Ashbee & Son

Too Fried an Egg

I awoke the next morning to the raucous voices of sports broadcasters coming from downstairs. I turned over and let escape an annoyed breath. My eyes found the window, which I left cracked open. Warm air poured in, and I inhaled a lungful. My phone rested on the nightstand. I tapped the screen. It was almost 10 a.m. My stomach gurgled. I could not remember when last I ate. It would have had to have been before picking up the rental car. But what did I eat? I rewound the tape reel to the moments leading up to picking up the car. I had ridden the Bloor-Danforth Line to Bloor-Yonge Station. I had transferred to the Yonge-University Line and gotten off at College Station. Oh, yes! I had remembered. On the way to Enterprise Rent-A-Car, I stopped at a Freshii for an Oaxaca bowl and a Spicy Lemongrass soup. That was more than 24 hours ago, and all that I'd eaten had long run its course. The thought of food made my belly roar with the ferocity of a starved lion. A knock rapped upon the door.

"Come in, I said in a voice that sounded like tires crunching a gravelly way.

"Good morning," Edmund said, sweeping inside. With him came the smell of eggs frying on the pan. I began to salivate.

"Good morning," I said with a yawn.

"Care for some breakfast?"

I sat up, labouring in my weak state.

"I suppose."

"I'm making eggs."

"I can smell them, yes."

"I'm also making sausage."

"I don't eat that, Edmund," I said, removing the sheets from their enfolding grip.

"You don't eat sausage?" he said in a high-octave, puzzled tone. He arched a brow as well. I started to get out of bed, setting one foot upon the shag at a time.

"A while back, Ingrid and I decided to become lacto-ovo-vegetarians," I said in that weird voice you do when stretching. "Do you know what that means?"

He nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'm not sure what lacto-ovo means, but I know about vegetarians. I saw Everything is Illuminated."

"What is that?" I said.

"It's a movie with that actor, Elijah Wood. He's a vegetarian, and he's sitting at this table at this place in Ukraine with two Ukrainians. They're about to eat, and he tells them that he's vegetarian—that he can't eat meat." Edmund smiles. "The two guys think he's crazy. It's funny."

"I'm sure it is."

"Was it her idea?"

"What?" I said, getting up from the bed and moving toward him.

"Her idea to become vegetarian," he clarified. He stepped aside and let me pass through the doorway. I could feel his eyes burn into my back as I made my way toward the bathroom.

"A mutual decision," I said, closing the door.

"Well, come down when you're ready!" he shouted.

Before Charlie was born, Ingrid and I had a dog. She was an old golden retriever. We adopted her from the East Shelter on Progress Avenue when we moved to The Olwen. We figured we should cut our teeth at parenting with a pet first. We named her Doris, but we had many different names for her. Dor-Dor, Mrs. Doris Day, D-Day, Doris Karloff. We fell so in love with her that we began to question our relationship with animals. How could we eat one yet love another? Ingrid began reading some literature about deep vegetarianism. We watched films created by animal activist groups on factory farming. The graphic content arrested our hearts. Doris died of lymphoma after only three years of having her. She did so much for us. She changed us, made us evolve. Because of her, we adopted a healthy, ethical, and compassionate way of living. And because of her, we were ready for Charlie.

Edmund was at the stove turning the eggs over in the pan. Steam rushed as the butter in the pan began to brown.

"Take a seat, son," he said.

I yawned and rubbed one of my eyes. I pulled out a chair, the same one in which I sat the previous night, and returned to it. There was a savory smell of herbs and cracked black pepper in the air. Golden toast had popped up, and Edmund collected them on a plate. I didn't remember him being so deft in the kitchen. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Yes, please," I responded with another yawn.

The TV sat muted, again. On the screen was a young, brown-haired woman who was reporting sports highlights.

"How do you take it?" he said as he poured.

"With a drop of cream," I said.

"Oh, sorry, I don't have cream," he said.

"Black then."

"And here you are," he said, placing the mug before me. The steam moved like a tiny whirlwind until I blew on it, and then it dispersed in every which way. I took a sip. It was very hot on the upper lip and tongue, but it was good.

"I see you've stopped buying the cheap stuff," I said, placing the mug back upon the table's glass surface.

"You'll notice a lot has changed, son." He placed a plate on the table before me.

"What's this?" I said, pointing at the plate's contents.

"Eggs," he said, scooping the rest of the eggs up with a spatula and sliding them onto his own plate. He approached the table, mug of coffee and plate of food in hand, and sat.

"Is there a problem?" he said.

"Yes there's a problem," I said. "This is over-easy. I like mine done sunny-side-up."

"You do?" he said.

I let out a breath. "I've always liked it that way, Edmund."

"Oh," he said. He sliced into an egg with his fork and began to eat. "It's fine. Eat it, Tobias. Over-easy won't kill you."

I took up my fork and poked at it. The cooked skin over the yolk was tough, and it turned my stomach. I set my fork down and sat back in my chair. I took up my coffee and sipped at it. The only sound was that of the Edmund using his fork to cut into his eggs. I pushed the plate away from me while eying the lovely brunette across the room.

"I'm sorry, Tobias," Edmund said. "It's been so long since I've made you breakfast that I forgot how you like it."

"You always forgot. Every Saturday morning you'd have to ask me how I liked my eggs. Why couldn't you remember?" Edmund seemed to shrink in his chair. He dipped a piece of buttered toast into the yolk of his egg and put it in his mouth. He said nothing and got up, bringing his plate and Hamilton Tiger-Cats mug to the sink where he ran the water. I stood up. "Why couldn't you remember?" I almost shouted.

"I don't know, Tobias."

"Why didn't you care?" I said.

Edmund remained silent. There was not but the scrubbing of dishes and the running of water.

"Have you anywhere to be?" he said, eyes on the dishes in the sink.

"No," I said, biting into the now cold toast that accompanied my disappointing eggs.

"I'll be gone all night tonight," he said. "There's a game."

"Of course there is..." I said.

"I'll be at the old Touchdown on Barton."

I grimaced. "Okay," I said, dropping the soggy toast upon the plate.

"You're welcome to do what you like, of course," he said.

"I have work to do."

"Suit yourself," he said.

"I'm going to run a shower," I said. I got up and walked toward the stairs.

"Tobias," he called. I turned. "I'm sorry about the eggs, son." I offered no emotion. Not a single facial cue. I turned back again and made up the stairs.