The Coward

by Jarred McGinnis

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to take you?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

  52

  The Italian restaurant gave up after a couple of missed shifts. I felt sorry for myself at how quickly they gave up and I never picked up my last pay cheque. I sat in the house and thought about Jack, daring myself to dial his number, hear the three rings and that rumbling voice say, ‘Hello, Jack McGinnis.’ If I had, I wouldn’t have been paralysed and Melissa would still have been alive. Instead she had posted some photos and by the look of them she was in town and at a swanky hotel downtown.

  I saw her walking along the sidewalk, doe-legged and ignoring every man who tried to catch her flitting sparrow’s eyes. I knew that walk, the confidence and those eyes. After a dozen years, her precocious confidence had steeped into every movement. It suited her.

  I called out and, when she recognised me, her eyes lit up. We hugged tightly, and the familiarity of her was immediate.

  ‘Do you still live here?’ Melissa asked.

  ‘Well, I . . .’ I stumbled. ‘I moved back recently. You?’ ‘God, no. I’m here to just . . .’ She pulled away and a sad look flitted across her face. The commuters and down-town shoppers flowed around us. ‘It looks like I’m here to see old friends.’

  I was a boy again and within her power. ‘Man, the last time I saw you—’

  ‘The last time you were setting fire to my house.’

  ‘A tree behind your house and it was more a bush than a tree really.’ I laughed. ‘You look fantastic. Do you want to get a drink? Let’s get a drink. I was just heading across the street.’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m trying to behave these days.’

  ‘Really? You, behave? Let me treat you. I make a mean Shirley Temple.’ I pointed at a bar across the street.

  ‘It looks like a dump.’

  ‘The marketing team prefers the term bijou.’

  ‘Is that your bar?’ She waved a hand dismissively at the blacked-out window with a Bud Light neon sign.

  ‘Let me show you around.’ I gave her a wink. I didn’t know why I was lying about owning a bar.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Let’s get a coffee then,’ I offered, pointing to the Starbucks behind us where I had staked out her hotel.

  We talked, but mainly about her. There was world-weariness. She had known she was destined for better things, but what she had found or how she found it had disappointed her. I let her believe I was content with my done-nothing life. There was never any pretence that I would do anything. She seemed to envy that. I was free. Bellboys and executives didn’t treat me like a piece of ass. My friends weren’t shallow and ignorant. I wasn’t married to a rich-boy cokehead whom I didn’t love. Most of all, I didn’t follow in my mother’s footsteps.

  ‘He comes from a very traditional family. Traditional and rich. Total fucking playboy though. He lives these two worlds. Wants to be a good little Muslim, but then he met me at a strip club. I wasn’t a dancer by the way. He wants kids. I don’t want kids.’

  ‘What’s your last name?’ I asked, making sure the information I knew from my internet snooping and what she had told me herself was the same lest I accidentally reveal that I’d been creeping on her for months.

  ‘Al-Thani.’

  ‘Melissa Anne Al-Thani.’ I laughed.

  ‘My god. I forgot you’re probably the only person who knows my middle name besides my mother. My friends now would freak out if they knew I had such a hick middle name. I don’t even think my husband knows my middle name, but then again, he doesn’t care.’

  She took a small bunch of hair and put it in her mouth. ‘I met a friend of yours,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fritz.’

  ‘No way. How did you meet him?’

  ‘I was organising parties. That’s how I met Frank too.’

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘Frank Al-Thani?’

  ‘That’s what Farooq calls himself.’

  ‘Farooq?’ I knew his name already. I knew he was in finance and worked with his four brothers in his dad’s company. He was often travelling for work and Melissa usually went with him.

  ‘Anyway!’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Fritz was DJing. We became good friends. I had just started dating Frank but had told him to fuck off, because he was having a hard time, you know, not fucking strippers.’

  ‘It’s a challenge for some.’

  She stacked our empty coffee cups as she talked. She never took notice of the men going past and stealing glances at her.

