Trailwinds Press, 2023, 366 pp.
Fried Eggs
On weekend mornings, Lawrence ate—and ate—breakfast. He ate more and at greater leisure than on workday mornings. A weekend breakfast of his included candied tea thick with milk; whole milk coating a large glass; pink-fleshed, yellow-skinned grapefruit cut—by Lawrence, not by me—through their tender equators and further cut between the septa and spooned up, as Lawrence consumed them, through sugar slush. Lawrence daintily devoured, not at one sitting, but plenteously, in rotating varieties, toast, rolls, croissants, muffins, and “tartines” made with French bread, each baked piece treated as if he viewed it primarily as a vehicle for butter. He ate eggs in many styles, usually boiled softly, socketed in pedestals. He ate fried eggs in threes and thick flats of ham. He’d given up eating sausage links and fat-ruffled bacon when I told him, finally, that seeing him eating those things made me fear for his heart. I spoke the least of my fears for him then. Although his excesses scared me, I usually said nothing against his inordinate feasts.
Lawrence instructed me in breakfast preparations. He would have teapots scalded inwardly with a boiling rinse before one poured boiling water into them, over pierced-metal, egg-shaped containers into which he carefully measured tea. He would have seeds picked from sliced grapefruit with the tip of a knife. And all the while that we warmed rolls and made tea, all the while that we performed Lawrence’s equanimous, self-cosseting rituals, National Public Radio spoke, usually of disasters; climatic disaster enveloped the other disasters; a stream of reported disasters passed in speech around us, and Lawrence would putter and talk and ask—over a shoulder toward me—questions like “How much time left on those eggs?” (as if time coated them and would wear off) and “Have you sliced the bread?” Timed in manageable sequence, reflecting years of practice, his preparations came together simultaneously. Lawrence might tell me, with a touch of acerbity, “Your toast is ready,” if I’d missed the toaster’s clucked cue.
One Saturday morning, Lawrence stood at the stove, frying eggs. Otherwise fully dressed, he wore bedroom slippers, soft, backless, scuffed, maroon-leather bedroom slippers, over heavy socks. I sat at the breakfast table. Lawrence stood in profile to me, looking steeply downward, over eggs which I could not see. I’d watched him break the eggs’ shells. I’d watched him pour the slipping clots, the jellied slime, into a skillet. Lawrence’s breaking of eggshells seemed not breaking, but, rather, meticulous tearing. Without seeing them, I knew that three eggs lay outspread in the skillet before him; three outspread eggs bulged softly toward him; Lawrence’s central body drooped softly toward the eggs. I would think that the eggs lying before Lawrence and in my mind lay on their backs, on backs which their landing, poured to the round floor of the black, cast-iron skillet, alone established. Three eggs lay rounded over their backs, over their incidental backs, over their flat backs formed by chance, backs which could have formed anywhere, out of whatever substance first met the black. Eggs lay sprawled on their incidental backs softly bulging upward: shell-less, soft eggs which could not help themselves, eggs which lacked tautness, eggs which lacked toughness, eggs which lacked sphericity, eggs which lacked many qualities associated with tough, slick, hard, spherical, not-prone-to-slump pool balls. Eggs lay before Lawrence, pooled piles of raw, soft inwardness. Lawrence, gazing over the eggs, picked up a black, slotted, plastic spatula. He glanced at me; he resumed gazing egg-ward. He said, “I was thinking. I don’t know what your plans are today.” I didn’t have any plans independent of his wishes; I asked what he had in mind. Lawrence said, “Every third Saturday. There’s an antiques fair. That’s what it’s called anyway. Out near Morton. We could drive out that way. Have a look around. If you’re interested.” I said something agreeable with more enthusiasm than I felt for the idea. Lawrence waved the spatula amiably; he turned the eggs. The spatula made me feel guilty. The thing had long, narrow, straight-sided, round-ended slots parallel to each other in its lifting part. The slots had something abstract about their lengths and their round ends in common with sausage links, and Lawrence had professed that he “loved” sausage links, and I’d begged him deferentially not to eat them for the good of his health. Lawrence maintained that I’d “inspired” him to avoid eating such sausage. Nonetheless, I felt guilty of having committed the crime of—slight yet definite—interference with his habits. Picking up the slotted reminder of missing meat, Lawrence simply turned the eggs. Each of the three seemed to roll over on its own, to show its milky, white underside willingly to him. I sensed that I would sometime interfere over eggs as I had interfered over sausage. Lawrence stood, gazing over eggs, eggs shell-less, outspread in a black, cast-iron nest. Eggshells lay in a saucer to Lawrence’s right. A white-china dinner plate matching the saucer lay on the stove, amid the burners, gathering warmth. Saucer and plate seemed, without my seeing them broadly, white and extended and, despite their brittle rigidity, like the eggs’ albumen-skirts invisible to me. Lawrence turned a knob on the stove’s front; small, blunt-looking, blue fire-claws vanished, backed into holes in the burner ring. Lawrence lifted the sheer dinner plate. He moved the eggs, each wholly enclosed in its own white, to the plate, using the slotted spatula, shaking the turner gently as he tipped it. Each egg, lifted, slipped to the plate. (Eggs slid, lacking legs. Each legless, low, wide-bodied egg slid, shaken slightly; each appeared to waddle as it slipped from the slotted spatula-ramp sideways, onto the plate.) Lawrence walked toward me, bearing his three-breasted plate; his breasts moved slightly. Lawrence, advancing, waved the carried plate. He said mildly—impervious to my mean intransigence—“Change your mind about these, I can always whip up some more.” I almost choked. He had not whipped those eggs. I knew; I’d watched; I’d observed his manner. Whatever else the eggs seemed, they seemed very well-treated. I said muffled thanks. Lawrence lowered the plate, seating himself to my right. White-fabric napkin spread on his lap, he picked up a fork. The fork had pointed tines. No fork substance enclosed the spaces between the tines; unlike the black-plastic spatula’s round-ended slots, the long, curved spaces within the fork passed into formlessness beyond angular points. Lawrence, who would call himself “bonne fourchette,” “good fork,” hearty eater, touched the fork to an egg, to one of the three sprawled softly against the hard, thin, white plate. Using the outer side of an outer tine, Lawrence cut an egg. The fork cut; yellow flooded. I looked away.
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Carla Bradsher-Fredrick grew up in Oklahoma, where she was devoted to the equestrian sport of show jumping. She lived in Turkey and France. She graduated from Grinnell College, and earned an MA in art history from the University of Michigan, where she also fulfilled the coursework requirements for a PhD in art history. Her interest in writing fiction exceeded her interest in scholarship. She lived for many years in Saudi Arabia, where her husband taught urban planning at King Saud University, then in Arlington, Virginia and Portland, Oregon. Hands and Straight Lines is her first book.
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