"Dad?" I respond.
"I'm ready," he says.
"I'm on my way," I reply.
"Debbie, do you want a sandwich?" he asks
"Sure," I answer.
And that was that. I hurry down the hallway and slip my jeans over my pajama bottoms and pull a sweatshirt over my head, grab my wallet with my license, and pick up the keys to the car, a 1966 yellow Chevy Malibu, next to the door on my way out to the garage.
If you ever are out driving at that hour, look around. I mean really look around. The streets are so desolate, yet peaceful. The street light reflects the early dew on the streets. The dark grey sky is trying to put the moon to bed and wake the sun up. It's a time of uninterrupted beauty.
I drive carefully down Pine Ridge Road to Genesee Street and put on my blinker. I look around. No cops. Since I'm on a limited driver's license, I'm supposed to have a licensed driver with me in the car. I continue down Genesee Street toward the tavern. A block before Bailey Avenue, I turn left on Brinkman and slowly make my way pass sleepy houses in early morning hours. A quick right and another and I've circled the block and pull up in front the tavern. I don't need to toot my horn. Dad opens the door and holds up his index finger to tell me to wait - he'll be right out.
I sit patiently, parked on Bailey Avenue, looking for traffic. There is none. As I look up, Dad locks the side door and walks to the car with a brown bag clutched in his hand, along with his newspaper.
He opens the door and gets in. "Hi," he says.
"Hi," I reply.
He smells of work, cigarettes, onions, and grease. "How was work?" I ask as I look over my shoulder and pull away from the curb. I lift my blinker to turn right on Genesee Street toward home.
"Good," he says.
We don't talk. He shifts in his seat and takes a drag from his cigarette as the car fills with the smell of warm bread and onions.
Finally I say, "Smells good."
"Butterfly sandwiches," he says.
I pull into the driveway. Dad opens the door, turns, and places both feet on the ground. He leans forward and shifts his weight out of the car. Slam! The door closes with a loud clunk, and he walks to the garage door and lifts it. I pull in and turn off the car.
He is already in the house, throwing his jacket over the chair and opening the brown bag on the kitchen table. I put the keys back where I found them in the ashtray by the side door to the garage and kick off my sneakers.
"Want something to drink?" he asks.
"I'll get it. Coke?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says.
As I put the glasses on the table, before me wrapped in waxed paper and newspaper, is the sandwich I have been waiting for. As I open it, my senses are dancing to the aroma of my father's love. Butterfly sandwiches! We eat in silence, savoring the time we are spending together.
BUTTERFLY SANDWICH RECIPE
Center cut pork chop, w/ bone removed, 1/2 inch thick, split butterfly cut
Egg
Bread Crumbs
Oil for frying
Hard roll
Lettuce
Tomato
Onion
After removing the bone, split the pork chop and lay the chop open. Dip in egg and then bread crumbs. Pat firmly. Place in hot oil and fry until golden brown and pork is fully cooked. Drain if necessary on a paper towel and place on a hard roll. Top with lettuce, tomato, onion, and mayonnaise.
Deborah Stankevich
January 6, 2006