  ‘He was begging me to come back. I made him fly Fritz and me all over the world for gigs. Eventually I went back to Frank. I stopped hanging out with Fritz shortly after to be a better wife. So pathetic.’

  ‘That’s not the Melissa I remember. You didn’t take shit from boys.’

  ‘I didn’t take shit from boys like you, but your family doesn’t have their own jet.’

  ‘You’re right. That is pathetic.’

  ‘Touché.’ She looked at her phone. ‘Speak of the devil.’ She straightened up. Her voice switched to a cold, business-like tone, and I realised we had been talking to each other like when we were kids. The way she had moved, how she had touched her hair, her slouch, all came from that past.

  ‘What? I’m at a coffee shop with a girlfriend . . . Tracy. Does it matter? . . . No, I don’t want to tonight . . . No . . . I’m not in the mood . . . Frank . . . I’ll see you at the hotel later . . . Fine. Bye.’

  ‘Do you have to leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to go back to the bar? We can hang out in my office.’

  The bar was almost empty, and no one noticed us march to the back, which was little more than a storeroom for crates of beer, liquor bottles and kegs. There was a rickety office chair with one wheel gaffer-taped on. An old Mustang hubcap serving as an ashtray rested on top of a small fridge full of beers.

  I opened a beer and handed it to Melissa, who hesitated before taking it, and opened one for myself. On a beer-stained and cigarette-burned couch slumped against a shelf of bottles, I laughed at Melissa’s disgust before laying down a bar towel for her to sit on.

  ‘So, wait, how did you figure out you and Fritz knew me?’ I ask.

  She brought her feet up onto the couch and gave my shoulder a playful shove with the toe of her shoe. I slipped off the heels and put her feet in my lap.

  ‘When we first started hanging out, we were trading stories about ex-boyfriends. I told him about you and all the dumb stuff we did together. Oh my god, we used to shoplift like every day.’

  Hearing her reminisce, I couldn’t help grinning.

  ‘Fritz said he met a Jarred after his mom put him in rehab the first time. This town is smaller than you think. We put two and two together. We totally freaked out when we figured out it was the same Jarred. Our first love was the same crazy kid Jarred. It was nice. You were a connection we shared.’

  ‘The way I remember it, you dumped me and he abandoned me in Denver.’

  ‘Oh, that feels nice,’ she said as I massaged her foot. ‘He felt bad about that. He realised how silly he was being with you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were straight. He wasn’t.’

  ‘He was there when I needed him. I’ll always appreciate that.’

  She looked me in the eyes. ‘He told me about your fucked-up dad and how your mom died. I’m sorry.’

  I looked away and took a long pull on my beer.

  ‘I never believed your runaway story.’

  ‘Yeah, I wasn’t much of a liar.’

  ‘Ha! You were a big liar, just a bad one. Can I have another beer?’

  ‘Of course.’ I stretched behind me and pulled out another beer. ‘Do you still see Fritz?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m drinking nasty beers in the back of the shitty bar owned by the guy I lost my virginity to.’ />
  ‘Living the dream.’

  ‘He lives around the corner,’ she said.

  ‘Fritz?’

  She nodded as she drank.

  ‘Did he tell you how he knew me?’

  ‘Yeah. You met in the loony bin.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No surprise there. Keep massaging my feet. That feels good.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I put my beer down and picked up her foot from my lap.

  ‘I refer you to the tree arson, because a girl broke up with you,’ she said, and I laughed. I raised my bottle and clinked it against hers.

  ‘Largish bush arson. What happened with that?’

  ‘Mom didn’t believe me. She said I had been smoking. I must have gotten grounded or something. I don’t remember.’

  ‘How is your mom?’

  Her smile disappeared. ‘The same. She loves Frank. She’d fuck him if he’d let her.’

  While we talked, she drained her beers quickly. She wasn’t drinking them but needing them. I thought about all the people I knew whom I had seen do the same thing. It lessened her and I liked that it lessened her. Right there, I could have steered us away from the inevitable disaster, but I wanted to drag someone down with me.

  ‘Jarred, your bar is a dump.’

