Tonight was different. Not one of her borders was home. Allison had mumbled something about visiting her parents before disappearing in the afternoon. Leah and Brent had awkwardly expressed their condolences before walking into town. Tim hadn't even come home after his shift at the salt mine. It was no surprise, really, with the way bad news traveled. Someone had probably warned him. Of course, they'd been thinking of her, trying to be helpful. She was now alone in the house, without a single living thing contributing to the silence, all because of her helpful friends and neighbours.
The truth was, she didn't really want the quiet, the stillness. It was easy to see why they'd all thought she would. They knew enough about her to understand that she would try to escape from other people when she had to deal with a personal crisis. They had just made one mistake: assuming she was going to treat this like a crisis. She hadn't been able to tell them, as they'd scurried past her and out the door, that she didn't want tonight to be different from any other night. She hadn't been able to find the right words to stop them from leaving, ending any chance she had of pretending tonight was normal.
She sighed, looking at the paperback she'd tossed onto the floor. She'd given up after realizing she'd read the same paragraph four times. It was so irritating. This was how she would spend the night if she was racked was guilt and grief. But she wasn't. This solitude wasn't warranted.
She couldn't go out either. If she couldn't find words to tell her former students she wanted them to stay, she certainly wouldn't be able to explain to the others in town why she didn't want their sympathetic grimaces, words, or embraces. Even if she had wanted to go out and drown out her thoughts, her life was different now. Gone were the days she would sit at the river with Jake and Stanley, drinking their way through the Green's stash of hard liquor. Heather wasn't going to come through the door and hand her a bouquet of weeds. She couldn't even throw herself into another training session with the new rangers for whom she'd once been responsible.
That was not her life now, and she would have to deal with this as she did everything else. No, she told herself again, there is no dealing. There is nothing. She held the book in her hands again, feeling the worn pages beneath her fingers, but couldn't bring herself to open it.
There was suddenly a pounding coming from the front hallway, that made her draw in a quick breath. Someone was at the front door. Shaking it off quickly, she got up and went to see who it was.
Standing on the front stoop, rubbing his hands together though it was only late October, was Dr. Kenchy Dhuwalia. She smiled to herself. He'd been through ten Kansas winters but he had never fully adjusted to the cold.
“Dr. Dhuwalia. What brings you out here on a Wednesday night? Don't you have a shift at the clinic?” she asked in a teasing voice.
He shook his head. “No. I had more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Really?” she asked.
He nodded. “I heard. I wanted to see if you were alright.”
She folded her arms, answering quickly, “Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?”
“Well, a death in the family can lead to some major-”
“That isn't what's happened here,” she said.
He looked mildly surprised, but didn't say anything more on the subject, merely looking at her. She recognized his diagnostic gaze, and shivered. She was not in the mood for scrutiny, from him or anyone else.
“Look,” she said, “I was just...” He didn't interrupt, as someone else might, and she didn't finish. What had she just been doing?
After an intense silence that seemed to go on for hours, he cleared his throat. “Well, never mind that. I was wondering if you'd like to go out for a drink.”
“Go out? Kenchy, I don't know if that's such a good idea-”
“What, to get out of the house, talk with old friends, toast to good health?” His voice sounded strange, but he raised his eyebrows, with a hint of a smile. “On the other hand, it could be immensely awkward, drinking in silence, wishing you were somewhere else. But I'm sure it won't be any worse than...” His eyes flitted past her into the dark house.
She stood for a moment, staring past him at the empty street. “Just a quick drink,” she said.
She stepped back into the house and glanced, in the dim light, at her reflection in the hall mirror. She could barely see, but knew she didn't look as presentable as she would have liked to be on this evening. The townspeople would, of course, excuse her, on account of her father's tragic demise. She grabbed a jacket from the hook on the wall and opened the door again. She quickly locked it, vaguely hoping the borders had all taken keys with them. They'd gotten used to her being home most weeknights.
They walked along in silence, but she could hear some of the leaves on the ground crunching beneath her feet. It was a strange night. Some moments it seemed still; some moments a cold breeze picked up out of nowhere, whipping at her light jacket.
