by Alex Wellen
The ring may be the wrong size, but between the lighting, the brilliance of the stone, and the startling contrast against her tan skin, it most certainly is the right fit.
“I LOVE you,” she reminds me as if there’s a chance I’ve forgotten. I pull out of the Clos du Bois compound, our third and final winery. Her eyes are fixed on the dirt road.
“Then I love you, too,” I kid as we turn onto the main thoroughfare.
We’re both a little tipsy. Paige is somewhere else. In the last fifteen hours, I’ve lost track of the number of ILYs exchanged back and forth, but now that we’re engaged, it seems silly to count.
“Everything is changing,” she says with mixed emotion.
We pass a bunch of lazy cows lounging in a grassy field. If they’re lying down, is that a sign it will or won’t rain? I can’t recall. The looming clouds confirm my suspicions.
“I wish you could have met my mother,” she tells me.
Lydia died of leukemia nine months before I returned to Crockett.
“Me, too,” I tell her, but my answer only seems to make her feel worse.
“She was so funny.” Paige turns to me and chortles, “She would have loved you.”
I just nod. But Lydia wouldn’t have liked me at all. Unbeknownst to Paige, Lydia wrote me off as a hooligan years ago. A bubble-gum-stealing goon. I wish Lydia were still alive. I wish Paige had given me a proper introduction; then I could have apologized and won her over. I was young and foolish then, I would tell her. Bunky was a bad influence. Do you know his current rap sheet is this long? Gregory has no right to withhold his blessing, but if Lydia were alive today, she would.
Then, as if it’s just occurred to her, Paige says, thrilled and slightly anxious all at once, “I’m going to be your wife. You’re going to be my husband. My husband! That sounds so weird.”
“We’re a team,” I explain.
Hearing this makes her happy. I should say things like this to her more often. Five minutes pass silently before either of us speaks again.
“You’re my best friend, Andy.”
I’m touched. I privately award her points. We’re headed back to reality, back to Crockett, where the weather forecast is gloomy with a high likelihood of shit storm. Whatever happens in the next twenty-four hours, I want her to promise me that she’ll feel the same way afterward.
It’s getting late. We’re both a little drunk. We need to head home. I’m sure Gregory’s already starting to worry. I turn down a dirt road.
“So you’re up for one more?” she asks, surprised.
The entrance to the vineyard is quickly approaching on the left, but I take a hard right, and park fifty yards away underneath a large oak tree. Then I stick the sun reflector in the front windshield, flip on the CD player, and awkwardly climb into the backseat. Paige takes my hand and joins me.
“We need to sober up,” I tell her in between kisses up and down her neck.
We pull off each other’s clothing, multiple layers at a time, until were both naked. I love her. And I love wine country.
CHAPTER 13
Time Constraints
THE phone rings twice and each time I expect it to be Paige crying hysterically because Gregory’s spilled the beans. But alas, both calls are from Sid, who wants the real scoop on how everything went down. I’m screening calls. Each time his digits appear on the display I let it go to voice mail. I’ll patch things up with Gregory. Then I’ll deal with Sid.
I hate the thought of Paige and Gregory together right now. I seriously doubt Gregory is capable of perpetuating this charade. I want Paige to call every five minutes and confirm that everything is status quo. I would call, but I can’t risk getting Gregory—the slightest provocation might set him off.
I am out of control. I’m exhausted. I’m wired. I need something to occupy my mind. I check my watch. It’s midnight. I have an idea for an invention, but I’ll need some special software to draw it properly. I find a trial version you can download for free off the Web and work into the wee hours. Sid is going to love this. At some point, I drift off to sleep.
When my clock sounds at 7:00 A.M., I nearly fall off my chair. Touching my face, I feel the slight indentations across my left cheek from the keyboard. Untold volumes of drool lay between the keys.
It’s pouring outside. If it rains twice a summer in Crockett, that’s a lot, and because we live below the snow line, we haven’t seen snow in over a century.
