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Three Lonely Hearts.
“The three of them seemed to have an understanding. Nothing in words, just a quietness that they shared.”
~ Tim O’Brien, (The Things They Carried)
Sunday nights were always forgotten: a little gap in time that transitioned care-free weekends to long laborious weekdays. Most of the town is already closed up and cozy right now, locked up in their perfect cookie-cutter houses, insulated and protected from the cold loneliness that drowned the streets, grasping at any passersby like a sinking swimmer.
Only those with nowhere else to be dared wander during these desolate and lonely hours… only lonely hearts were displaced on an evening like this, left to their solitude in quiet, crumpled pieces.
It was under these desperate conditions that I found myself at the only lit-up building on Main St. in this cookie-cutter town late on a Sunday night. Each neighboring store-front was closed, from the barber shop to the florist to the town hall. Each wore a merciless ‘CLOSED’ sign, turning away any passing souls unfit to deserve a place to call home.
If Ernest Hemingway himself was with me, he’d remark that the café I found myself at was a ‘clean well-lighted place’. The sign on the front of the building was not lit up, making it a no-named café. Despite the dark mask, the interior was illuminated by bright florescent bulbs in a rectangular weave on the low ceiling. The place, though small, was pristine in condition, all four tabletops gleaming, the floor gloriously sporting its shine to an uncaring audience.
My entrance into the little world of the café was announced with the tiny tinkling of an old bell attached to the top of the door, its soft notes ringing hesitantly in the still air. All three people in the café stirred, acknowledging my presence without actually turning around.
I took a seat on one of the cushioned stools by the bar counter and took in the setting more, this time weary of the company I just placed myself with.
The girl behind the counter slid me a small menu and I looked at her, her face young and lively. It was in deep contrast to the frail old man with a graying beard who was seated a stool away from me, and the middle-aged man who sat a stool away from him.
“All we have right now is coffee, coffeecake, and toast,” the waitress told me with a small apologetic bit of her lip. “Ten o’clock on a Sunday night doesn’t usually bring in a crowd, our kitchen closes much earlier.”
I ordered a coffee which seemed like the easiest order. With a turn of my head I noted that it was the popular choice, the two men at the counter also had cups of coffee before them, and little else.
“I’d like more please, Charlotte,” the old man said, his voice raspy as he coughed once into his handkerchief. “Just top off the cup,” he said in a gentle voice, as if talking to a grandchild.
Charlotte, who looked to be in her twenties, gave the old man a kind smile, filling his cup before pouring me mine. “Anything for you, Charlie,” she said sweetly, handing me my cup with just as warm a smile.
“More for you, John?” she asked the middle-aged man, who looked up from his wallet with grief-stricken eyes.
He cleared his throat, trying to cover the obvious tear-tracks that raced down his hardened face. “No, no thank you,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat again.
Charlotte sighed, cutting out a piece of coffeecake from beneath the glass cake container and setting it on a small platter before the middle-aged man. “Eat some,” she said softly. “Sweet things can mend broken hearts,” she advised. After setting it before him, she cut up two more pieces placed them on the counter within the reach of myself, the old man, and obviously herself. “They can also cure lonely hearts,” she said to no one in particular.
I let a small scoff escape my lips. “I’m not a lonely heart,” I said with defiance. Unlike the rest of you, I added silently to myself.
The old man, sensing I wasn’t going to take up Charlotte’s offer, reached out for one of the small platters. “Thank you, dear.” He sighed as he took a forkful of the coffeecake. “Sweets really can cure a lonely heart, sometimes,” he said with a far-off look on his face.
Charlotte leaned her pale elbows on the table after wiping the crumbs off her fingers and onto her white apron. “Do you still miss her?” she asked Charlie.
My eyebrows pulled together, “Miss who?” It was none of my business, but if they were going to talk right over me, they might as well pretend I’m there.
Charlie looked over at me with sad, sad eyes. “My first love, and childhood sweetheart, Diana,” he said with a gentle voice. The louder he spoke, the raspier his voice got, so he settled for something just over a whisper. It still seemed loud in the otherwise silent café, but to hear the hoarse voice of the old man was a bit chilling.
“What happened?” I asked curiously. I mean, it’s not like I cared about the old man’s history, but something troubled him and it could make for an interesting way to pass the time.
Charlotte pulled a stool out from her side of the counter and sat on it, ready for the story. Her face made it seem like she’s heard it several times before but the tiny expressions that would slowly play across her features showed that she was listening as if it was the first time.
“Diana and I were neighbors after her mother and father got divorced and, naturally, my mother and hers became best friends.” Charlie gave out a small chuckle, pulling his heavy and worn-out winter jacket a bit tighter around himself. “It was a classic girl-next-door story,” he explained, his eyes glazed over with the far off memory. “She was my first love, my first kiss, my first girlfriend, all of it. We dated through high school and almost into college.” As he said this, his chest rose with a deep breath and his gaze dropped to the countertop where he stared at the crumbs on his plate.
Charlotte twirled a coppery curl around her finger, waiting for Charlie to continue and then prompting him with a simple ‘And then what?’
