On Unfaithful Wings

by Bruce Blake

  “I’ve called the police,” the woman said, her stiff tone belying the fear hiding below the surface. “They’ll be here before you can do anything to me.”

  I looked up at her standing in the bedroom doorway and, for a a second, didn’t know what she meant. The disarray of her shoulder-length dark hair suggested she’d just woken. She held the front of her pink, fuzzy robe closed with one hand while the other held a small caliber pistol pointed at the floor. The sight of the weapon brought me back to reality and I pushed myself up from the sofa, banging my knee on the coffee table in my haste. A People magazine slid off the top of a pile and I managed to glimpse the date on the cover: October.

  Trevor’s birthday was in April.

  “It’s not what you think.” I showed her my palms. The gun moved a little, not quite aimed at me. Yet.

  “You broke into my apartment.”

  “No, I didn’t. I have a key.”

  I reached for my pocket to show her and realized my mistake as the barrel of the gun found a target in the middle of my chest. I didn’t like the look of the minor quake in her arm or the strained expression on her face, but if she shot me, it would answer most of my questions. I considered provoking her, but remembered how real the doorknob felt in my hand, and the bedspread at the hotel.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “Look, this is all a big mistake. I used to live here.”

  She raised an eyebrow but didn’t lower the gun.

  “And you still have keys?”

  I nodded.

  “Take them out and put them on the table. Wait. Use two fingers.”

  I did as she said, wondering if she’d learned the technique while watching TV. The keys jingled as I pulled them out of my pocket and tossed them onto the coffee table. She glared at them for a second then looked back at me. I raised my hands again.

  “When did you live here?”

  “Right before you.”

  “That can’t be,” she said, the look on her face clearly demonstrating she didn’t believe me. “The guy who lived here before me was killed by muggers.”

  My stomach clenched hard enough to make me flinch; if I’d eaten anything since awakening in the hotel room, it would have ended up all over the floor.

  The woman’s eyes widened, making me nervous.

  “You did it.” She jabbed the gun towards me, making me flinch again. “You killed him and took his keys. They told me they changed the locks.”

  A siren wailed in the distance and I realized there was a good chance I might not get out of this: either she’d kill me or the cops would arrest me. Neither seemed a good option.

  I lunged for the door, catching her off-guard. I hoped she was the kind of woman who kept a weapon to scare would-be intruders, not to punish them.

  “Stop!”

  I cringed as I sprinted down the hall, half-expecting to feel of a bullet slam into my back. She didn’t pull the trigger, but she didn’t want me to escape either--the blue vase shattered against the door frame near my head, showering me with flowers and glass. I yanked the door open and dove through, barely keeping my feet under me as I blundered down four flights of stairs to the exit, never looking back to see if she followed.

  I didn’t know I’d been sweating until I burst through the door into the chill night--the autumn night six months after I’d been mugged. The siren I’d heard was closer now so I darted across the street and hid in the shadows, panting clouds of mist into the night. Less than a minute later, a police cruiser skidded to a stop in front of the building; its siren cut off but the cherries still flashed as two cops spilled out and went to the front door. They buzzed the apartment and waited for the woman to answer, so I took the opportunity to get the hell out of there.

  My thighs burned as my feet pounded the pavement, carrying me away from my former home. Possibilities, excuses, scenarios raced through my mind, playing and replaying, but none of them made sense, none of them seemed remotely plausible. Underneath them, the same refrain kept repeating over and over:

  Thiscan’tbehappeningthiscan’tbehappeningthiscan’tbehappening...

  My head buzzed with a feeling of helplessness, panic pushing me on without knowing where to go. I ran until a stitch in my side forced me to stop. Like the world’s worst long-distance runner, I paused--bent at the waist, gasping for air. When I looked up again, I saw my subconscious had led my feet to a familiar place, somewhere I felt comfortable, safe.

  Sully’s.