They didn't discuss where they were going. They turned onto Main Street, automatically heading for Bailey's Tavern. She felt herself tense as they neared the bar. She hadn't fully considered the many other friends she might run into when she agreed to go with Kenchy. If he noticed, he didn't let on. He continued to stare straight ahead at his destination. Once they were right outside, he held the door open, with exaggerated pomp. She almost laughed, but couldn't quite bring herself to make a sound.
Inside, the bar was fairly quiet. There were a few regulars sitting at the bar, but thankfully, none of her friends. Kenchy led the way to one of the tables. She had half hoped they might sit at the bar as usual, but of course, the booth was more private. He offered to hang her coat on one of the hooks on the wall. Happy to sink into the bench, she accepted. She drummed her fingernails on the table as she waited.
“Hey, Emily.” It was Mary. The one person it would be difficult to avoid at Bailey's. She quickly made herself look up. “Hi,” she forced out.
“I heard. Eric talked to Gray,” said Mary, her eyes serious. She put a hand on Emily's arm. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be,” said Emily, not wanting to literally shake her friend off, but still not able to explain.
Mary sensed her tone, however, and quickly withdrew her hand. “Can I get anything for you?” she asked in what she clearly meant as a casual tone.
“Yeah,” said Emily, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “I'll have...Well, what are you serving this week?”
“I've got beer, vodka...Oh, I got some real whisky a couple days ago-”
“Whisky- it's been forever,” said Kenchy, stepping around her to sit down across from Emily. “If you wouldn't mind.”
“Sure,” said Mary, eyeing each of them before retreating to the bar.
“What if I'd wanted wine?” asked Emily.
“I just thought it'd be appropriate.”
“I thought we were just here for a drink. This isn't going to be all-” she started.
“We are. But you aren't going to ignore it completely, are you now?” he asked.
“Thought maybe you'd want something to acknowledge the night,” said Mary, sliding shot glasses across the table.
“You guys, this isn't supposed to be a wake,” Emily protested.
“You can do whatever you want with it. But in case you want to give him one toast...” Mary placed the bottle of whisky on the table between them.
“Why would I want to do that?” she asked.
“I don't know. He was your father,” Kenchy said.
“Not for years, he hasn't been,” she shot back.
“I just thought...Whatever he may have been, he wasn't nothing to you,” he said hesitantly.
“Yes, he was,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“Fine, we don't have to. Whatever you want. Mary, do you have any wine?” asked Kenchy.
“No, I'll take the whisky,” she said, reaching for the bottle. “We can do a couple of shots, between friends. How about you? Want to join us?” She looked up at Mary.
“I don't usually-” Mary began, but at her friend's look, she relented. Emily moved over on the bench, and Mary sat beside her. Kenchy arranged the shot glasses, pouring a generous amount into each.
“Cheers,” he said, raising his in the air momentarily before dropping the liquid into his mouth. Emily followed suit.
“Cheers,” said Mary, but she didn't raise her own glass. There was a crashing sound from behind the bar. She winced. “I've gotta get that,” she said, giving Emily an apologetic grimace before dashing behind the bar. Emily shrugged.
Kenchy poured another shot for her, and one for himself. She was reminded forcefully of the many nights they'd spent in the same way two winters ago, and suddenly wondered if she shouldn't have come out at all.
“I'm going to put some music on, okay?” she said. He nodded. She stood and went over to the jukebox. She gripped the metal edges, resting her hands on the cool glass covering the music selections. Everything that had happened, all the death and destruction that had occurred around and even inside this very building, and it was still standing. Sturdy, beat up, but still cranking out music. It had gotten them through times when the computers, phones, and even the refrigerators didn't work. It had been there through the ages- her young, fancy-free days, testing her limits with apple wine coolers. The days she'd dreamed of the future, toasting with champagne, and the day she dreamt of a future in a parallel universe that no longer existed. The day everyone started inside and spilled into the streets, cheering at the good news the war was finally over. Grabbing people around them, kissing, hugging, shaking hands.