  ‘That’s part of the charm. It’s kept tidy. I mean sparkly clean. We then have a team come in to give it character. They come and sprinkle imported piss from beer-drinking Bavarian virgins. Once a week, we stain the stools with artisanal tramp juice using a badger-hair brush. That mouse trap there with what looks like a dried sausage? That was hand-crafted.’

  ‘Tramp juice? Let’s go somewhere nice. Frank’s treat.’ She finished her beer and sat in my lap. We were a little drunk. I held her by the waist. The first woman I loved. A girl then, but the muscle memory of her body was there. I think she felt it too.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s Numbers.’

  ‘Absolutely not. That club is full of coked-out middle-aged bankers. Let’s have some fun. There’s a place I know. It’s dime beer night. Don’t worry, I know the manager. We’ll drink for free.’ I winked. ‘It’ll be great. Dime beer night brings everyone out. The music is all over the place. It’ll be great.’

  She shook her head.

  I thought for a moment. ‘Let’s steal a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and visit Fritz.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Fritz in forever. We kind of fell out. He was living with us. Frank hated him. Fritz was stealing shit. It got ugly. He disappeared. Last I heard he had ODed in the toilet of a club in Amsterdam and went into rehab. Typical junkie DJ bullshit. Looks like we all turned out pathetic.’

  ‘Not me. Look at my empire. Living large in charge.’

  A man opened the back door. Daylight exploded into the room. He took off his sunglasses and looked at us.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said.

  ‘What the fuck’re you doing in here?’

  ‘We should go,’ I said to Melissa. ‘We’re waiting for Scotty,’ I called to the man. We moved toward the exit.

  ‘Who the fuck is Scotty?’

  ‘The owner.’

  ‘I’m the motherfucking owner, asshole.’

  ‘Sorry, wrong bar.’

  We ran for a bit to make sure we weren’t followed.

  Melissa said, ‘You are still the same asshole. You don’t own that place.’

  ‘No. Never been there before in my life,’ I said. ‘C’mon, let’s pick up Fritz and go have an adventure. It’s been a long time.’

  53

  After Patrick left, I went and sat in Jack’s greenhouse. I misted the roots of the orchids hanging overhead. The droplets tumbled and drifted in the sunlight. The mist felt nice on my face. A Habenaria – I could hear Jack’s voice pronouncing the genus – was blooming on the counter. Nearly impossible to grow and Jack had managed to make it flower. I ran my finger along the long thin spun-sugar petals.

  A car pulled into the driveway.

  I thought Patrick must have had second thoughts about leaving me alone until I heard Sarah calling my name. I opened the door and there was a moment’s pause, both of us unsure and awkward. She leaned over and hugged me. She felt wonderful and I needed her so much at that moment.

  ‘Hey, stranger, you don’t answer your phone any more?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I talked to Jack the other day. I’m sorry about the Incredible Mister Shakey. I wish you’d talk to me. I miss you.’

  ‘You’d be better off if you didn’t.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Her brow tightened. I took her hand and rubbed her knuckles with my thumb. She pulled away to wipe at her eyes.

  She walked to her car and got in. I was about to call out, but she returned carrying a cardboard box. She put it in my lap.

  Her voice on the edge of tears, she said, ‘I don’t know – you probably don’t want a cat so soon, but JJ’s mom’s cat had a litter. She needs a home.’

  ‘JJ?’

  ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded.

  I couldn’t meet her eyes. I reached in and rubbed the fluff of striped orange pressed against the corner of the box.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do and shit still happens,’ I said.

  The kitten yawned and stretched, showing its tiny needles for teeth.

  ‘You do the right thing because it’s the right thing.’

  ‘A cat and a lecture. What else is Jack telling you about me?’ I hated myself as I said it.

  ‘Jarred. Seriously? You’re doing this?’ Her voice stiffened.

  ‘Done.’

  ‘I want to be so pissed off at you right now. But I can’t. But I’m not going to put up with your bullshit either. You’re a child.’

  I turned to leave.

  ‘No. Stop right now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning back.

