All the Lonely People

by Jen Marie Hawkins

I meander over to Blackfriar’s Crow, killing time before my afternoon shift at Fox Den.

  The pub looks different in full daylight. I press my forehead against the glass, straining to see. This time, the chairs are stacked and the lights are out. The place is a shell of what it was the other night. I cup my hands to block the glare on the glass, and they slide through the morning dew gathered there. My Switcheroo bags slide down to my elbows.

  At the very back of the room, a small stage and microphone stand are tucked away. It’s so dark I can barely make it out, but from here it looks exactly like the stage in my dream.

  “Closed till lunchtime, love.”

  I whirl toward the voice. An older man with a mouthful of tall teeth grins widely at me. The morning brightens around him as my eyes adjust.

  “You a singer?” His keys jangle against the glass as he unlocks the door.

  “What?” I sway, a little dizzy from the onslaught of sunlight after staring through the dark. “No. Yes. Why?”

  “What a strange answer.” He laughs. “You look the part.”

  “Uh. Okay.” I shrink back to leave.

  “Open mic is Saturday.” He calls as he steps in the door. “If you decide you’re a singer before then, please do come by.”

  I’m halfway down the block before it occurs to me that he may have known Pop. I stop and do a dance of indecision. He invited me to sing. In a place that looks like the setting from my dream. A swarm of shivers chase each other down my arms.

  What if I’m supposed to sing there Saturday night? I’d only have three days to learn how to play Eleanor Rigby on Patrick’s guitar. Pretty much impossible, since I only know how to play one song fluently (Let It Be), and it wasn’t that song in the dream. I swallow and start walking again, resolve growing with every step.

  If Pop insists on laying breadcrumbs right at my feet, I’d be an idiot to ignore them.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  : It Won’t Be Long :

  ACCORDING TO MY school guidance counselor, I have a few requirements to fill to get class credit for my five weeks abroad, which will allow me to skip a senior year elective: A hundred hours of community service, which I’ll accomplish by volunteering in the record store. Then I have subject-specific tasks to complete, depending on which elective I want to skip.

  Of the list, Photography seems like the easiest throwaway class. I’ll have to assemble a photo project documenting my time here using each of the various techniques outlined in the syllabus at least once, with thoughtful captions for each. I’ll have to do some research to get it right, but it seems a far cry easier than some of the other electives. If I’d chosen Business Law, for example, I’d have to create my own fictional organization set in London and write a business plan for it, then write a long essay explaining how it differs from United States business practices. Hard pass.

  It’s almost too easy to take pictures. I was going to do that anyway. And by Friday morning of my first week in London, I’m feeling pretty confident the community service portion will be a breeze too. In a week’s time, I’ve learned the ins and outs of Fox Den with no problems.

  Well, no problems except Henry.

  “Do you plan to play guitar until midnight every night?” he asks, chomping a piece of candy like he has to kill it first. I continue sorting albums by genre, faking indifference better than Ringo.

  “Only if it displeases his majesty,” I say in my best fake British accent, because I know it irritates him when I do that. We’ve fallen into this routine where he says something snarky, and then I reply with something equally snarky and/or borderline insulting. He smirks. I smirk. We go back to ignoring each other. I don’t know if this is camaraderie or if he actually hates my guts.

  My mental inventory of Henry so far: he smokes, but never smells like smoke. He eats peppermint candy like he’s trying to piss off his dentist. When we aren’t busy with customers, he reads weird scientific-looking books with diagrams of molecules on the front, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s smart, or if it’s because he wants people to think he’s smart.

  Felix perches at Henry’s feet. His tail makes swishy brushstrokes in the air, waiting patiently for a head pat. Henry tosses his book—The World of Quantum Mechanics—under the counter and steps over him like he’s not even there.

  I mentally add doesn’t like animals to the ledger of treachery.

  Felix trots over and does a figure eight through my ankles, looking up at me with a plea. Pet me. Unlike Henry, I stoop to pet his soft fur. At least I know Felix’s intentions.

