Ornaments

Ornaments

The clink of heavy-duty diner dishes and the smell of store-bought pie assaulted his senses as he entered the diner. Stomping his boots to remove the snow onto the welcome mat, he avoided the waitress cum hostess who started in his direction, indicating with a nod that he had found his party as he walked over and sat across from the best dressed man in the restaurant.

“Martin,” The gray-haired man greeted, barely looking up from the menu that he was studying with the intensity one usually reserves for a stereo manual.

“Mr. Nisse.” Martin said, removing his jacket and gloves, setting them on the red faux leather bench seat beside him in the booth.

“Their coffee here is quite good. No Tim Hortons, but better than that freeze-dried swill you usually get in one of these places.” Mr. Nisse said, setting the menu down beside his cup of coffee as though offering written testimony to substantiate his recommendation, a thoroughly lawyerly gesture.

“I could use some coffee. That drive’ll kill you.” Martin said, cupping his hands and blowing into them, attempting to get some inkling of warmth back into his aching body.

Mr. Nisse looked up at him and glowered, and before Martin could ask why, he gestured and mouthed “Your hat.” Mr. Nisse belonged to the unofficial club of men who had a stable of subtle command gestures that were precise and well-practiced, gestures that were more often obeyed than not.

Martin swept the hat off of his head, a ski cap in holiday colors, and laid it next to his gloves. With his other hand he attempted to tame the wild mop of hair that had been taking refuge inside the hat. The waitress appeared, her overly practiced holiday smile fully engaged. “Coffee?” she asked, and Martin had barely finished nodding before she had put down the cup and filled it from the glass carafe she was carrying in her other hand. She wore Christmas bows in her hair net. To Martin, they added an air of grim sadness rather than the desired festivity to her threadbare waitress ensemble.

“Creamer’s there, sugar too,” she said as she put down the coffee pot and pulled her notepad and pencil from her pink and white striped apron. Adjusting her glasses, she licked the end of the pencil and put it to the pad before looking at the pair. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have the Cinnamon French toast. Bacon on the side, make sure they crisp it up... burn it a little. Scrambled eggs. Maple syrup... and Margie,” he held up the tiny container of syrup that lived on the table. “Not this flavored corn syrup. Real maple syrup. I know you all have some in the back.”

“Yes, Mr. Nisse,” Margie the waitress said, making sure that he saw that she wrote ‘REAL maple syrup’ on her order pad. “And you?”

“Nothing for me... just the coffee,” Martin stammered.

“It’s on me, Martin, order something,” Mr. Nisse said. Not a request.

“Omelet then. Denver. Crisp bacon, like Mr. Nisse,” Martin acquiesced.

“Gotcha. One Cinnamon French toast, burnt bacon, eggs, scrambled, one Denver Omelet, same burnt bacon. That it?”

“Keep the coffee coming,” said Mr. Nisse. He smiled broadly as he handed the menu to Margie. Martin did the same.

Margie saw another patron waving her down and flittered off on her spritely rounds.

Mr. Nisse reached into the breast pocket of his black tweed sports coat and removed a manila envelope. He slid it across the table on a cloth napkin to avoid staining it from the ever-present grease and spilt coffee. Martin took the envelope and peeked at the contents.

Pay to the Order of Martin Malcolm Dixon. $1,000.00 and no cents.

Martin put it down next to the creamer bowl.

“I hope you weren’t expecting more.” Mr. Nisse said, sipping on his coffee.

“Of course not.” Martin started adding creamer to his coffee, meticulously opening the little pods one at a time, dumping the cream in, stirring, before attacking the next, until he had used up all six. Only then did he take a sip.

“I don’t suppose she even asked for me? You know, before...”

“I wasn’t there, Martin. But she had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for several years. I don’t suppose that she did.” Mr. Nisse said.

They sat in silence for a minute or so. Then Mr. Nisse opened his briefcase and removed a lincoln green file folder. “I’ll need you to sign these,” he said, pulling some documents from the folder and placing them on the napkin. Martin picked them up. One was a receipt for the check. The others were all legalese. Mr. Nisse produced an expensive looking pen from his breast pocket and passed it to Martin. Martin uncapped it and set the point of the pen on the line.

“They just state that you are forfeiting all further interest in her estate.” Mr. Nisse stated. Martin stopped and set the pen down, looking up at Mr. Nisse.

“Gentlemen, here you are,” Margie had returned with their breakfast. She started setting the French toast in front of Martin, caught herself, and moved it over in front of Mr. Nisse. She unloaded the plates with the scrambled eggs, omelet, bacon, and toast before putting her hands together in a hopeful gesture. “How does everything look, fellas?”