“Diana’s mother died while we were in high school and she was sent to live with her father.” The pain in Charlie’s voice sounded as if it was something that happened to him a moment ago. “She didn’t want to go but she had no choice, her father wanted to move her far far away from here.”
I interrupted. “So? What’s distance mean anyway? Couldn’t you call her, drive out to see her, or something?”
Charlie looked at me, appraising me as a naïve representation of youth. “Distance back then was a lot more of a problem than it is now. I wanted to stay with her but Diane didn’t want to keep me committed when there was nothing she could do to be with me.”
His coarse worked fingers folded together on the counter as if in prayer. “The last time I saw her before she left with her dad was in this café, well, back when it was a diner,” he said very quietly, his voice hardly audible. “It was the day I proposed… and the day she left me.”
Charlotte gasped as if there was a sign telling her it was the appropriate time to do-so. I gaped, incredulous, and even John, the middle-aged man, made a grunt of disbelief.
“What did you do?” John asked, his voice seeming foreign after listening to the quiet hesitance of Charlie’s voice.
Charlie shrugged a painful shrug, one that was meant to be careless but carried more weight than it showed. “I let her go. I couldn’t keep her where she didn’t want to be.”
All of the sympathy I felt for the old man came to a screeching halt. “What?” I asked, my tone louder than I expected. “You just let her go? You didn’t even try to fight for her?”
Charlotte gave me a look of warning but Charlie took no offense to my small outburst.
“You can’t cage a bird that wants to be free,” he said simply. “I loved Diane more than anything else, and did for a long time, but if she didn’t want to be with me, then it was for her happiness that I let her go.”
I crossed my arms, muttering a bit under my breath about giving up. “So do you keep coming back here because this is the last place you saw her or something?” I asked a bit moodily.
Charlie looked at me until I let my eyes rise to meet his. “No,” he said with a pause. “I kept coming back because she used to go to this café every Sunday morning for the past six years.”
“Used to?” I asked.
Charlotte nodded. “Diane was one of our pre-Church regulars, her and her grandkids.” Her volume dropped as she said the last word, trying to be considerate of Charlie’s feelings, no doubt.
Instead of showing sensitivity to the subject, Charlie just nodded his head in agreement. “She brought her grandkids here every Sunday, all four of them dolled up. She would wear a beautiful Sunday hat that matched the hat of her youngest granddaughter, while her two grandsons complained about their stiff dress pants or tight black shoes.” He turned slightly to point to one of the tables I walked past to get inside. “They sat there every Sunday for the past six years, a happy grandmother with her joyful three grandchildren.”
Charlie’s eyes clouded a bit and Charlotte offered him a few paper napkins. “And you came every Sunday?” I asked. “She broke your heart and yet, for the last six years you came and sat here watching her with her happy family?”
I waited impatiently for an answer, anger swelling up within me. Anger at Diane for leaving Charlie, and anger at Charlie for letting himself get hurt every Sunday for six years. Six years.
“It wasn’t my happiness that mattered,” Charlie said with a maturity that only age and experience could give you. “It was her happiness, and the happiness of her children and grandchildren.” He paused. “I’d rather watch over them, almost protectively, than interrupt for my own selfish wants.”
I gave a half-shrug, understanding his point even though I didn’t want to. “So why are you here at Sunday night? I thought they visited in the morning before Church…”
Charlie took a deep breath that shook as he exhaled. “Diane’s funeral was today,” he said softly, choking back a small cry.
Charlotte reached out, placing her hand comfortingly on Charlie’s old and withered hand. “She passed away in her sleep, it was very peaceful,” she assured Charlie. “It was in the newspaper, they said that there was no better way to go.”
I bit my lip, feeling an overwhelming amount of emotion swell up inside me. “So… she died without ever knowing how much she meant to you? How long you missed her, and loved her? She died without you ever getting your chance to be with her?” I asked, my questions almost accusing.
Charlie turned and put his hand on my knee. “Sometimes it’s about sacrificing for the happiness of someone you love. I’d live a thousand lives alone than make Diane live one life with someone she didn’t love.”
I contemplated this while Charlie wiped the rest of the tears off his face, blowing his nose as well.
“I can’t imagine this café without her. I’ll still show up every Sunday, but her grandkids won’t be there. She won’t be there. It’ll be this empty spot…” Charlie looked forlornly at the booth in the corner of the café.
“I’ll always be here for you, Charlie,” Charlotte said in a soothing voice. “This café has a way of attracting lonely hearts and, as long as there’s someone without a pair, there’s others like them that will listen.”
Despite her optimistic attitude and the fact it brought out a small smile in Charlie, I set my coffee mug down on the counter roughly. “I might be here tonight, but that does not make me a lonely heart,” I said firmly.
Charlotte and Charlie shared a glance before being interrupted by John.
“I agree with Charlotte,” he said in a gruff tone. “I’m here, and my heart is definitely lonely.”
As Charlotte made another round of coffee to share, John shrugged out of his large winter coat, revealing a skinny worn-out man in a dulled suit. I shifted in my stool, ready for another story but, no matter the tale, I’m sure I have nothing in common with these three. They may be lonely hearts, but I am not…