I’m not accustomed to being the first at work, and by some great miracle, I manage to remember the alarm code on the third and final try. I use the quiet time to fill some new scripts and rework mine:
“You have every reason to be angry and I’m sorry,” I’ll begin. He’ll be expecting a magnitude 5.0 or 6.0 and the apology will take him off guard. At that point, I need to say things that make it utterly clear there is no undoing this. So what do you think of the engagement ring? My parents can’t wait to see you again. Sid is so happy for us. Paige will make such a beautiful bride. I’m a lucky man. It’s big of you to forgive me. You’re handsome. Nice tie.
The bell on the front door jingles and my heart skips a beat. But it’s only Belinda. She shakes off her umbrella, jams it in the nearby pail, and then asks me about my trip to wine country. She mustn’t know that Paige and I are engaged; I can’t have Belinda congratulating Gregory before he even sets foot through the door—or maybe she should.
For the first time, in all the time that I’ve worked here, Gregory is late, by at least twenty minutes, and Belinda and I are beginning to worry. She tries him at home, but there’s no answer. We make a collective decision to open the pharmacy for business. By now, my stomach is doing somersaults. Somehow I’m responsible.
Forty-five minutes later and still no Gregory. I can’t take it. I call Paige and leave a cryptic message. As I hang up the phone, Gregory walks in. He’s dripping wet. Wheezing and coughing, he ignores Belinda’s concerned questions, and heads straight for the storeroom. I try to make eye contact with him, but he won’t have it. The temperature in the room drops forty degrees.
I can’t take the anxiety. I poke my head in the back room.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He flashes me a look to kill, his eyes watering more than usual, or maybe it’s the rain. He awkwardly peels off his wet baby blue windbreaker.
“What do you say you give me a sec?” he asks sternly, frustrated, shaking, barely catching his breath.
He pats his eyes and forehead with a handkerchief.
“Sure, sure, you got it. No worries,” I say as cheerily as possible.
I hesitate briefly before leaving. Let me start off by saying that you have every reason to be angry with me … But the words don’t come.
“Where is my future husband?” she shouts. Oh God.
I pop my head back out onto the pharmacy floor. But it’s only Ruth Mulrooney. She’s been calling me her boyfriend from the moment we met. The eighty-year-old Crockett socialite and real estate tycoon is impeccably dressed in a long pink raincoat. With shiny white latex nails, she daintily pulls the plastic rain bonnet from her head. Her hair is dyed sherbet orange.
I compliment her scarf—it’s green paisley and I tell her that it brings out the hazel in her eyes. Ruth coos. My wedding news could end up hitting Ruth the hardest. I’ll let her down easy, but another day.
“That daughter of yours sure is lucky to have landed this catch,” she reminds Gregory as he enters from the back room, buttoning up his long white coat.
Gregory shoots me a look. It’s uncanny how people can say the kindest things at the most inopportune times. I hand Ruth her antiaging drugs—anticholesterol pills and antidepressants.
Earlier this year, Ruth buried her third husband, Harold. Her first, Joseph, was killed in World War II. Her second, Samuel Mulrooney, died of a stroke thirty-five years ago. Then there was Harold S. Warner, husband number three. Before he died, Warner was considered Crockett’s wealthiest resident. Now Ruth is. Warne
r Construction is known throughout the Bay Area. Harold invested all of his construction money in real estate. Among the properties Ruth Mulrooney inherited: Ollie’s Auto Shop, the Carquinez Manor retirement home, and a block of unused warehouses originally owned and operated by C & H Sugar. Ruth is fond of saying Harold died in bed, but not peacefully and not in his sleep.
“Too much,” she complains, studying the contents of one of the bottles through cat-eye reading glasses.
I tell her that a thirty-day supply is minimum. “You don’t have to wait a full month before visiting us again,” I reassure her. Ruth is among the pharmacy’s many do-drop-ins, something Gregory encourages.
I come out from behind the counter to escort Ruth to the front door. She hooks her arm around mine and squeezes it tightly. At the register, Ruth pays in cash. She always pays in cash. Then I give her a kiss on the cheek, pop open her umbrella for her, and send Ruth on her merry way.