  ***

  They say smell is the strongest trigger of memories. I believed it the second I stepped through the door of Sully’s Tavern. The odor of beers spilled decades before – many of them spilled be me--soothed my jangled nerves, reminded me of countless nights seated at the bar, elbows propped on the stained wooden surface, sometimes alone, sometimes not. I sat on a stool that once could have described every contour of my ass and waited for the barkeep to notice my arrival. A miniature galvanized pail of peanuts sat before me, lonely without the once ubiquitous ashtrays that disappeared as smoking laws changed, so I pulled it closer to keep it company. The peanuts tasted comfortable on my tongue, adding to the assuasive smells. Maybe I’d been gone for six months but Sully’s Tavern still felt like home. After the kind of day I’d had, I needed that.

  I shoveled more peanuts into my mouth and began wondering where-the-Hell I was going to spend the night.

  “Good evening.”

  The words startled me, making me jump a little. I stopped chewing and looked up from the bucket of nuts into the bartender’s familiar face, complete with bushy red mustache and freckles. I always thought Sully appeared to have stepped straight out of a day job singing baritone in a barbershop quartet. The only thing missing was one of those funny hats.

  “Hi, Sully.”

  “What can I get for you tonight?”

  “I’ll have the usual.”

  He stopped in front of me, favoring me with a quizzical look. Another handful of peanuts went into my mouth.

  “And what would that be?”

  I returned the quizzical look, in case he might need it another time. “Vodka soda with lime. Don’t you know me, Sully?”

  “Can’t say I do. Should I?”

  I swallowed the peanuts half-chewed, coming dangerously close to choking on them; the feeling of comfort the tavern brought followed them into my stomach. Over the years, this man had poured me into a cab more times than he’d poured most other folks drinks. Mikey’s words crashed on me like an anvil in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon: no one will know you. I suddenly needed that vodka badly.

  “Guess not.”

  “Lime juice or slice?”

  “What?”

  He dipped a glass into the bin of ice, filling it. “In your drink. Juice or slice?”

  “Slice. And you know what? Hold the soda.”

  “Fair enough, but there’s no discount for skipping the mix.”

  He laughed at his own joke, but I only nodded. I didn’t see the humor in it, in any of this. A well-used Coors Light coaster landed on the bar followed closely by my drink, a short red straw leaning against the wedge of lime hanging on the rim of the glass.

  “You want to start a tab?”

  I stared at the glass in front of me for a second, at a drop of water running down the side, and felt a twinge of regret that I was about to consume drinks I couldn’t pay for from a man who’d always been good to me. The saliva flooding my mouth at the sight of the vodka convinced me it would be all right.

  I nodded.

  “Need some collateral. Credit card, driver’s license, keys. You know, something so I know you won’t take off without paying.”

  I felt that twinge again as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my now-useless set of keys for my one-time apartment and tossed them on the bar between us. Sully scooped them up and then paused, his eyes narrowed as he searched my features.

  “Sorry I don’t recognize you. Lots of people come and go here.”


  “Here’s to a busy tavern.” I chuckled listlessly, plucked the lime and squeezed it into the vodka, then tilted the glass toward him in a mock toast.

  “With a toast like that, the mix is on me next time.”

  He went back to bartender business and I stared at the drink in my hand, licked my lips. How long had it been since my last drink? I’d been off the sauce for nearly a year, desperately trying to prove to Rae I was a changed man worthy of her taking me back, worthy of being close to my son again. If you added my six months absence from the world, that made it close to a year-and-a-half. I should have felt guilty about even being here. I didn’t. I had no money, nowhere to sleep and no idea how to rectify either. Six months of my life was missing. Michael had told me no one would recognize me and Sully proved it. That meant Trevor and Rae wouldn’t know me, either.

  And they think I’m dead.

  A knife edge of regret sliced through my chest as I downed the vodka hoping the path it burned down my throat would counteract it. It didn’t work. I signaled Sully and order another then swiveled on my stool, surveying the room.

