Like Grownups Do (9 page)

“Millie, you’re back. How was the rodent food?”

“Perfectly tasteless. You boys enjoy your cardiac burgers.”

Ten

K
laus Schroeder greeted Babe and Tom from half way across the restaurant, where he was replacing Jordan’s empty beer bottle with a full one.

“Mr. Babe. Mr. Tom. Welcome, welcome my friends. Frieda! Come and see who has come back to see us.”

Frieda Schroeder crashed through the swinging half doors with her elbows. She burst into a smile as she began to pull off her rubber gloves.

“What a sight for these old eyes. Babe and Tom—so long you have been away, boys. I am right in the middle of forty pounds of hamburger or I would give you both a squeeze.”

“Frieda, we wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of a batch of Momma’s burger meat. It’s great to see you,” Babe said.

“Ditto, Momma Frieda.” Tom said. “My stomach is screaming at me that we’ve been away much too long.”

Babe was a regular at Momma’s since his university days. The last few weeks were his longest absence from the restaurant since that time. He had been absent since before the funeral. Klaus, Frieda, and their two sons closed the restaurant early that day, and had attended.

Babe had brought Jill to Momma’s a few times, mostly on nights of New England Patriot games. He was happy to take her out when she was feeling well, although the raucous crowds at Momma’s Sofa during games usually wore her down so that they had to leave early.

Babe was only one of Momma’s patrons that thought of the place as a second home, and the Schroeders as a second family. It was a part of Boston that Babe loved—family owned businesses that had a soul, where you knew and did business with your neighbors, not just faceless chains and corporations.

Babe was responsible for the name of Momma’s Sofa. He received a card and a check from his mother and step-father for his birthday just prior to the Grand Opening of the newest Momma’s Cafe and Sports Bar. Babe used part of the money to buy a Grand Opening gift for the Schroeders—a large, comfortable leather sofa. He spent hours visiting with the Schroeder family in their office, where the older couple spent most of their time. He could never get over the fact that there was not one really comfortable place to sit.

A week after the opening of the new location, the nondescript sign outside of Momma’s Cafe was replaced by a large neon sign. Momma’s Cafe had been re-christened.

Momma’s Sofa.

Momma’s Sofa was one of the most unique establishments in the city. Owned and operated by Klaus and Frieda Schroeder since 1989, the business moved one city block into a larger building in 1997. The final move came in 2001—into a building more than three times the size.

Mommas began as a lunch-only business. The popularity of Momma’s burgers spread like a wildfire. Local customers, the media, and even celebrities not only went to great lengths to garner a coveted lunch table, but the clamor for the recipe to her burgers became a quest. The recipes for the meat and the sauce were so guarded that Momma Frieda prepared all of it herself and never shared the recipes with another living soul.

The Schroeders arrived every morning at six. Frieda prepared the days’ meat, sauce and other ingredients. Klaus prepared for opening while he monitored the surveillance cameras. These were installed after multiple hi-tech attempts had been made to steal Frieda’s recipes.

In the year prior to Momma’s last move, a regular customer petitioned Klaus to let him bring his television to the restaurant that evening. It was opening day for the Red Sox at Fenway Park and he couldn’t get tickets. He explained that his wife had scheduled an Avon party that night at their house. The man offered Klaus a hundred dollars. Frieda saw the look on Klaus’s face and smiled. The Schroeder’s television had died a fiery death two nights before.

“Keep your money,” Klaus said. ”Come at five thirty. Don’t tell anybody.”

By six o'clock the customer’s television was set up in the back corner of the restaurant, as far from the front windows as possible. The customer had brought along his neighbor. Klaus was there with his two sons, Leo, who was twenty, and Lewis, twenty one. The boys worked at the restaurant part-time while attending college.

During the National anthem there was a sharp rap at the front door. Klaus walked to the door and saw two more regular lunch customers with their noses pressed to the window. He said, “We’re closed,” in an exaggerated voice while pointing to the clock figure on the door. One of the men said something while clutching his coat at the collar. All that Klaus could make out was “the game”. Both men looked like hungry little boys standing outside a bakery window.

Klaus opened the door.

“Come in—make it quick.”

The next time there was a knock at the door there were four faces pressed to the glass. Lewis, Leo, and the television’s owner stacked two tables together and put the television on top. By the middle of the first inning every chair in the small restaurant was full. Men, women, and children continued to turn up at the front window until the restaurant was standing room only. Two rows of people watched from the sidewalk outside. People throughout the inside crowd asked about food and drink. Klaus announced that there was no food and he was unable to sell any drinks or he would have none for the next day’s business. Within thirty minutes, people arrived with food and drinks bought elsewhere in the neighborhood.

As the game progressed the atmosphere came to rival what was going on in sports bars all over town, and maybe even at Fenway itself. At one point during the seventh inning stretch, while the crowd swayed, high-fived, and sang “Take me out to the ballgame”, Klaus, Lewis, and Leo looked at each other. Their knowing smiles conveyed that they shared the same thought.

Momma’s would never be the same.

The next afternoon, Frieda looked around the living room at the faces of her three boys.

“Klaus, we have our hands full just being open from eleven until three, six days a week. We get by with a small number of employees, and we live very well. And what about the three weeks a year we go back to Germany? Mama and Papa are so old,” Frieda said.

“Frieda, I have discussed this with Lewis and Leo. They would very much like to be involved. Lewis is going to take a course in bar tending and Leo plans to do the same next year. They have many friends at school that are interested in working as well. This type of business will give them extended opportunities and options in their careers,” Klaus said.

“We would have to borrow money to expand like this, Klaus,” Frieda said.

Klaus smiled. He handed Frieda a stack of white cards.