Mr. Nisse looked up with consternation, back at the small jar of faux maple syrup, then back at her.

“Oh, right! The syrup. Give me a sec, Mr. Nisse,” and she turned on her heel. She was halfway across the diner before Martin was able to remember what he lacked.

“And some more creamer, Margie!” he half-shouted. She gave him a little wave to indicate that she had heard his request before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Here, let me put those away. You can sign them after we’ve eaten,” Mr. Nisse put out his hand. Martin hesitated, then passed him the papers and pen. Mr. Nisse checked that the pen cap was secure before slipping it into his breast pocket.

Margie had returned with the small bottle of maple syrup; “100% REAL VERMONT MAPLE SYRUP” was emblazoned across the label in garish letters; “INGREDIENT LIST: MAPLE SYRUP”. Margie held it out with both hands as though presenting a prize, grinning like a gameshow hostess. She retrieved a large handful of creamers from her apron pocket and dumped them into the bowl in front of Martin. One got away and rolled off the table, but Martin caught the derelict before it could make good its getaway.

“Good catch” Margie the Waitress smiled at him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled back.

“That’ll be all for now, Margie,” Mr. Nisse said, the dismissive attitude annoyed Martin.

“Of course, enjoy!”

As soon as the young waitress was out of earshot, Martin said “Thank you for breakfast, Mr. Nisse.”

With a mouthful of syrup saturated French toast, Mr. Nisse simply nodded and continued eating.

Martin chomped through half the omelet, washing it down with the coffee, which really wasn’t half bad.

“I was right about the coffee?”

“Mhmm,” Martin mumbled through the last quarter of the omelet that he had shoveled into his mouth all at once.

Mr. Nisse pushed his plate away from the edge of the table to indicate that he was finished just three bites shy of cleaning the plate: a tiny exercise in self-control. Margie returned to the table, refilled both their coffee cups without comment, and went on about her rounds.

Mr. Nisse returned the papers to the table, with his hand hovering over them before passing them back to Martin. “Martin, I have to know. I could have easily mailed the check. You didn’t show up for the service...?” The unasked question hung between them, a convict swinging from a noose.

Martin regarded him for a moment, sipping on his coffee in contemplation. Realizing that it was too hot and bitter, he returned it to the table and began adding creamer in the same meticulous manner as earlier.

“I don’t even want that, Mr. Nisse.” He gestured towards the envelope with the check.

“Then why? Why did you come?”

Martin reached over and slid the papers over to his side of the table. Pulling a chewed-on BIC from his jacket pocket, he quickly signed three pages and began to pass them back.

“Initial there,” Mr. Nisse pointed. Martin made an x where he indicated.

With the business completed, Martin placed both hands on the table, a gesture of honesty.

“Mr. Nisse. My mother had a box of Holiday Decorations. Tree Ornaments.”

“Martin, I thought that I had made it clear. Most everything has been picked over. What was left was dropped at a charity, and most of that probably ended up in their unsellable dumpster.”

“They were hand made. There may have even been more than one box,” Martin continued as though he hadn’t even heard what the lawyer had said.

“Martin, everything is gone. They’re gone.” His intensity dialed up a few notches.

Martin’s eyes narrowed and his brow scrunched.

“You know, don’t you?”

Mr. Nisse drew out his wallet from his jacket pocket with the grace of a practiced gunslinger removing three crisp twenty-dollar bills. He placed them on the table.

“We are done here, Martin.”

“Mr. Nisse, no. I need to know where those ornaments are. Please, don’t make me beg!”

Mr. Nisse pulled on his jacket and scarf. “Martin, I know you went back into rehab less than a year ago...”

“Don’t change the damn subject! Where are they?”

Nisse shot him a look of disdain. “Martin, remember, it was me who made sure that you never ended up doing any jail time. So, you need to speak to me with a little more respect, son. And stay off the heroin!” he said loudly, ending the conversation with a forceful lesson in humility... or was it humiliation? Martin was stunned into silence.

Mr. Nisse stopped at the glass door, and before opening it, he and turned back to Martin “I know how you think, boy. The house is empty. Don’t go back there.” And then he was gone.

Margie stood by the table, stunned by the altercation, then she found herself, and held up the carafe; “More Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Martin said, putting on his jacket and gloves. “I have places to be.”

He grabbed his inheritance last, stuffing it into his jacket front pocket.

* * *