  Like the exterior of my apartment building, nothing about Sully’s had changed: the same sports might have been playing on the big-screen TVs the last time I was here, the same guys shooting pool, the same girl serving tables. It took an act of God to change places like this. I’d been so regular here it surprised me every time I walked through the door without someone shouting “Norm!” to greet me.

  I drained the second vodka, the cool touch of ice against my lips a contrast to the liquor burning my throat on the way down. Sully looked up as I set the empty glass down and I nodded at him.

  “Mix?”

  I shook my head. “Why waste good soda?”

  Before the new drink arrived, I noticed three men sitting at a table in the far corner, their features all but hidden by the dim lighting of a wall sconce. My heart thumped.

  Marty, Phil and Todd. Drinking buddies. Three of the best, salt-of-the-earth guys you could ever meet. Sully served lots of people, so it made sense he might not recognize me, but these guys should. We’d competed together on the Olympic drinking team with a specialty in synchronized puking.

  I pivoted back toward the bar as Sully set the next drink in front of me. I nodded my thanks.

  “You okay? Look like you saw a ghost.”

  “Fine.”

  He wiped his hands on his apron and eyed me a moment longer, probably wondering if I’d turn out to be trouble, then wandered to the far end of the bar to serve a balding guy in a Packers jersey with Favre’s number on the sleeve. I stared past the glass of vodka with its lime wedge clinging to the edge, past the pail of peanuts, looking at the back bar and its array of liquors, at the mirror behind them. I shifted, trying to see what Sully saw, but there were too many bottles for me to see myself clearly until the barkeep came and plucked a bottle of Cinzano red off the shelf to make a drink for the balding guy. I shuffled to the left to get a look at myself.

  I looked like me.

  My hair was longer, scruffier, and my shirt and jacket were in dire need of dry cleaning and pressing, but the face looking back was undeniably mine. Hope glimmered in my chest; surely the guys would recognize me. They’d be elated to find me still alive, happy to offer me a place to stay while I figured out what was going on.

  But what if they don’t?

  I gathered my refreshment and my nerves--the former in better supply than the latter--slid off the stool and headed for their table.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the Vikes’ year. They look good.” Marty had gained weight. Sitting in the same chair day after day quaffing beer could have that effect.

  “You don’t know nothing,” Todd said slamming his half-empty mug of beer down on the table, the impact shuddering the football-shaped salt and pepper shakers against one another. He wore the same Yankees cap he always wore, like it had been grafted to his head. “The Giants all the way.”

  Marty gagged on a mouthful of dark ale. I grinned as familiarity and comfort crept back in, hiding anxiety under a healthy-looking top coat. How many times had I heard this argument? For years, I sat in the fourth chair, arguing in favor of the Patriots; they hated me for it because my team won too much.

  “Tell him, Phil.” Marty wiped foam off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell him the Giants suck.”

  Every extra pound on Marty’s body seemed to have been carved from Phil’s frame. Dark circles under his eyes spilled down sunken cheeks, giving his face the look of a pathetic-not-scary Halloween mask. Hardly enough hair remained on his head to qualify as a comb-over. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped his beer, preparing to answer Marty’s challenge. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what was going on; cancer killed Rae’s father, so I knew how it looked.

  “I don’t know, Marty. They don’t look bad.”

  I took a swig of vodka to reinforce my courage and stepped up to the table. Their conversation stopped and they looked at me, their expressions blank.

  “The Pats. No one can beat the Pats.”

  “Can we help you?” Marty’s tone lacked both friendliness and recognition. My vodka-backed nerves faltered. I considered walking away without another word but gritted my teeth, determined to push on.

  “It’s me. Ric.” I spread my arms in a gesture like a man expecting a welcome-home hug. No one stirred.

  “I think you’ve confused us with someone else.”

  “Come on guys, I know it’s been a while, but you know me.”

  “Maybe you need to slow down on the drinks a little, friend,” Todd said.

