A Piedmont Porchlight Story
The Coffee Cup was unusually quiet that morning. Not empty. Just peaceful. Curtis Pope was reading the sports page. I was working on my second cup of coffee. Hattie was wiping down the pie case like she’d already cleaned it twice and didn’t trust the first two times. She looked over at us and smiled. “You boys ever tell a lie?”
Curtis never even looked up from the newspaper. “Only when I’m awake.”
She pointed the dish towel at him. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I laughed. “Hattie, that’s a mighty dangerous question to ask before breakfast.”
She leaned against the counter. “I got to thinkin’. My grandbaby asked me yesterday if I’d ever told a lie.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“I said… not one worth rememberin’.'”
Curtis folded the newspaper. “I don’t believe that.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
I stirred my coffee. “You know…”
“What?” Hattie asked.
“I reckon the last honest lie I ever heard came from my daddy.”
Curtis looked up. “What’d he say?”
“‘I’m fine.'”
The three of us got quiet. “He wasn’t?” I smiled. “No, he wasn’t. But he knew we needed him to be.”
Outside, a pickup rolled slowly down Centre Avenue. Somebody waved. Somebody waved back. Life went right on.
“My mama used to tell one,” Hattie said. “‘I’ve already eaten.'”
Curtis nodded. “So did mine.”
“They hadn’t. They just wanted us to have the last biscuit.”
Curtis laid his newspaper aside. “My daddy’s was… ‘don’t worry about me.'”
I smiled. “That’s a classic.”
“He’d say it every time. Even when we probably ought to have worried.”
For a minute, nobody spoke. Funny thing about growing older. You begin to recognize the little lies your parents told. They didn’t tell ‘em because they were dishonest. It was because they loved you.
Mama wasn’t tired; she was exhausted. Daddy wasn’t fine; he was hurting. Mawmaw didn’t need anything; she just needed some company.
Hattie finally broke the silence. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I think love tells little lies.”
Curtis nodded. “So does pride.”
I looked down into my coffee cup. “Maybe. But I think love gets there first.”
Just then the front door opened. Old Mr. Jenkins shuffled in, favoring one knee. Hattie called across the room. “How you doin’ this morning?”
He smiled that smile every old man learns sooner or later. “Oh… I’m better than nothin’ but not much.”
He eased himself into the booth by the window with just a little more effort than yesterday. Hattie watched him sit down. Then she looked at me. Neither one of us said a word. She picked up the coffee pot and walked over.
Without asking, she filled his cup. Then she disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later she came back carrying a warm cinnamon roll. She set it in front of him.
“I didn’t order this.”
“I know.”
He reached for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?” Hattie smiled. “Not a thing.”
“I couldn’t…”
“You hush.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “It’s left over from breakfast.”
I looked at the cinnamon roll. It hadn’t been left over. I knew it. Hattie knew it. Mr. Jenkins probably knew it too. But he smiled anyway.
“Well… Thank you.”
After she’d walked away, Curtis looked over at me. “Another honest lie?”
I watched Hattie disappear behind the counter. I smiled into my coffee. “No.” “I reckon that one was the truth.”
Sometimes the kindest thing you’ll ever hear isn’t whether somebody is fine. Sometimes it’s somebody quietly pretending not to notice that they aren’t. And if you’ve lived long enough…
You learn the difference.
olbigjim 