Of everyone there, I was probably his closest friend, so I followed him. By then, he was leaning against the wall near the restroom. As I approached, he took a huge swallow from his glass, finishing nearly a third of its contents.
“What do you have there?” I asked.
“Bourbon.”
“Wow. That’s a pretty big glass.”
“I told them to fill it,” he said.
“Did I miss the contest where Pabst got second place, not first?”
It wasn’t particularly funny and I don’t know why I said it, other than that the way he was acting was making me nervous.
“It’s what my dad drinks,” he said.
For the first time, I noticed his shell-shocked expression. Not the effect of alcohol. Something else.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He took another long drink. By then, the glass was half empty. It had to be at least four, maybe five shots. Danny was going to be drunk, maybe very drunk, in a very short while.
“No,” he said. “I’m not okay.”
“What happened? Who called?”
“My mom,” he said. “It was my mom who called.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She just told me my dad died.”
“Your dad?”
“He was in a car accident. She found out just a few minutes ago. Someone from Highway Patrol came by the house.”
“That’s… awful,” I said, truly at a loss for words. “Is – is there anything I can do? Can I bring you to your place?”
“She’s getting me a ticket to fly home tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m going to do about finals, though. Will they let me retake them next week?”
“I don’t know, but that’s the last thing you should be thinking about right now. Is your mom okay?”
It took him a long time to answer. Instead, he seemed to be staring into the distance.
“No,” he said. He gulped at his drink, finishing it. “She’s not. I need to sit down.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I led him back to the table. Despite the alcohol he’d consumed, he didn’t seem affected at all. Instead, he sat quietly, adding nothing to the conversation. He didn’t mention the death of his father to anyone else at the table, and an hour later, I drove him back to his apartment.
He went home on Sunday, just as he’d told me he would. And though we were friends, I never saw or heard from him again.
“Hold on,” Marge said. After I dropped London off at school on Tuesday morning, she’d come straight to my house, where we sat at the kitchen table. “So she just… left?”
“Last night,” I said.
“Did she at least say she was sorry?”
“I don’t remember.” I shook my head. “I can’t even… um… I mean… I…”
I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight; my roiling emotions – shock and fear, disbelief and anger – had me veering from one extreme to the next. Though I knew I’d done it, I couldn’t remember driving London to school only a few minutes earlier; the drive had been consigned to nothingness.
“Your hands are shaking,” Marge said.
“Yeah… I’m okay.” Trailing off, I took a long breath. “Shouldn’t you be at work? I can scramble up some eggs.”
Marge would tell me later that I got up from the table and went to the fridge; as soon as I pulled it open, I must have decided I needed coffee instead. I went to the coffee cabinet and then realized I should probably get cups out for Marge and me first. But I must have thought I still needed coffee so I set the cups beside the coffeemaker. She watched as I went to the fridge and pulled out the eggs before returning them to the same location. She said I then wandered to the pantry and came out with a bowl and…
“How about I make breakfast?” she suggested, rising from the table.
“Huh?”
“Have a seat.”
“Don’t you need to go to work?”
“I’ve decided that I’m taking the day off.” She reached for her cell phone. “Sit down. I’ll be back in minute. I just have to tell my boss.”
As I took my seat, I was struck anew by the realization that Vivian had left me. That she was in love with her boss. She was gone. I watched Marge open the door to the back patio.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to call my boss.”
“Why are you calling your boss?”
Marge stayed with me all day. She picked up London from school and also brought her to and from her piano lesson. Liz came by after her last appointment, and together they not only made dinner, but kept London entertained and helped her get ready for bed. It wasn’t often that her aunties came by to play, and London was over the moon from the extra attention.
Again, it would be Marge who would tell me this. Like the drive to school, I wouldn’t be able to remember it. The only thing I really remember was watching the clock and waiting for Vivian to call, something she never did.
The next morning, after sleeping less than three hours, I crawled out of bed feeling almost hungover, with all my nerves on edge. It was a monumental effort to shower and shave, something I’d neglected the day before. Nor had I eaten much – only a few bites at breakfast and dinner – but the thought of food was inconceivable.
Marge handed me a cup of coffee as soon as soon as I entered the kitchen, then started loading a plate. “Take a seat,” she said. “You need something in your stomach.”