Gregory’s “big talk” never happens. In fact, Gregory doesn’t speak to anyone all morning, just grunting and gesturing. I finally work up the nerve to ask him whether he can talk, but he pretends to ignore me. After Gregory refuses to acknowledge the question a second time, I decide that he is no longer entitled to my apology. Who cares why he originally asked me to wait. He’s right: I am going to fix this. I’ve decided that after work I’ll end the misery, drain him of all his power, and come clean to Paige. Then what are you going to do, Gregory?
By lunchtime, I’m ready to break down and beg him for forgiveness.
It’s a welcome relief when I see Sid and Loki walk through the front door. I run over to Sid like a Death Row inmate: Any word from the governor?
I’m flattered—he’s using that stupid dog umbrella I invented a few months back.
“It still needs improvement. I’m sort of sorry we PMPed it so fast,” he adds, clumsily folding the contraption up and jamming it in the umbrella bucket.
“You look good, Sid,” I say, flattening out his raincoat. Help me.
Sid knocks away my hands. Loki races up and down Aisle Three.
“You can’t bring that animal in here.” It’s the first thing Gregory’s said in hours.
“But Sid’s potty trained,” I remind Gregory.
Sid raises his fists and silently cheers good one.
Gregory is nonplussed.
“This is a place of business,” Gregory demands, raising his voice. “No dogs!”
“Come on, G-man, why the long face?” Sid chirps. “Your daughter is getting married. You’re about to gain a son-in-law!”
Gregory shakes his head in disgust. The ground begins to shake.
“It’s not sanitary to distribute medication around pets,” Gregory yells in between coughs. “All I need is someone tripping over that creature.”
We both look at Loki, then at each other, and then back to Gregory.
“Seriously?” Sid and I ask in unison.
“OUT!” Gregory yells at the tiny pooch, startling a customer one aisle over and sending himself into a total hacking fit.
Gregory tries to hold his mouth closed to muffle the coughs. Then he pats down his lab coat for an inhaler, but can’t find it. Once he catches his breath on his own, he goes back to crushing pills with his mortar and pestle.
Sid and I know better than to antagonize him further. Sid picks up Loki, who is terrified, and we move the conversation a few feet down Aisle Three.
“What’s going on here?” Sid whispers.
“It’s complicated,” I whisper back. I’m convinced Gregory can still hear us.
Sid studies me stone-faced while Loki licks his cheek. I wish we could step outside, but it’s still pouring.
“Please, Sid, just talk about something else. Anything.”
“Okay. I’ve been giving your bladeless windshield wipers concept some more thought,” he replies at normal speaking volume. “I’m not convinced we can get those jet streams blowing hard enough to clear away heavy snow or mud.”
I stop him. “I’ve come up with something even better,” I tell him. “Do you have the time?”
“Time for what?”
“No, what time do you have?” I ask, tapping my wristwatch.
This prompts a peculiar look. Check for yourself. He hesitantly plays along. Sid awkwardly hands me Loki, pulls up his sleeve, and squints to read his Timex.
“Three … no four-fifteen,” he says.
I place Loki on the floor and unfold a piece of paper from my back pocket.
Sid has become conditioned to worry when I do this. I hand him the technical drawing I spent all night drafting.
“I call it a ‘tactile timepiece,’” I say proudly.
Gregory clears his throat. If he has something to say, I wish he’d just say it. His nonverbal signs are driving me crazy.
Sid is intrigued. He traces the lines with his finger.
“Study the diagram and tell me what time it displays.”
Sid’s eyes dart around the picture. “Twelve o’clock,” he concludes.
“Yes. The digits in the middle represent the hours. But what about the minutes?”
Gregory starts coughing again. I brace myself for the yelling.
Sid studies the drawing. “A quarter to one!” he cries like eureka.
“Nice!” I scream, smacking him smartly in the chest with the back of my hand. “The hour is big so you can read it with your eyes or your fingers. All you have to do is rub your thumb over the raised numerals.”
