Mr. Breakfast

MR. BREAKFAST First published in 2023 by Melville House Copyright © Jonathan Carroll, 2022 All rights reserved First Melville House Printing: November 2022 Melville House Publishing 46 John Street Brooklyn, NY 11201 and Melville House UK Suite 2000 16/18 Woodford Road London E7 0HA mhpbooks.com @melvillehouse ISBN 9781612199924 Ebook ISBN 9781612199931 Library of Congress Control Number: 2022945979 A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress a_prh_6.0_142242130_c0_r0 for Celina Pająk Contents Cover Epigraph Preface Pinecone Tin Eye Tying Water in a Knot Big Gray Hat Felek A Lazarus Glass Soul Also by Jonathan Carroll Nothing will tell you where you are. Each moment is a place you’ve never been. —MARK STRAND We don’t really know it, but we sense it: there is a sister ship to our life which takes a totally different route. —TOMAS TRANSTRÖMER When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence. —ANSEL ADAMS “Do you want to talk about Patterson now? We don’t have to if you’re not in the mood.” Ruth Murphy’s face went through a whole Olympics of different expressions—anger, sadness, resignation—before she spoke. “Patterson the joker, right? The jokester, the clown, the idiot. That’s the Graham I knew. Back then, what wouldn’t the man do for a laugh? I assume you know about the time with the prosthetic arm? They were going to arrest him. They had him in handcuffs, for God’s sake! But he was so over-the-top goofy with the cops he made them laugh too, so they let the fool go. That time. There were others, and they didn’t end so happily.” She knew she wasn’t being fair or telling the whole truth because there were so many other things she had loved about Patterson. But now she was old and alone, and old love unfulfilled can sometimes fester. The interviewer said gently, “But that was in his career as a comedian—long before he became famous and disappeared. You were together a long time…” “Three years. We stayed together because I loved him. You can love someone and still think they’re an idiot. I want to show you something.” In the old woman’s lap was a battered, sun-bleached manila envelope. Opening it, she slowly slid out a large photograph. One side had a large crease, and overall the picture had not been well cared for. She handed it to James Arthur, the interviewer. He took one look and nodded—of course he’d seen it before. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people had seen it before. “That’s a very well-known picture, Ms. Murphy.” “I know,” Ruth said irritably, having heard the condescension in his voice. “But it’s my line.” “Excuse me?” Arthur straightened his back and tried to control the disbelief in his voice. “He used my line—I said it. Or rather, I wrote it to him in a note, right after we broke up. Turn the picture over and read what’s on the back.” The man did, and saw written there in handwriting that was instantly familiar to him: “To Ruthie—who gave me the beginning with a Brownie. Thank you for that, and for so much more. Great Love, Graham.” “Whoa, amazing! It’s hard to believe. I’m sure you know how famous this photo is—it’s on par with anything by William Eggleston. Personally, I think it’s better.” Ruth grumbled, “I didn’t say I took it—that was all Graham’s doing. The picture, the way he framed the image, the lighting, he found the location…it was all him. But the line itself was mine. I even remember writing it to him on a postcard.” “Patterson would never say where the billboard was. It’s part of the mystery of the photograph.” She touched her white hair, creating a little dramatic pause before spilling the beans. “Hallet, Nevada. Somewhere up in the Eureka district. Graham said it was originally called Hell It’s Nevada but they changed the name in the 1930s because the town was getting rich and the citizens wanted to make it sound more respectable. But when the silver mines nearby went bust in the 1950s, the place started dying and never stopped. In its heyday, everyone in town hung out at Mr. Breakfast. It was apparently Hallet’s social center.” “Wait, wait—I’m writing this down. How do you know all this?” Ruth Murphy moved slowly back and forth in her chair, trying to find a comfortable position. At least, one she could share more comfortably with her arthritis. The last days were closing in on her, and she knew it. She had no legacy, a son she hadn’t seen in two years, no business to pass on, and no life’s work she had created that would continue to exist after she was gone. Nothing to show the future world there had once been a woman named Ruth Murphy. No, she knew the only thing that might bring her a few footnotes in some biography or a line in an appendix was the fact she had lived with Graham Patterson before he became Patterson. James Arthur handed the renowned photo back to her. She looked at it thoughtfully, pursing her lips. It showed a large run-down, vandalized, and badly boarded up salmon-colored roadside diner set alone on some bleak desert stretch of highway that looked like it could just as well have been on the moon. The first word to come to mind on seeing the image was forlorn. The diner had a long-faded red-and-white sign over the front door. It said “MR. BREAKFAST,” although two of the letters had fallen sideways over time, making the building look even sadder and more depressing. At the front of the diner’s empty parking lot was a giant weatherworn standalone statue of a smiling chef in a high toque holding up a tray with the name of the diner across the top. Below it, on the marquee sign where specialties of the house or community greetings like “Welcome Lions Club Members!” might once