“Are you going to eat that?”

He couldn’t believe he’d said that, then again, he could. He wasn’t exactly a prose-master, was known to lean into the occasional cliché. Plus, the last of Maryanne’s tuna melt looked pretty darn enticing. Had she known that he’d be particularly drawn to the rye bread variant, or was it just his lucky day? Probably neither. Maryanne didn’t seem the type to make special accommodations for Ryan — and luck was hardly his calling card.

Outside, the mid-day sun gave the city a bit of sparkle that it most certainly didn’t deserve. Everywhere, sunglasses were drawn, and weathered skin had come out to play. It was the iconic urban dance, as if suggesting that a boardwalk was around the corner and saltwater taffy just a stone’s throw away. The ebb and flow of hat-bearing, dog-walking passersby did its best to distract Ryan from getting into the conversation that he and Maryanne so desperately needed to have.

Ryan helped himself to another pickle spear, bought himself another minute. He licked his knobby-jointed fingers, not a drop of vinegar would escape his pouty mouth. He was meant for bigger, less tangy things, was convinced those things would still come his way. But first, he’d have to attend to business — right after he helped finish off Maryanne’s sandwich.

Why couldn’t he have been more artful in inquiring after the last of her tuna melt? He could’ve said something like, “That sandwich looks really good.” Or “I should’ve ordered a sandwich. This omelet isn’t really doing it for me.” But he hadn’t. Now he was stuck with a Denver omelet — which he’d drenched in hot sauce. And a side salad? Who was he kidding? Skipping the fries wasn’t any more likely to curry favor with the universe, yield the information he’d hired Maryanne to dig up.

“Why?” offered Maryanne, nudging her plate towards Ryan; “Do you want it?”

“Not as much as I want to know where my mother buried the bodies.”

“Ryan, you’re so dramatic,” said Maryanne, wiping a shard of tuna melt from her demurely painted lips. Really, Ryan was anything but dramatic: cliches, loafers, a soft spot for biographies. “You’d think I’d come up with the definitive answer for Stonehenge”

“To me, it’s just as important.” Ryan had waited for years to chase down the secret his mother had held so dear for so long. Her passing had freed him up to pursue the answers he felt entitled to. Having no idea where to begin, he’d hired Maryanne to spearhead the venture. She came highly recommended — by his favorite search engine.

Who was this mother of his, this Mrs. Paul Edgecombe? A society figure of little renown, who liked to see her afternoons in just as she liked to see her evenings out: with drink in hand, preferably, a gin and tonic. With fresh-squeezed lime. How little Ryan knew about her; her mystery had only grown since the emphysema took her.

“So, what did you find out?”

Around Ryan and Maryanne’s booth, not a whimper, not a spark. The languid lunch-eaters had their own mysteries to solve — or not. Not every burger-devouring, fry-averse customer was invested in their past, in finding out more about who they were. The unknown self was among their favorite people.

Ryan’s half-brother, Steven was like that, couldn’t have cared less about the secrets their mother had carried to her grave. Would Ryan share what he found out about Dear Old Patricia with Steven? He might; it depended on what came to light. If anything, he might just share to annoy Steven. Steven, who had somehow wrangled his way to favorite son status despite his nasally voice and incurable laziness. Also, a father who was Ryan’s dad’s understudy in every which way: his shoes weren’t right; his jokes didn’t land. Poor Steven was destined to annoy from the get-go, was as annoying as the fly competing for the last of Maryanne’s sandwich.

“There was more to your mother than you might’ve suspected,” said Maryanne.

“I knew it.” Ryan steeled himself; had Mom strayed, had a hidden account, done Betty Crocker a disservice?

“Your mom was guilty of vehicular manslaughter.”

“Really? She never drove.”

“Maybe that’s why.”

Ryan was reminded of his college days; of the car he’d been promised as a graduation gift. Only to be told by his mother that he was being gifted a trip to Europe instead. Paris had been spectacular, and Madrid wondrous — but he would’ve preferred a car. Had Mom’s transgression caused the change in plans?

“How do you know?”

“It wasn’t easy,” shrugged Maryanne; “The court records were sealed.”

“Did she hit somebody important?” asked Ryan, “A public figure?”

“She was underage, a minor.”

“Jesus,” Ryan felt sick or felt like he should feel sick, “How old?”

“Fourteen.”

“Who was the victim?”

“Her brother.”

“She didn’t have a brother.”

“Not who you would’ve known,” said Maryanne; “And that’s why.”

Ryan thought of Steven, wondered if perhaps he should be more accommodating. Where did half-sibs fit in, did they? Honestly, Steven’s voice alone was so discomfiting, there were only so many amends he could make.

“How did you find out?”

“I know somebody in the D.A.’s office.”

“That some real gumshoe shit,” said Ryan. “Getting court records unsealed.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have dug up something a little bit more palatable.”

That would’ve been nice. But there was still a good third of a tuna melt — on rye — to make things right — or at least, move them in that direction. Ryan wriggled in his seat, cast his most longing eyes at the sandwich.

“So, are you going to eat that?”

“You’re really quite intent.”

“It’s nothing,” shrugged Ryan. It wasn’t, but Ryan wasn’t about to come to grips with his unknown self.

“Just asking for a friend.”

Soon, the fly had alighted on the sandwich, and Ryan and Maryanne parted ways.

Ryan promised himself he’d visit his mother’s grave soon. The thought was there, the car — not so much.

Maybe Steven would drive them.

 

Daniel is co-author of middle grade book series, ‘Odd Gods’ (HarperCollins). His children’s short stories have been featured in ‘My Dad’s a Punk’ and ‘Stone-face.’ “Grown-up” short stories include ‘The Only American’ (Every Day Fiction), ‘The Banana Whisperer’ and ‘Bitter Half’ (The Word’s Faire).