It had also witnessed secrets she didn't even know. The meeting that must have taken place before the group of men rode through the night in their unsuccessful attempt to kill Phil Constantino. The time someone had gone crazy, broken the sign above the bathroom, and been escorted to the med centre by Jimmy. Rumours, of course, had flown as Bill hadn't come to work for a month after that. The scar that ran down the side of Mary's neck. The day she knew she'd lost Jake Green forever. She was glad she hadn't been there for that, but news spread through town quickly enough.
All that they'd done, all that had been done to them, and the jukebox still held the same songs it always had. Minus a few damaged records, of course. She pressed her palms into the glass, and it didn't give way under her. She traced a finger over some of the old familiar titles. The song that had played the one and only time she had beaten Stanley's then-current record on the mechanical bull. The song she'd danced to the night the refugees walked into town. The one that played the day the A.S.A. Troops left Jericho the first time and she and the rangers had held an impromptu, drunken wake for Bonnie and their old lives. The song she and Chris had once argued about as they'd walked to school.
She made her selection, and went back to her seat as the opening cords sounded of U2's One sounded.
“Well, that's a chipper musical selection,” said Kenchy, pouring more whisky into both of their shot glasses.
She sighed. “My brother hated this song.” She threw back her next shot, barely noticing the sharp tingle in the back of her mouth.
“Really?” said Kenchy. “The song that saved the band?”
She smiled down at the table. “He was a Metallica fan,” she said, with a shrug. She couldn't remember what reasons he'd given that day, only that he'd been furious that she hadn't agreed with him. He had become even more furious that she had giggled at him. “He didn't have much patience for people who didn't share his taste.”
“I understand. My sister was Abba-obsessed,” said Kenchy with a grimace.
“Yeah?” she asked, glad of the change in topic.
“When she was in high school. She used to come home, shut her door, and play Abba records. I couldn't stand it. Used to dream about hiding all her records, but she'd threaten to knock me senseless if I came in her room.” He shook his head. “She could, too. She was a bit scary, actually.”
“Probably the same way Chris felt about me,” she said with a chuckle. “We tortured each other.”
Kenchy nodded. “Us too.” They sat still, glasses in hand. “Though, she'd scare away anyone else who tried to torture me,” he said. “The other boys on our block- they'd run away if she came out of the building. She babysat some of them, so I guess she put the fear of parental lectures and unpleasant chores into them.” His facial features softened a moment. “Well, to older sisters, then!”
Wordlessly, she gave him a nod and clinked her glass with his.
Mary was back, sitting once again on Emily's side of the table. Though she'd left some space on the bench, Emily really wished she'd have left her a two foot bubble of personal space as almost everyone else had today. She knew Mary was trying, laughing as she traded jokes with Kenchy and explained that the 'kid' she was training to wipe the tables had tripped over a box and broken one of the empty bottles he'd been carrying. It was strange though. She hadn't piled into a booth at Bailey's for a long time. Squishing in while toasting the future with her girlfriends was part of the old world.
She shifted in her seat, accidently kicking Kenchy under the table. 'Sorry' she mouthed, yanking her leg back under her bench, but he pretended not to notice.
“Excuse me ladies, nature calls,” he muttered a moment later. Nodding to each of the women seated across from him, he stood and ducked out of the room.
Mary got up and sat down across from Emily, where Kenchy had been sitting. She picked up the glass she'd forgotten earlier, considering it for a moment before glancing over at Emily. “You know I don't drink on the job, but I can make an exception for special occasions.”
“I know,” returned Emily with a smirk. She suddenly visualized Stanley and Mimi's wedding. Though there had been very few guests, it had been safe to say Mary was the most enthusiastic dancer in the room. She studied her friend. Mary was still holding the glass in midair, halfway to her mouth.
“You know, one of the worst nights of my life was my mom's wake,” said Mary, still holding the glass.
“Yeah?” asked Emily, distractedly staring at the thin pink line running down Mary's neck, barely visible in this light.
