PART 2
My hands were shaking when I opened the envelope.
Inside was an old black-and-white photograph. Two young Marines in jungle fatigues, arms around each other’s shoulders, squinting into the sun. Somewhere hot. Palm trees behind them One of them was a young Cyrus Lambert.
The other one had my nose. My chin. My crooked smile.
I’d seen that face my whole life. In the only photo I had of my father.
On the back, in faded ink: “Cy and Jimmy. Hue City. Jan. 1968.”
There was a letter, too. Four pages. I sat down in Booth 4 to read it. Corporal Lambert sat across from me, in the seat where the second coffee always went.
“Dear Roberta,
I should have told you this nine years ago. I was a coward. I’m sorry.
Your father, Private First Class James Kane, was my best friend. We went through boot camp together. We shipped out together.
On February 4th, 1968, in Hue City, I was shot in both legs crossing a street. I couldn’t move. Your father ran out into the open and dragged me behind a wall.
He went back for another man.
He didn’t make it back the second time.
Before we shipped out, he showed me a picture of his baby girl. Roberta. He said, ‘If anything happens, Cy, you check on her.’
It took me forty-nine years to find you. When I finally did, I saw you through the window of this diner, pouring coffee. I couldn’t make myself say who I was. So I came on the one day a year I thought I had a right to.
The second coffee was always for Jimmy.
Every year, you sat with us. You didn’t know it, but you sat with your father.
Thank you for paying my bill, sweetheart. It was always his treat.
Semper Fi,
Cy”
I couldn’t speak.
The whole diner was silent. A table of old veterans by the window had taken off their caps.
Chad was standing next to the booth. He’d read some of the letter over my shoulder. His face had gone pale.
“Bobbie,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
Corporal Lambert reached into his jacket and handed me one more thing. A small velvet box.
Inside was a Bronze Star medal.
“My grandfather got this for the day your father saved him,” he said. “He always said it belonged to Jimmy. He wanted you to have it.”
Chad apologized to me in front of the whole staff that afternoon. He took Booth 4 off the “turnover” schedule permanently. Every Veterans Day, it’s reserved now.
There’s a small brass plaque on the table.
“Booth 4. Reserved for Cy and Jimmy. Coffee’s on the house.”
This Veterans Day, Corporal Lambert came back. He sat across from me in Booth 4.
I poured three coffees.
One for him. One for me.
And one for the two Marines who started it all.
THE END.
