Free Occasion of Revenge by Marcia Talley

dinner plates.
    #311. The Parris N. Glendening. A baked potato with broccoli and cheese.
    #14. The Bill Clinton. Turkey breast on whole wheat toast.
    Al Gore was immortalized as a chicken sandwich, and when I got to Senator Barbara Mikulski, the open-face tuna on a bagel, I wondered, not for the firsttime, if there weren’t just a bit of editorializing going on, with a decidedly Republican bent. Years ago, the Jimmy Carter sandwich had been peanut butter and bologna. I rest my case.
    But it was too early for sandwiches.
    Ruth ordered her usual bagel and Paul and I decided on the mushroom-and-cheese omelet which (Oh, joy!) comes with fries.
    We gave our order to the waitress. Then, thinking about the copy of the citation in my purse, I said, “I wonder if Daddy knew what he was signing.”
    Paul shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, honey. He’d have been in even bigger trouble if he didn’t sign the darn thing. His driver’s license would have been confiscated immediately.”
    “Does he have a lawyer, Ruth?”
    “I don’t think so; maybe in Seattle, but not in Annapolis.”
    “I’ll call Murray Sullivan,” Paul volunteered.
    “Don’t you know anybody else?” I hadn’t laid eyes on Murray since the time Paul was accused of sexual harassment by a female midshipman and our marriage had nearly fallen apart. Thinking about it still hurt. I glanced at Paul sideways through my eyelashes. From the wistful look on his face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.
    He shrugged. “OK. I’ll see what I can do.”
    I smiled at him gratefully.
    Directly behind my husband’s head there was a fourteen-year-old birth announcement, progressively yellowing, and every spare inch of wall was covered with photographs, drawings, and letters of appreciation to Chick and Ruth Levin who, framed newspaper articles reminded us, had passed away in 1995 and 1986 respectively.
    Son Ted and his wife kept up the family business and its traditions now. It may have been dying of neglect in the public schools, but the Pledge of Allegiance was alive and well at Chick & Ruth’s Delly. The American flag hung behind the cashier, near a sign that read “Cashier/Carry Out/Hotel Check In,” and every morning at eight-thirty, slightly later on weekends, everyone stood for the pledge. I had been sitting so long, I welcomed the opportunity to shake out the cramps in my legs and persuade my right foot, which had gone to sleep, to rise and shine.
    After the pledge, we settled back into our seats and I reached for the last french fry, but Paul’s fingers got there before me. “You know,” he said, licking his fingers, “after that I’m feeling so patriotic I may have to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ ”
    I covered my ears with my hands. “Please! Tell me when it’s over!” Although he tried, Lord knows he tried, Paul couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
    “It’s a difficult song, anyway,” Ruth commented. “Way out of my range, especially the rockets’ red glare part.”
    “Dad doesn’t have any trouble,” I said softly. He’d taken me to an Orioles game the previous fall and I’d stood beside him, marveling as he sang the heart right out of that anthem in his rich, full baritone.
    Over my head, a bagel danced on the end of the pull cord for the fluorescent light fixture. “What turns so many veterans into homeless alcoholics?” I wondered out loud. “All those guys sleeping on heat grates in Washington, D.C.?”
    Ruth got my drift. “That won’t happen to Daddy, Hannah. He’s got his pension.”
    Paul signaled the waitress for a refill on our coffee.“She’s right, Hannah. Darlene could steal your father’s affection and everything of value that he owns, but she couldn’t take that away from him.”
    “Yes, but there’s more to life than money,” I said. “Much more.”
    Sunday and Monday we took turns visiting the hospital. Even Dante, who had Monday off, stuck his head in before disappearing for a reunion with his