“And the minutes are represented by elevated markers at each quadrant around the circumference,” Sid determines. “North, south, east, and in this case, west, representing forty-five minutes.”
“Like a compass,” I cheer.
“Hmpf. But don’t Braille watches already exist?”
“They do, but that’s the beauty of this timepiece, it works for the sighted as well as the visually impaired, and requires no special training whatsoever. Business meetings that go long, dates that stretch on for eternity, now you can reach under the table and surreptitiously check the time with your fingertips.”
“Not bad,” he admits.
“I’ve even got a slogan. Ready for this? ‘The Touch Ticker: Changing the Face of Time.’”
Sid rubs his chin and studies the drawing some more.
The crash is loud and sudden. Sid and I cringe as if someone has botched up that trick where you pull a tablecloth from underneath six place settings. Chunks of glass and pills glide across the floor and come to a sudden stop.
Has Gregory snapped? Oh man, where’s Loki?
No one is standing behind the pharmacy counter. I call out to Gregory, but there is no answer. I rush over, smashing open the saloon doors and leaping to the raised platform. Gregory is on the floor, eyes shut, his vintage porcelain mortar and pestle shattered to bits. White powder is everywhere.
I yell out to Belinda, “Call 911!”
“I’m on it,” she screams back.
Sid is crouching next to me now.
“Is he breathing?” Sid asks anxiously.
“I can’t tell.” He’s gasping, I think. “Sid, go to the end of the aisle right behind you, second shelf from the bottom. I need one of the inhalers labeled ‘ipratropium bromide.’”
Sid springs into action. Once he’s back there, he needs me to repeat the name of the medication. My mind is racing. I took a beginner’s first aid course three years ago. It included the basics on nutrition, fractures, burns, and the Heimlich maneuver. We worked on dummies. I’ve never attempted to save anyone’s life.
The color has drained from Gregory’s doughy cheeks. He’s perspiring. I gently sit Gregory up and pat him on the back—maybe this will clear his throat. I listen for breathing.
“Please, Gregory, come through this,” I beg him.
Belinda rushes over.
I gently lower him, tipping his head back, and try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing, but I’m blowing air, pumping his chest, and c
ounting. Sid uses my tactile timepiece drawing to cradle a heaping pile of inhalers. He drops everything next to us.
“Tell me what to do,” I ask Sid urgently.
“An ambulance should be here any moment now,” Belinda yells.
“Just hang tight, kiddo. Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Sid says.
Only then do I realize that I’m crying.
“He’s going to be fine, Andy,” Sid promises.
I wring my hands.
“I’m sorry, Gregory,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry.”
CHAPTER 14
Cold, Hard Numbers
GREGORY died.
I still can’t believe it.
The ambulance arrived two hours later. (Sid tells me it was more like ten minutes.) Brandon Mills, Gregory’s primary physician, says it was a massive coronary due to chronic emphysema. At a loss for air, Gregory’s heart gave out. He never made it to the hospital. Mills assures us Gregory didn’t suffer, but this is something doctors always say. I killed Gregory.
In the waiting room of the Veterans Affairs Hospital, Lara pressed Mills for more answers. Most of Gregory’s medical problems were irreversible, Mills told us. Gregory relied heavily on quick fixes. He used medicated inhalers when oxygen therapy was called for. Paige tried, but the Mayor of Pomona Street had too much pride to cart around a tank of oxygen. Even at home, getting Gregory strapped in was a feat. The few times he did capitulate to Paige’s pleas, I was always refused admission to the house. Daddy needs his privacy, Paige would tell me, closing the front door behind her. The only person who ever managed to convince Gregory to really take care of himself was Lydia.
Losing Gregory is the most awful thing that has ever happened. People say time heals all wounds, but it’s hard to imagine that happening in our lifetimes. Nothing will ever be the same. Inserting arbitrary words into a live television newscast, pretend arguing, burning clothes, awarding points, singing Chewbacca—nothing will be funny again.