  “That song isn’t really meant for guitar.” Henry climbs a step ladder to replace a top shelf rock biography a customer decided against. The graphic on the back of his t-shirt has multicolored intersecting lines with block letters that say Everyone Wants To Get Ley’d. I squint, contemplating the spelling, when he turns to me. “Wasn’t it originally written on piano?”

  Okay, so I don’t remember what instrument Sir Paul used when he wrote it. I feel my face crumple like a ball of paper around my reply. “None of the Beatles played an instrument on the final version. It was an orchestra ensemble.”

  He pauses, one foot dangling midair next to the top step.

  “Sometimes a song is ruined when you tinker with the arrangement.”

  “A string octet, to be specific,” I add to my earlier thought. But I don’t know where to get one of those, and besides—I played it on guitar in the dream. If he can tell what song it is, maybe I don’t suck as badly as I thought.

  “You’re a Beatles fan, then.” Henry says this in his sarcastic voice—the one he might as well trademark. Like my knowledge of the string octet is the first definitive piece of evidence that I’m maybe, perhaps, someone who enjoys the greatest band of all time. The Help! thrift store t-shirt I’m wearing notwithstanding.

  “I mean, isn’t everyone?” I give Felix a parting pat and resume alphabetizing the albums I’ve sorted into genres. “My pop used to say that anyone who claims he isn’t a Beatles fan is either a liar or an asshole.”

  Henry hops off the ladder and crosses his arms. “Interesting.” But he says it in a way that makes it sound like he isn’t interested at all. “I’m really not much of a fan myself.”

  I’ve been telling myself I won’t react, no matter what he says. Heat pulses in my cheeks and I narrow my eyes. I asked George if he’d heard of Walrus Gumboot at dinner. He hadn’t. Which disappointed me, of course. And also made me wonder how good he could be at his job, since he has a festival poster with their name on it hanging in his store, totally unawares. Henry was sitting right there for the whole conversation. Not participating, but listening. This is an intentional jab. He knows what he’s doing.

  He smirks and turns away, probably mentally collecting his trophy.

  “Oh yeah?” I forget my manners. “Then which one are you? Liar? Or asshole?”

  “I’m more of a Stones fan,” he says. He glances back at me, purses his lips around a shit-eating grin, and whistles the tune to Gimme Shelter.

  Asshole then. Clearly.

  “Your shirt is obnoxious,” I mutter, even though I don’t know what it means.

  “It’s great,” he says.

  I glare at him, hoping I convey exactly how uninterested I am in his opinion on getting laid. Ley’d. Whatever.

  “It’s referring to ley lines, just so you know.” He grins again. “Friend of mine gave it to me as a joke.”

  I roll my eyes and wander off to the other side of the store so I can google “ley lines” on my phone without being caught.

  Maybe working alongside him for a hundred hours will be more of a challenge than originally anticipated.

  Chapter 12

  : Long and Winding Road :

  ON FRIDAY EVENING, I get a taste of the strange, angsty dynamic between George and Henry.

  “You know the first Friday night is trivia night,” George tells Henry with a huff. “I don’t know why you’d schedule a sessi
on during that time.”

  As I tidy up some of the front shelves before close, I peek into George’s office, where Henry leans against the wall with his arms crossed, pissy stance turned up to eleven.

  “I wasn’t aware my presence was required,” Henry snarks.

  “You know I’d like for you to be here,” George says, a little more quietly. “I thought we could all have tea afterwards. Your support is important.”

  “I’ve already told you my support is heavily dependent on your honesty.”

  George flexes his jaw, and at that moment, he looks over and sees me standing there, record in hand, eavesdropping.

  I quickly put the record down and scurry away like the nosy little rat I am.

  “Jo, could you come in here?” George calls.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and count to three before I walk back over to the doorway of the office.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re coming to trivia night tonight, yes?”

  I stare at him, mouth agape. I certainly hadn’t planned on it, even though he brought it up multiple times over the past few days. People from the community (especially young people!) come to show off their music knowledge. The winner gets a free album of his or her choice. Everyone eats pizza.