  ‘Stop saying that. You want to know what else Jack told me, because we do talk. Why aren’t you and I talking, huh? He told me about your accident. You’ve convinced yourself that you killed that girl, which you didn’t. You’ve got it in your mind that you don’t deserve to be happy and you’re doing everything to make sure that’s true. I’m scared for you, Jarred. You’re lucky. Your mom died.’

  My vision exploded with fireworks. I heard the roar of wind building inside my head.

  ‘You said yourself your mom’s last months were beautiful. My mom fucking rejected me, rejected me and Marco. I wasn’t worth loving. You think you have issues? Ha! When you figure that out, you can call me. I like you, Jarred. You’d be smart not to mess this up.’

  ‘I have to go to work now. I’ll call you.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’

  I handed her back the box. I heard the car pull away. I grabbed a potted African Violet next to Jack’s recliner. The red clay pot shattered when it hit the ground, leaving a blast of soil and a tattered plant.

  54

  I went to work at The Store. I grabbed two beers from the cooler and drank them at my register. Customers either ignored me or smirked as I sipped with one hand and scanned items with the other. I was called into the manager’s office.

  ‘You shouldn’t be firing me for this.’

  ‘I certainly am firing you for this,’ Reverse James Dean said.

  ‘No, I mean I’ve done much worse. I’ve emailed the CEO from your account pretending you had gone full Kurtz down here amongst the “tofu fiddlers” as you referred to them in the email.’

  ‘Hacking is a criminal offence.’

  ‘Not so much hacked as that you hadn’t logged out of your computer and I just typed the message and hit send. If you’re done firing me, I’ll let you get back to growing your ponytail and filling in your NORML membership form.’

  ‘Get out of my office!’

  ‘Whoa, Reverse James Dean. Stay cool. I’m leaving.’

  I wheeled to the bus stop. The bus to the hospital was the number 7 going south. I got on the number 7 going north
. I sat in the wheelchair space and my teeth chattered.

  My sweat-damp work shirt was freezing under the blast of the bus’s AC. The bus crossed under the overpass and stopped at the Greyhound station. Beyond the bus window, I saw my mom in her coma after the aneurysm. Grinning and already dead, we just didn’t know it yet. She was going to tease us with hope for a few more months. I wanted to see the small moments: feeding ducks together in the park, lying across both their laps watching tv, bedtime stories and kisses goodnight. She was forever reduced to that day and her voice on the phone with an aneurysm about to take her away from us. Any other memory took effort, as if I was convincing myself of a lie.

  Melissa too. That long-legged mischievous girl was the body with its head not right and a scalp like a wig gone askew. If I went and saw Jack now, he too would become only a dying old man in a hospital. I would have the drunkard and his violence and a dead old man. The memories of this last year wouldn’t hold.

  Greyhound stations are disturbingly like hospital emergency rooms worn by the abrasion of unlucky people coming and going. The ceilings, a little too low, weigh on the shoulders and make time there a burden. The swathes of blue paint made this station look more clinical than most. A young man with a shaved head fought nods of sleep and carried in his fist the clear plastic bag of a newly released prisoner’s belongings. Two obese twenty-something mothers gossiped and absent-mindedly rocked strollers. The children, too old and too large, screamed and thrashed against their restraints. I lined up for the ticket window and ignored the examining stares.

  ‘Real people take the bus; flying is for rich white folk,’ someone said behind me.

  Only one ticket window was open and the line ran a gauntlet of wire chairs with thin metal armrests. The people in line carefully stepped over the outstretched legs and barricades of suitcases the size of small fridges. The tang of piss from the bathrooms on the other side of the building occasionally announced itself. People shouted complaints at the woman with sherbet-bright braids manning the ticket window.

  ‘Shit stinks up in here,’ a pasty young tough declared.

  An argument broke out at the front and a chorus of clicked tongues sounded through the line. The woman in the ticket booth stared coldly at a man dressed for deer hunting as he exhausted himself cursing and demanding that the Dog needed shooting. An elderly woman told the ceiling, ‘I’m going to miss my ride.’