Cold Lunch

I walked home at noon from the public school every day. I found my lunch on the kitchen table, a peanut butter sandwich on white bread. Near it was a torn envelope scarred with familiar handwriting. It slouched against the glass of warm milk. “Went to the store. Mom”
The menu never changed. The house was often empty. Hoards of wasps in the attic bored through the rafters with communal gusto.
I heard Mom come in. I began to wheedle and cajole my way out of the dismal interlude I faced each day.
“Hi, Mom. Boy, am I glad you’re here. Today was the worst day ever!” I primed the pump.
“Now, let’s not spoil a perfectly nice day with silly complaints. You’re one lucky girl, don’t you know!”
“But, Mom, I’m drenched. It started to pour and I had to run up the hill. The lightening made me jump and the bang of thunder was so loud. I was running, and then I fell in a puddle. I have a cut that is still bleeding on my knee.”
“Well, next time be prepared for rain,” she said as she left the kitchen. A murmured current of voices came from the TV.
“Do you know what happened on the way home for lunch yesterday? That big kid on Eno Avenue chased me, called me names and pushed me into the sewer drain. There isn’t anyone for me to walk with; all my friends eat lunch at school.”
Mom’s voice rose above the others on Days of Our Lives.
“Well,” she said, “you can’t eat at school. We live too close. You’ll just have to manage. Adversity makes a person strong.”
Every day my list of grievances grew, Mom’s retorts came less frequently. She wore her face like a shield. I badgered. Finally Mom relented. I enrolled in the Catholic school across town, wore the gray uniform and carried the briefcase that identified me as a St. Peter student. I rode the bus to and from school, bouncing on the black vinyl bench seat. Instead of bullies and bad weather, my companions were friendly kids who played string games and sang repeated refrains. This was all I had hoped for. This and hot lunch.
Now all of my talk revolved around school.
“Mom,” I cried, “guess what? We go across the street to the church hall for lunch. You should see the long tables! It’s like going inside the tent at the fair. You know, how everyone sits on metal folding chairs? Elbow to elbow? And the food! Today we had chicken stew and biscuits.”
She sends her voice down the hall. “Make sure you eat. Hot lunch doesn’t come cheap.”
“Oh do I ever! Mrs. Marcantonio gave me a huge bowl of stew and then when she saw I was done, she rolled her cart right up to my chair and filled my bowl again. She always says, You make me feel like a million bucks, the way you eat my cookin’. Then she bangs the pot with her ladle and hollers, Yeah!
Her reply comes quickly, but she speaks slowly.
“The lunch lady sounds okay.”
“Better than okay! Mrs. Marcantonio calls me honey and sweetie. She smiles all the time and she says Here, sweetie, take a little more now, we gotta put some meat on them bones.”
I hear the wail of an ambulance and the intercom warning, Code Blue, Code Blue.
“Oh and during lunch, we tell jokes and riddles. We sure laugh a lot. Then we clean up and get in line to wait for Sister Lucy. The lunch ladies hug us and give us a cookie to eat on the way back to the school.”
I wait. Any word will do, but none comes.

The move to the catholic school was a good one. If I hear a funny knock-knock joke, I’m back on the metal folding chair, eating chicken stew. I don’t recall missing my neighborhood school or the hour at home in the middle of the day. All I remember is that lunch in the church hall nurtured me.

Story ID:	1464
Written by:	toni giarnese (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	new hartford ct usa
Year:	2007
Person:	Me