Breakfast at the Windmill Café by Andrew Monge
from Windmills: a PUNK NOIR Magazine series
Grace approached the booth, order pad in hand, warm smile across her face. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite out-of-towners. When did you crazy kids arrive?”
Marv beamed at the waitress, reveling in the camaraderie. “Just got into town last night. We checked in and went straight to bed, wanting to be rested up for today. How have you been, Grace?”
“Oh, you know, same-old-same-old. It’s getting busy with the lead-up to Tulip Time next week.”
Marv nodded his head, looking at the nearly full seating. “Pella sure has changed over the years. Used to be able to move around without much fuss, but it appears the cat is out of the bag regarding your fair village.”
“Indeed,” said Grace. “Truth be told, I don’t enjoy Tulip Time anymore. I mean, I appreciate the business—we’ll make a mint over the course of that weekend—but it’s gotten too crazy. Every business has lines out the door, which means customers are crabby by the time they’re served. I’d take a vacation, but I can’t do that to my staff. All hands on deck, you know?” She withdrew a pen from her apron and positioned it over her pad. “Now let’s see if I remember your order. Marv, you’ll do the steak and eggs, medium-well and scrambled, with an orange juice. And Evie, you’ll do the French toast and coffee, black. That sound right?”
Marv chuckled. “All the people that come through this place, and you remember our order. It never ceases to amaze me.”
Grace pocketed the pen and ripped the slip from her pad. “Can’t remember my own damned anniversary, but I can remember your order. Go figure. I’m gonna drop this off, then I’ll be back with your drinks.”
When Grace returned to the table, Marv was deep in conversation with his wife, so she deposited the beverages and proceeded to clean the adjacent table, listening in on their conversation.
“…take in the tulips at the Scholte House before going inside for a tour. I know we’ve seen it dozens of times, but I can’t get enough of the correspondence between Mister Scholte and Abraham Lincoln. Afterwards we can wander through the town square and…”
Arms full of dirty dishes, Grace brought them to the kitchen sink, washed her hands, and grabbed the latest batch of meals. After dropping off plates to other customers, she finished by delivering Marv and Evie’s food. As she set down each plate, she asked, “So what’s on the agenda today?”
Marv sprinkled salt and pepper on his eggs. “I think we’ll hit Jaarsma Bakery after this, get a treat for our walk around town. If we have time, we’ll watch the klokkenspel before visiting the Opera House, after which we’ll visit the Scholte House and the Historical Village. We’ll probably skip the windmill tour because, well…” Marv paused, looked from Grace to Evie, cleared his throat, “…but we’ll still watch them make the wooden shoes and wander through Wyatt Earp’s childhood home.”
Grace smiled, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt. And were those tears pricking her eyes. “That sounds like a fine day for a couple of lovebirds. Anything else I can get you two before I make the rounds?”
Marv shook his head. Grace left them to their breakfast, moving about her tables, refilling coffee cups and clearing more dirty dishes. On her way back to the kitchen, the new girl, Melissa, stopped her.
“Miss Grace, do you have a sec?”
“You’ll have to talk while we walk, hon.”
“It’s just…who’s the weird old guy talking to himself out there?”
Grace whirled on the young woman, color rising in her cheeks, daggers in her eyes. Startled, Melissa took a step back. “What? What did I say?”
Grace closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed herself. “I’m sorry. I forget you’re new. I should have told you in case this happened, but it’s been so damned busy lately…
“His name is Marv. He and his wife started coming to Pella around the time those Dutch engineers built the Vermeer Windmill in the early 2000’s. We owe a lot to that windmill. Tourism picked up after that, and has been growing steadily ever since.
“In 2011, Marv and his wife were here for their annual visit. During the windmill tour she had a massive heart attack. Damned thing just unraveled itself. They say she was dead before she hit the floor. Tragic as tragic gets.
“We all figured that’d be the last we saw of him, but he showed up the following year… and acted as if she was there too: bought two meals, purchased two admittances to the sites, you name it. I suppose we thought it was strange at first, too, but he wasn’t hurting anyone. For all we know, he’s perfectly fine at home and only does this here, in the place he lost her. They loved it here. If this place makes him feel close to his wife, well, who are we to stand in his way? We could all be so lucky to have someone love us that much.
“Anyway, that’s that. I hear you call him weird again, you’ll be out on your ass, and not a place in town will hire you, understood?”
“Yes, Miss Grace.”
“Good. Now go clear Table Three and get someone seated.”
Grace watched her go, then approached Marv’s table with his slip.
“Here you go. It’s always a pleasure to see you two.”
Marv stood, took his PELLA FELLA cap off the hook and placed it on his bald head before taking Evie’s windbreaker off the hook on her side of the table. “Thank you for breakfast, Grace. It was good to see you as well.”
She watched as Marv paid his bill, then paused to hold the door open for a few seconds before stepping through himself.
Grace swore she saw Evie’s outline in the sunlight before the door clicked shut.
This story appears as part of Windmills, a PUNK NOIR Magazine series.
Bio
Andrew Monge (X/Bluesky) lives in Minnesota with his wife and kids. A computer programmer by day and a voracious reader by night, he is a lifelong introvert who only finds his voice while writing. His work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, Trash Cat Lit, Urban Pigs Press, and Shotgun Honey.
PUNK NOIR, the online literary and arts magazine that looks at the world at its most askew, casting a bloodshot eye over the written word, film, music, television and more.
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