“I didn't want to go, but when my dad asked, I couldn't say no. Not that time,” she slowly set the glass down. “I hated him a little for making me feel guilty. He said goodbye to her, at the hospital, and I wouldn't go with him. So then I got to stand around like an idiot while all these people tried to tell me they were sorry. No one really knew what to say; they knew I hadn't spoken to her in person in years.”
“What do you say to someone who didn't get Florence Henderson, huh?” asked Emily.
“Nothing. They weren't the ones I wanted to hear from. But I obviously hadn't wanted to hear from her either. It was my own fault. That's what I told myself, that night.”
She glanced down at her shot glass again. “I was so mad that I missed her.”
Emily cleared her throat before saying quietly, “I can relate.”
“I tried to play a song, but your machine just ate the quarter,” said Kenchy loudly, standing over them.
“Did you put it in after you picked the song?” Mary asked.
“I did it just the way you told me last time. I think it's just a piece of temperamental crap that hates me.”
“Ugh, it was fine a minute ago.” Mary stood up quickly, and Kenchy followed her across the room, complaining that the records never played for him. “You'd better not have wrecked my jukebox,” Emily could hear her saying.
She looked down once more at the table, concentrating on a waxy blue streak running along the edge of the table. She wondered if the accident prone new hire had noticed it when he'd wiped the tables last. She experimentally scratched it with her nail. It was crayon, it seemed. She smirked.
Jonah had to go and get himself killed. She might have been able to go on, without ever hearing about him again, or knowing how his death would affect her, but he just couldn't go quietly. They'd be discussing his death like a front page story, just as it was to her, but even though she was as removed as they were, her name would be attached. It wasn't fair.
She rolled the glass between her fingers, dwelling on the very thing she'd been trying to avoid all evening, hating Jonah for making her think about him. This wasn't really any different than last night, or the night before, or any of the other nights she hadn't known Jonah had been killed. There would be no real difference in her life, but it was an ending, nonetheless.
She realized that she couldn't hear her friends arguing anymore, as the opening bars of another song started. She groaned as she recognized them instantly.
Kenchy came over, grinning from ear to ear. “Thought this one suited you.”
“Did she not tell you, I banned that song?” she asked, looking accusingly over at Mary.
Mary shrugged. “I thought the time was up on that.”
Mary's father had been a huge Simon and Garfunkel fan, and everyone and their brother had tried to dedicate For Emily, Whenever I may Find Her to the girl with the titular name whenever they'd been out for drinks. She remembered begging the bartender to stop Stanley, Jake, Roger, and even Heather from playing it. After a lot of good natured teasing, most of them had tired of it themselves.
“I guess,” she said, scowling at the both of them.
“You know, I haven't heard this song in a long time,” said Mary, hugging her arms to her. “My dad-”
“Loved it, I know,” said Emily.
Seeing the way her friends both stood, smiles on their faces, swaying gently to the music (at least in Mary's case), annoyed her. Annoyed her, but brought her an inexplicable feeling of calm. She slid the bottle of whisky towards herself and started pouring into the two empty shot glasses. “Look, sit down, you guys. Here, Mary.” She slid Mary's still untouched whisky towards her. Her friends both sat on the bench opposite her, taking the glasses in front of them. “I still don't want to make this into a wake, or anything, but I'm going to do a toast, okay?”
Taking a deep breath, she held up her glass. “To- to the people who came before us. Went before us. May we hold onto whatever it is they gave us, and may they rest in peace.”
“Rest in peace,” echoed Kenchy as the three of them clinked their glasses in the centre of the table. There was silence as they each threw back a shot of whisky, then the sounds of three glasses hitting the table.
“I'm going to pick the next song,” she said, standing quickly and crossing the room.
She glanced over her shoulder again. Kenchy was leaning his head in his arms, thinking she wasn't watching him. Trying to hide the toll the hours he always kept at the clinic took. Mary was bringing something to another customer, unconsciously moving to the beat of the music.
She looked down at the jukebox again; her old familiar favourites, all arranged in rows. They'd be there tomorrow night too. That was enough for now.