  “Actually, no,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  I hate the way disappointment draws the corners of George’s face. He’s such a nice guy and I hate disappointing people. It makes it worse that Henry just shot him down. I don’t come right out and tell him Trivia with strangers is not really my speed. And he doesn’t come right out and say Fine, but I’m going to tell your mother about your antisocial behavior.

  Henry smirks at me as he exits the office and jogs up the stairs. I give him a side eye to slice him in half as he goes.

  “Henry isn’t coming, if that’s why you aren’t…” George bites off the end of his sentence. My brows furrow. We play nice when George is around, but he’s been holed up in his office the past couple of days. “He won’t be there,” he says again. “His sessions normally take a few hours and it’ll be over by the time he gets back.”

  “That isn’t why. I just… I’m reading a really good book and want to finish it,” I lie. Lexie’s romance novels are pretty predictable. So far a cowboy has taken off his shirt, built a fence, and sprung a boner. The main female character knows nothing about boners but is interested in learning.

  “Well, at least come and get some pizza.”

  “I’m not hungry right now.” Or ever. “But I might be later.”

  George smiles at me. “Brilliant.”

  Upstairs, I plop down on Patrick’s bed and stare at the ceiling. I hate myself for it, but my brain moseys on over to the Forest of Curiosity and digs up what George said about Henry. His sessions. What kind of session? My initial thought is therapy, because if anyone could benefit from therapy, it’s Henry.

  I pull out my phone and check for notifications. No calls. No texts. I scroll through and stare at my mother’s contact information. Her email left things in an uncomfortable place, and she’s been calling my bluff on calling her bluff.

  One of us has to be the adult here. I dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. I send her a text instead of leaving a message. Several minutes go by as I listen to the sounds coming from downstairs. Chairs moving. Laughter. A faint rhythm on the turntable. My phone dings.

  What?! I bolt upright. She’s at my favorite hiking spot with my two best friends, my boyfriend, and the nice British brother. Without me. Not to be a total juvenile about this or anything—I know the plan has always been to introduce Patrick to my friends, to fully immerse him in the outdoor culture of western North Carolina. That’s kind of the entire point of this summer exchange deal. Now that it’s happening, though, it chafes.

  Meanwhile, I’m here alone in Patrick’s empty room, no closer to finding Pop than I was when I left Asheville. And other than the interrupted dream I had my first night here, my most exciting moments have been trading belligerent quips with someone I don’t even particularly like.

  Screw this. I grab the urn off the desk and put it in my backpack along with my wallet, then shuffle it onto my back and head downstairs. It’s Friday night and there’s a whole city beyond these doors that might hold clues about Pop.

  * * *

  : : : : :

  * * *

  I’m five blocks away when I see it.

  Through the years, I’ve read Pop’s last letter so many times that I have it memorized. I can close my eyes and see exactly where the pages are creased, where the ink is blotted from stray tears. I remember where the stress marks in his writing are… the way he leaned heavily on the pen when he looped his y’s with finality. I see the words so clearly—Menier Chocolate Factory—with the thick ink line on the y.

  I stare up at the sign in real time now, pull out my phone, and snap a picture of it.

  Caption: wish you were here

  I’ve seen this place on the internet many times, and in my head many more, but it isn’t the magic aha I was hoping for when I step inside. Though there’s a purr of festive energy from the folks seated around the dining tables, a draft blows through the space.

  “One?” The maître d' asks.

  I opt for takeaway, and she points me to the bar, where I order a brownie to go. As I wait, I listen to forks clinking against plates. Ice cubes rattling in glasses. Lively conversation. I wait for him to speak to me. To tell me what to do. But the voice doesn’t come. There’s life all around, but it doesn’t reach me.

  This is how it feels before the medication completely wears off—it’s like being stranded on an island in plain sight. Close enough to watch the party on the mainland, but far enough away that I can’t participate. I wonder sometimes if Pop felt like this. Maybe he wanted off the island.

