We drove into the shoreline town as stray raindrops sprinkled the van windows. The black sky made the houses look dreary and drab, all huddled together near the ocean; from our vantage spot on the road we could see the beach and the water underneath the threatening sky. A black morning -- a morning defying our attempts to go fishing. The town seemed deserted as we drove up to the parking booth. The man inside took Dad's money for the ticket.
"Will the boats be leaving shore today?" Dad asked as he took the green parking stub.
"Today? Not a chance," the man said, and closed the booth window. So that was it.
"Well," said Bill, "we can get our hashbrowns at least."
Dad manuevered the van into a parkng space, easily done since there were hardly any cars in the lot; he switched off the ignition and faced us.
"Let's meet Uncle Ray for breakfast and then we can decide what to do," he said cheerfully.
"Yeah, be a shame not to take advantage of a day in New Hampshire," Mike added. We got out of the van. The cold wind blew raindrops in our faces, a strong sea wind carrying salt and missed adventure. Walking from the lot to the main street that divided the town from the beach's edge, the five of us looked wistfully at the waves pawing the sand with their white claws, the water curling its back towards the sky, and far away the matted underbelly of clouds merging with the horizon. The whole sea had become a snarling beast -- there would be no sporting with it this day.
"There he is!" Sam said, pointing up to a raised deck attached to one of the larger houses. Uncle Ray stood there. He was dressed, to no one's surprise, in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap. He waved at us.
"Hey guys! Sorry about the weather, huh? Come in and get something to eat."
He had been keeping watch for us on the threshold of the legendary diner itself, a grey-wooded deck accessibile by a narrow flight of stairs from the road, leading to the small doorway welcomingly ajar. We followed him inside; a long room with the table-counter and stools on the right and a few small tables and chairs squeezed on the left. Pictures of fish were everywhere. And people catching fish. And eating fish. And some fish eating the people. Already several customers sat at the table-counter, eating, as a large woman with an apron and a belligerant expression rattled pans in the background.
"Hello, Trudy!" said Uncle Ray.
"Morning," said the waitress gruffly. "No going out today, ey?"
"No, it's impossible weather out there," Dad said, pulling up a stool to the counter. We followed suit. Trudy looked at us for a few moments, tall and fearsome: a little more imagination and it would have been Brunhilda with her horned helmet. But instead of the expected battle axe she pulled out a notebook and pencil.
"What do you want?" she asked.
I nudged Sam. "Get the hashbrowns," I whispered, thinking of the proclaimed mountains of golden fried potatoes.
"YOU get them," retorted Sam, who clearly had less faith in diner fare.
"Two eggs and hash browns," said Uncle Ray.
"Three eggs and hashbrowns," said Dad.
Mike was silent, weighing the situation. Then he nodded and said, "Three eggs, a pancake, and hashbrowns."
He turned to Bill, smiling smugly. Bill caught the challenge of that smile and said, "Three eggs, two pancakes, sausage, and hashbrowns."
They all looked at Sam and me. Trudy rapped her notebook with her pencil point. Unless Sam and I chose quickly, I was sure she would burst out into a glass-breaking aria and lay waste about her; but could we rise to meet the bar so dauntingly set by the others? I pondered, scratched my cheek, rearranged the fork and knife on the napkin, and said, "Three eggs, three pancakes, sausage, ham, and hashbrowns."
Mike raised his eyebrows, Bill chuckled, Dad looked proud, and Uncle Ray shook his head. I looked at Sam.
"One egg, sunny side up," said Sam, placidly.
Confound that boy.