  “Icarus. Icarus Fell. Don’t you recognize me?”

  Marty slammed his fist on the table, the impact slopping beer over the edge of Phil’s mug.

  “I don’t know who you are, mister, but you ain’t funny.” He pushed his chair away from the table, bumping the edge with his belly as he wobbled to his feet, spilling more of Phil’s drink. “Ric Fell’s dead. He may have been a bastard, but I still won’t let you steal his name.”

  My already-sagging smile melted away.

  Bastard?

  How many times did I cover for him when he went to the massage parlor instead of going home? My hand curled into a fist but I resisted the urge to pop him in the mouth.

  “Phil, you know me. Tell him you know me.”

  “I don’t,” he said. The bulge in his throat rose and fell as he swallowed hard. “How do you know my name?”

  “He was listening in, that’s all, “ Marty said, stern look on his face. “What are you playing at, mister?”

  “Nothing. I just...” My head spun. I didn’t know what to say. “You know me, Marty. I’m Icarus.”

  “That’s enough. It’s time to pack up your sideshow and get the hell out of here.” As he stepped toward me, his heel caught the chair leg, sending it clattering to the floor.

  “Is everything all right, boys?” Sully called, hands hidden below the bar where he kept a baseball bat for such occasions.

  “Everything’s fine, Sully,” Marty replied without glancing away, his tone implying things weren’t actually fine. “This fella was just leaving.”

  “Marty, we’ve known each other for years.” I held my hands out toward him, desperate, searching my mind for a way to prove myself. “Remember Super Bowl a few years ago? You won that set of inflatable goal posts and gave them to me for Trevor.”

  They’d never made it to Trevor--I’d passed out on my way home and woken in the drunk tank with no inflatable goal posts.

  The muscles behind Marty’s sagging jowls clenched and released, his face turned a light shade of red.

  “I don’t know how you know that,” he said, voice raised a couple decibels in volume, “but you better get the fuck out of here. Now.”

  I opened my mouth but closed it without speaking, choosing to back away instead. Marty didn’t follow, but he didn’t right his chair and sit down, either.

  I glanced at the other
s: Todd’s face twisted into an angry look, backing up his friend without getting up from his beer; Phil looked sad. For a moment, I thought a glimmer of recognition showed in his eyes, but, if it did, he didn’t say anything or act on it. Before turning away, I noticed what looked like a dim halo around his head, like in an out-of-focus photograph. I stopped, intrigued, but a hand gripping my bicep spun me away.

  “Time to go,” Sully said half-dragging me across the room. I stumbled after him, looking over my shoulder at Phil as we went.

  “But I--”

  “But nothing. No one upsets my regulars.” We arrived at the door and he pulled it open for me, not out of politeness. “Go quietly and your drinks are on me.”

  I looked into the big Irishman’s eyes, wanting to try once more to convince him he knew me, should recognize me, but the cant of his shaggy eyebrows suggested it an unwise strategy. He ushered me across the threshold into the chilly night and, before I strode away in search of a place to sleep, I caught one more glimpse of my old drinking buddies before the door closed. Marty had righted his chair and sat, arms crossed, staring daggers at me; Todd held beer mug to lips, but Phil’s eyes remained on me. My stomach twisted into a knot, but only partially because they didn’t know me. It was the way Phil looked: his leathery cheeks and rheumy eyes, the wan glow.

  Phil would be dead in less than a month, I was certain of it.

  Chapter Four

  I spent that night and the next day wandering the streets visiting places I knew, searching for someone to recognize me: the barber I’d gone to for years, the girl at the coffee shop where I nursed daily hangovers in preparation for creating another. None of them knew me. With each person who didn’t, my spirits dipped closer to the soles of my shoes. I wanted to go to Rae’s and find her and Trevor, show them I was alive, but didn’t think I could bear it if they didn’t recognize me, either. Each place I visited, each person who didn’t know me, stripped away another bit of hope I could recreate any semblance of a life.