  But why would he have sent me a letter, promising to bring me to London, if he wanted to die? I know what happened was an accident. Mama knows it was an accident. But the insurance company says it wasn’t.

  A waitress taps me on the shoulder and hands me my order with a smile.

  I thank her and leave, walking until I run out of sidewalk. I stop at the Riverfront.

  From here, Tower Bridge is a beacon. A million tiny lights illuminate it against the dark sky. The glass-bottomed top level that Pop promised me we’d dance on is closed for the evening, but it glows hopefully in its emptiness. Feet will grace it again tomorrow.

  I sit on the concrete ledge next to the water and pull the urn out and set it beside me. I poke at the brownie with a plastic fork. That last letter wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned these legendary brownies. I take a bite—velvety rich. No wonder it was one of his favorites. I set the take-out container on the ledge next to the urn.

  “You can have the rest,” I say.

  I remember pulling the letter out of our mailbox cubby in the cul-de-sac and sinking to the ground when I saw the handwriting. I opened it and read it right there. I’d been in robot mode until then, but reading his words fortified my denial. He wouldn’t make a promise and then die. He just wouldn’t.

  His ashes arrived only days later.

  I wanted to call the insurance company myself so many times and read them the letter as proof that he didn’t take his own life. But it was his last correspondence, the last piece of him I had. I didn’t want to share it. So I folded it up, put it in my wallet, and didn’t tell a soul about it. Not even Mama.

  I might have told her—if she hadn’t deleted all traces of him from my email. Back then, she had my password and checked behind me for safety. One day, all of his messages disappeared. She blamed it on the email settings, but I’m not stupid. A couple of weeks before they disappeared, she told me it was unhealthy to reread them so much. She still doesn’t know about the letter.

  “Should I tell her, Pop? Or have I waited too long?”

  He doesn’t answer, but the light from the bridge dances on the surface of the Thames. The light mist turns into a
more formidable rain. Chills scamper up my arms. He’s here with me, if only for these tiny moments I acknowledge how much of him I carry in my heart.

  Tiny moments are all I can handle, if I intend to keep myself together.

  I snap a picture of the drizzly reflection on the water.

  Caption: light and dark

  Raindrops collect on the surface of the urn, so I pick it up to put it back in my dry backpack. But it’s so slick, it slips right out of my hands—tumbling end over end, bouncing off the steep sloping bank beneath my feet, and splashing into the Thames, ten feet below.

  I don’t think. I just jump.

  Chapter 13

  : I’m a Loser :

  WHEN I WAS eight, we took a family vacation to the Outer Banks. Pop and I waded out to where the waves were breaking. My boogie board—a bright yellow one with blue and orange hibiscus flowers—was tethered to my ankle. The waves got bigger and bigger as we got closer to the breaking point. Fear filled every crack in my eight-year-old resolve, but I wanted Pop to think I was brave. When it crashes, he said, start kicking. Kick as hard as you can. I nodded. Don’t be afraid. The board will keep you afloat. I nodded again.

  But then there was a lull. The waves relaxed for a bit and broke beyond us, rather than behind us. We watched birds and boats and people closer to the shore. We floated over the swells, losing our original position. Hey Pop, I asked, peering into the murky water below me. How come the ocean isn’t blue like it looks on TV?

  Before he could answer, I saw the reflection in his eyes: a massive whitecap crashing on the water behind us.

  Kic—

  The force of it rolled me. My nose, mouth, and ears filled with stinging, burning salt. A smear of drab colors stabbed and scraped at my eyes. I couldn’t close them against the pain. I flailed my arms and kicked as hard as I could, just like he said, but the tether attached to my left ankle jerked me around below the surface like a piece of driftwood. I fought hard as my lungs starved for air. Kicking, spinning, clawing. I couldn’t find the surface. I spun helplessly in the muck of a decidedly-not-blue ocean until I realized my time was up and there was nothing I could do. A strange sort of calm settled over me and I stopped fighting.