The Very First Breakfast

Cornell Woolrich The Very First Breakfast

“And another way we could save money,” young Mrs. Ken Roberts said to young Mr. Ken Roberts, “is by not going out to our breakfast every day, having it in instead. It would be much nicer I think, anyway.”

He looked doubtful. “Who’d... who’d cook it?”

“Why, I would, of course!”

He continued to look doubtful. He’d been afraid of that. “You wouldn’t have time, it might make you late for work, and then the dishes would have to be washed and—”

“Oh, I could manage,” she said confidently. She gave him a searching look. “Why are you so opposed to my trying it? Don’t you think I know how?”

They had just returned from their honeymoon, and young Ken Roberts had apparently taken seriously all the funny-paper jokes he had read about brides’ cooking.

“Oh, no-o, Kittens, no-o, not at all,” he protested insincerely. He patted her hand soothingly. “You’re probably a swell little cook, only—”

“Only what?” There was more than a hint of amusement in Kittens’ purring voice.

“Only I didn’t think up-to-date business girls like you,” he faltered, “cared much about cooking or... or knew much about it.”

There was a determined gleam in Kittens’ eyes by now. She’d show him. “So he thinks just because a girl’s in business and matches her husband’s salary every week she’s helpless in the kitchen, can’t cook like Mother used to, does he?” she thought. “We’ll see about that!”

At seven the next morning, an hour earlier than they usually got up, she slipped quietly out of bed. The sun was pouring lavishly through the bedroom windows as though it had never heard of the gold embargo. She began to dress swiftly, with tremors of excitement. Ken was still sleeping across the room. She mustn’t make a sound, mustn’t wake him, if she did it would spoil everything. She didn’t even put on her shoes; their heels might click on the floor over there where the rug ended. She crept out of the bedroom holding them in her hand and eased the door shut after her. She gave a sigh of satisfaction. Now to get started!

Ken opened one eye and peered after her, then groaned inwardly. He knew what she was up to. “If I could only get out of this without hurting her feelings,” he thought dismally.

Outside the door she bent down, fastened on her shoes, and then gave a wild little run into the living room. “Now, what do I do first?” she thought. “Oh — the table, that’s it!”

It didn’t take a minute to swing its broad leaf up into place. Then the two little painted straight chairs.

The neat arrangement of the table attended to, she darted into the foyer. They’d only moved in two days ago. Trunks and suitcases, not yet unpacked, took up most of it. A barrel with the lid knocked off stood very prominently in the middle of everything. Down into it she plunged one arm, scattering unlimited quantities of excelsior all over the floor. She groped, she fumbled, she explored — and up came a china cup! She set it down on the floor and dove into the straw a second time. Presently a second one had joined the first, then a saucer; after a while a whole breakfast-set was ranged about her feet. Two or three round-trips and the set had been transferred bodily to the waiting table. She stole a glance at the clock. Twenty-five after. She still had nearly an hour — but there was plenty to do yet! “Afraid to trust me in the kitchen, is he? Just let me get the hang of it, that’s all!”

She opened the front door almost fearfully, as though dreading to be disappointed. So much depended on this. She looked, then brightened. No, he hadn’t forgotten. A shining bottle of milk stood there. She whisked it inside with her, delighted with so much efficiency.

And now she simply must have an apron. Not that she cared in the least about her dress, but it seemed more professional somehow to have on an apron. That had always been the badge of the old-fashioned stay-at-home wife, hadn’t it? She paused to reflect. Hadn’t somebody given her an apron? She was sure somebody had. She should have taken it out last night — but then Ken might have caught sight of it, and that would have given the whole plan away.

The search for the apron took fifteen precious minutes. In the end she found it, a gay little printed thing, but the contents of one whole trunk and two suitcases lay about the foyer. With the apron fastened about her slim waist and the hands of the clock nearing eight, the groundwork had been laid. Table and apron. It was time for the great show-down to begin. But first, the materials. She had already looked down the dumb-waiter shaft twice and each time it was still empty. Now she began to be really worried. She fled to the phone; she called a number, glanced furtively over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door as if fearful of its opening.

“Is this the manager?” she breathed cautiously. “You forgot my order! Don’t you remember? Mrs. Ken Roberts? You promised. Oh, the boy’s on his way over now? Goodness, I only hope—” She hung up without saying what she only hoped. But only a minute afterward the dumb-waiter buzzed and up came everything she needed. She turned and shook her fist triumphantly at the bedroom door.

By eight-thirty the smoke had cleared away and the battle was over. Not a second too soon, either. He’d been in the shower bath only a minute ago and now she could hear him moving around in the bedroom, getting ready to come out.

She just barely had time to dart out, brush a lipstick past her mouth, smooth her hair at the glass, and turn the radio on, when the bedroom door opened and he appeared looking very trim and fresh.

“What was all the running back and forth I heard out here?” he asked cheerfully. “What got you up so early? Hungry?”

She nodded deceitfully.

“Get your hat; we’ll run out and get our breakfast,” he said.

Maybe he could bluff his way out of it.

“Hardly necessary,” she said demurely. “Just step in; breakfast is all ready.”

His face dropped. Involuntarily he placed one hand above the region of his belt buckle as though in self-defense. He’d read about this too many times. He foresaw coffee black as fountain-pen ink; strips of bacon like rubber bands, muffins like bricks. He knew his comic strips.

“Gee, this is going to be a treat,” he said weakly, advancing hesitantly toward the place of execution.

“I did it all myself; it wasn’t a bit of trouble!”

Kittens was chattering blithely behind him. But she made a wicked face at him behind his back.

They sat down. He took a bite of bacon with grim determination. Then his face changed. It was crisp, deliciously fragrant.

“Well, I’ll be... well, what do you know—” he muttered and looked at her in surprise. He said it again when he had tried one of the muffins, fluffy and light as a feather. This time he looked at her in awe. She poured the coffee; it came out a rich golden-brown; its aroma filled the room. The look he gave her had become one of undiluted admiration. “You’re wonderful!” he gasped. “Why, I never dreamed that you could—”

“I know you didn’t,” she said calmly. “More coffee?”

“Bet your life!” he said. It was like one of those advertisements in a magazine.

“Shall I help you clear the table and wash up?” he asked when they were through.

“Oh, no; just leave everything where it is,” said Kittens airily. “I’ll attend to everything when I get back this evening. I’m usually home ahead of you, anyway.”

But when she did get back that evening, the task seemed to be even easier than might have been expected. The table was cleared and resting flat against the wall. Kittens, however, frowned in considerable annoyance. She marched straight over to the phone.

“Is this the manager of the Elite Restaurant?” she demanded. “Well, listen, your waiter carried my own dishes back with him by mistake when he called for the two breakfast trays I had sent over this morning! Be sure you send them back in the morning. Yes, I want the same order repeated. Until further notice,” she added. It might take as much as a whole month, she realized, as she hung the receiver up, before she was far enough advanced in her cooking lessons to do without the help of a caterer.