“For years I have collected the business cards of our customers who are bankers, and many have said to me, “Klaus, if you ever want to grow, please come and see me’.

“I think we begin with being open late during baseball season. The boys are capable of running things on their own, so I see no reason to change ‘The Exodus’.”

‘The Exodus’ had been a popular nickname for years. The name was popularized by a regular customer in 1990 to denote the last three weeks of November every year when The Schroeders traveled to Germany to visit family and friends. This pilgrimage meant that since Frieda would not give her recipes to anyone or allow the meat to be frozen, she had to prepare huge batches of meat and sauce in a three day marathon session prior to their departure. The restaurant remained open in the Schroeder’s absence only until the meat was gone. The restaurant was then closed until their return.

Reservations for the four hours of lunch service were made weeks in advance of The Exodus, and were considered a badge of honor.

Babe and Tom joined Jordan at their reserved table. Babe snickered as he pulled out his chair. There was a large Styrofoam to-go container already on the table, which could only mean one thing at Momma’s.

“The Sectional, huh Jordan? Well played. Feeling a surge of testosterone?” asked Babe.

Jordan smiled and shrugged.

The ‘Sectional’ was the signature burger at Momma’s—three rectangular patties on three rectangular buns arranged in a “U” shape, with the top buns standing open. The arrangement resembled a sectional sofa. This specialty was Klaus’s creation. When someone ordered the Sectional, the first thing brought to the table was the leftover box.

“I’ll be putting half the damn thing in that box. I’m not nearly as tough as MG. You ever see her use the box? Hell no, you don’t.” Jordan said.

Jordan stared at Tom, who had changed into a wildly patterned tropical print shirt before leaving the office. “Tom, what the hell are you wearing?”

“Christie and I are off to Jamaica next week, so I’m slip sliding into the mood. What do you think? “Tom asked, holding his arms straight out and twisting in his seat.

“Looks like Jimmy Buffet binged on fruitcake and piña coladas and threw up on you,” Jordan said.

“Exactly the look I was going for,” Tom said.

Jordan stared at Babe’s head.

“Is that…glitter? In your hair?”

Tom laughed.

“Oh, my. He’s on to you, Captain Fabulous.”

Babe chuffed.

“It’s donut glaze, Jordan.”

“Well, of course,” Jordan said.

“And why wouldn’t it be?”

“All the cool kids are doing it,” Babe said.

Jordan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, but he was smiling.

“Guys, here’s what’s happening. Sam— Samantha, has been offered a position in the State Department. Neither of us saw that coming. She’s just begun her third term in the State Senate. But it’s not really the kind of position you turn down, and I don’t expect her to. We’ll have to move to D. C.—and that presents a problem for RCI. We’re a tiny operation and we’re still on a short leash. I don’t know what to expect. You two are doing excellent work, but your youth still scares the hell out of the FBI—the politicians even more so. I don’t know if they’re going to want to shut it down or maybe move us to D.C. Maybe they just put someone in my place.”

“I won’t be moving to D.C., Jordan,” Tom said.

“If we’re shut down, I’ll just go back to teaching. Christie and I want to have a couple of kids. She researched school districts for two years and it took longer than that to find our house in the district that she picked out. But congratulations, to you and Samantha.”

“Yeah, congratulations, Jordan,” Babe said, “but I prom— I mean, I don’t want to leave, either. I don’t want to go back to the probation office, but—”

“Let’s not give up the ship just yet. Jack and MG are working on a contingency plan.”

Klaus Schroeder pointed at Jordan’s empty beer bottle from two tables away. Jordan pretended to be studying a spot on the ceiling, and then smiled and said, “Hit me, Klaus. Three is my limit before sundown.”

Dun dun dun dahhh.

Jordan turned in his chair at the sound of the Monday Night Football theme coming from the lone big screen television in the adjacent bar area.

“Hey, Patriots and Steelers Monday night, Babe. You going to be here?” Jordan asked.

Tom crossed his arms and made a pouty face at this question, which made Babe and Jordan laugh.

“Jordan,” Babe said, “let us observe a moment of silence for our poor comrade, who is being forced to spend two weeks in a tropical paradise—sleeping until noon and drinking himself stupid every night, and no doubt working on or at least practicing for that first baby he’s been talking about.” He gave Tom a playful but firm punch on the shoulder.

“Yeah, Jordan, if MG doesn’t load me up for next week, I’ll be here. You going to try and make it?”

“Yeah, I think so. I haven’t been to watch a game here this season, and I haven’t seen Lewis or Leo in months. Hey, Klaus! Will your boys be here Monday night?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Jordan. Frieda and I leave Monday morning and the boys will have it until we get back.”

“Yeah, okay, okay, okay. I knew that. Where is my head today?” Jordan said.

“Somewhere between the ‘Samuel’ and the ‘Adams’ would be my guess,” Tom mused, staring down at the table with a straight face until Babe and then Jordan laughed.

“Goddamn it—who hired you two smart asses? I’m calling Jack this afternoon, and make him explain to me what the hell I did to deserve you little shits.”

Jordan grinned into space and began to miss his old life already.

Eleven

J
ordan and Samantha Blackledge had been married for ten years. They sold both of their condos for sizable profits and bought a home in Wellesley. That home was a steal of sorts, having been owned by the playboy son of an oil-rich Middle Eastern businessman. The questionable tastes of the son not only inflamed nearby home owners, but left real estate agents at a loss for how to unload the property. Outlandish color schemes, huge murals, and giant statuary were spread throughout the interior and exterior of the large home—most depicting vulgar attempts at eroticism. Undaunted, Samantha Blackledge had watched Madeline Gerard’s interior design company revamp a co-workers’ home during the previous year.