iraq.
The girl handed over the box. It was heavy and warm.
“These must be right out of the oven,” he said, with as much cheer as he could muster.
“Yes sir.” She was already looking past him at the next person.
When he got back to the car, the baby was wailing. Valerie had taken him out of his seat and was
jiggling him, patting him on the back.
“You better keep the coffee up there,” she said, “until I get him settled down.”
He settled the coffee in the console and the bakery box on the front seat. He started up the car, but
figured he ought to wait for the go-ahead, since the baby wasn’t strapped in yet. Suddenly the
wailing stopped. There was a whimper, a muffled shudder, and he knew she’d put him to the
breast.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This will only take a couple of minutes.”
“It’s all right. We’re not in any rush.”
He turned off the engine and stared through the rain pouring down the windshield. He wasn’t
squeamish about breast-feeding—Betsy had nursed all three of theirs until they were at least a year
old—but he didn’t want to turn around and lay his eyes on Valerie with her T-shirt lifted up.
“Go on and break out your apple fritter, Pop-Pop,” she said. “When I email Scott, I want to tell him
you had the first one of the season.”
Scott must have let her in on the routine they’d established, how they’d make the early-morning drive
over to Britton’s and then immediately open the box and eat the first fritter in the car.
He forgot about the nursing and turned to glance in her direction. She had thrown a little yellow
blanket over her breast and the baby.
“You email him every day?” he said.
“A couple times a day. But he doesn’t have time to answer them all.”
He managed some small talk with her—about the weather, when it would break, and who was
arriving when for the weekend. Under it all was the sound of his grandchild’s desperate gulping at
the breast.
“There,” she said at last. “That ought to top him off, at least until we get home.”
She lifted the baby and kissed him lightly on the cheek. The baby was limp with sleep already, a
dribble of milk leaking from his mouth. She tucked him out of sight again, into his seat.
“I’ll take that coffee now,” she said.
He passed it back. “You want a fritter?”
“You’re going to join me, aren’t you?” Her smile was hesitant, and he saw that it was a big deal. The
instant they got back to the house, she’d probably be emailing Scott about it.
“Sure,” he said, because he had no choice.
He opened the box, and lifted up the first fritter of the season. “They’re big,” he said, holding it out
between them. “You want to split one?”
“OK.”
He pulled the fritter apart, and handed her the larger piece. “You can always come back for more.”
She bit in immediately. “Mm . . . Fabulous.”
He gazed down Atlantic Avenue, through the rain blown hard now by gusts of wind. He remembered
a fair morning when he and Scott had parked up by the beach, with the bakery box lying open on the
seat between them. That was the year they planned the family reunion and the big quoits
tournament with the cousins. This year, he’d made up his mind there would be no games on the
beach, not without Scott. To that end, when he packed for Stone Harbor, he’d deliberately left the
quoits up in the attic. But Betsy had come behind him and packed them anyway.
He pictured Scott pacing off the stakes on the beach—the tide out, the sand wet and packed, just
right for quoits. He pictured Scott picking up a quoit, curling with it, letting it go in perfect form. From
the back of his mind the dread was approaching, crushing whatever it had not already swept from its
path. His throat tightened, and he had to breathe shallowly.
“This time next year Andy will probably be walking,” Valerie said. “Scott says we ought get one of
those cabanas—the kind with the poles—so we can keep him out of the sun. Because you know he’s
going to love the beach. Just like his daddy and his Pop-Pop.”
Family’s growing, Pops.
Jim pictured the paper napkin in his drawer, Scott’s sketch on the back. Before he could get a grip, he
was imagining how terrible it would be—something happening to Scott and then afterwards finding
that sketch under the pile of socks, holding it in his hands, recalling the day they’d made big plans for
the future, as though the future were ever sure.
Valerie chattered on. “Scott says while I’m down here I ought to take a look at them, and do some
pricing.”
He would like to have reared around and let her have it: My son is in Iraq, for Christ’s sake. Who are
you, and what do you know about anything?
She leaned forward, her hand on the front seat, close to his shoulder. “Do think they’d carry them in
the hardware store?”
“Excuse me?”
“Those cabanas—Do you think they’d carry them in the hardware store?”
“Probably not.”
She removed her hand from the seat. “Aren’t you going to eat your apple fritter?”
He gave a short laugh. “For some reason I don’t have much appetite. Do you want this other half?”
“Sure,” she said softly.
He handed it to her, and started up the car.
“I guess it’s hard for you, with Scott not here,” she said. “Maybe you wanted to drive over by
yourself.”
“No,” he said, but it came out too forcefully. He tried then to soften it with a smile, turning to glance
over his shoulder. “Really, I’m glad you came along.”
For several blocks he could feel the tension, as though there had been some awful argument. In his
distraction he missed a turn he knew like the back of his hand. They wound up on an unfamiliar block
of North Wildwood, passing a couple of seedy shops and a bar on the corner. The rainwater,
dammed up by a wad of trash at the curb, was eddying out into the road, and he was thinking how
sad the face of that bar was in the light of morning, how very much the image of regret.
He took note that the rain was letting up, and turned the windshield wipers to low. Suddenly, from
behind the telephone pole, there appeared a wild-eyed, wild-haired man whose wet clothes were
plastered to his bony frame. The man stepped off the curb, and lurched blindly into their path.
“Jesus Christ,” Jim cried, slamming on the brakes.
next page
Photo by
Trevor Snyder
Trevor Snyder
