by Pierce, SJ
“Don’t go! W-what about my son?!”
“That’s not my job to know,” he replied as he drifted away from him, “I was assigned to you only, and that is all I know. Its actually you who is the only one who can tell us what will happen.”
Isaac stared after him with a sense of bitter vulnerability. Everything this man had said painted a bleak picture, and apparently there was nothing he could do about it either. Halfway to the door, the old man stopped. His head turned to the side, his eyes never meeting Isaac’s, but the intensity within them was palpable. “I also need to warn you.”
Isaac’s heart stopped. “What!? Warn me about what?”
“You are being watched, and you need to keep a low profile.”
Isaac shot up from the couch, his mind racing with images of Alyx’s face. “Why are they watching me?”
“I don’t mean to alarm you, but the one’s who want to see our efforts fail are also the one’s who are targeting you. Be careful and keep that room locked tight,” he said while pointing toward the studio with his stick.
His thoughts then raced to Micah and what all of this would mean for him. How can I keep him safe?
“Again, that’s not my area. We can only believe that everything will work out in the end and that Micah will fit into the plan somehow. I must go now to make my preparations. Remember, low profile.” And with a flick of his robe, he disappeared into thin air.
Isaac stared at the floor with glazed over eyes and sank onto the couch. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, and he still wasn’t convinced that his sanity hadn’t flown away from him. What did he mean it will all happen soon? What did he MEAN, I’m being watched? What about MICAH?!
His eyelids flew open, and he bolted from the couch with a terrified gasp. Oh God, please tell me that was all a dream! His eyes searched the living room. The TV remained on, as though Oman had never touched it, and the cable box read three o’clock. Micah will be home soon. I need to get it together.
He staggered to the bathroom and turned on the shower to let it steam. With his head between his legs, he sat in the floor and ran his trembling fingers through his hair. Drawing in deep, heavy breaths, the steam calmed his racing heart, and he hoped that as the night went on, he would be able to shake off -- what he determined -- was another haunting dream.
* * *
Alyx left in such a hurry, she didn’t realize that it was only three thirty, and none of the clubs were open yet. The pub, she thought. She could go back and drink until eight o’clock rolled around.
She crashed through the door to the still-empty pub and made her way to the bar. “I’ll have a rum and coke, please,” she said to the bartender and pulled her ID from her wallet. She hadn’t ever had anything but wine, so she wanted to try something new tonight to commemorate her emergence as a single girl. Plus, if wine had served to drown her sorrows before, she wanted to make sure they were thoroughly, and effectively, silenced for the night. “And you can start me a tab,” she asserted as she slid onto the high back stool whose foam peeked through the threadbare seat.
The bartender studied her ID and nodded. “Coming up!” he said and tossed it onto the bar.
His cultured tone caught her attention. Italian? As he mixed the drink, she took notice of his appearance. His long, black hair had been pulled into a slick ponytail, and his lightly tanned skin and elongated nose reminded her of an Italian client she met at the office last week. He has to be Italian.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and looked around the restaurant. Minus an elderly couple sitting at a table by the window, she was the only patron there. They appeared in love, holding hands across the top of the table while waiting on their food, watching passer bys through the cloudy glass as they that sat in comfortable silence. The imagery tossed a soft blow to her stomach. She grimaced and turned around to the bar.
“Starting early, huh?” the bartender asked as he placed a lowball glass filled with dark liquid on the beverage napkin in front of her.
The corners of her mouth struggled to rise into a smile. “It’s been a long couple of days,” she replied and tilted her glass forward to cheer. She took a small sip and winced into her shoulder. Ugh! Nasty.
The bartender chuckled, exposing his chipped front tooth. “You didn’t look like a ‘rum and coke’.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sat the glass on the napkin. “You’re right about that, I usually drink wine.”
“That makes more sense,” he said with a wink.
He grabbed her drink to change it out when she playfully swatted his hand. “Hey now, I’m going to finish what I started!”
The bartender flashed an approving smile. “Now that’s what I like, a little rebellion.”
As they beamed at each other, her brown eyes took him in. He had lived the bar life awhile, and she didn’t base this solely on the way he moved around the counter with ease, or his tacky shirt that read, “Wrap your hands around my can”. Wisdom shined behind his eyes, the kind that came from constantly studying people and their idiosyncrasies. Which is why despite her ‘club’ attire, he knew exactly what type of woman she was, and it was not a ‘rum and coke’ kind of girl.
He pulled his hand back and leaned against the counter. “Tell me, Ms. Rayer, what has you drinking this early in the evening?”
Along with his innocent words, another blow hurled into to her stomach, and she held her breath as she stared at the glass.
“Never mind, dear. That was too forward of me,” he said, patting her wrist.
She bounced her leg on the dowel of the stool. “Sorry, it’s still kind of fresh.” To change to subject, she glanced at his name tag. Agnosio. “Are you from Italy, Agnosio?” she asked and took another sip.
He grinned deviously as she went for it, waiting for her to wince again.
She forced the swallow, and when her eyes cut back up to him, she caught him studying her every move. “Oh, stop it!” she snipped, holding a chuckle back.
He covered his grin with a hand. “Well, sweet lady, I am from Florence.”
Her eyes twinkled. Just the mention of where he was from lifted her spirits. “Oh I’ve heard that’s a beautiful city!”
While they chatted, another patron wandered in and sat three stools over, immediately motioning for Agnosio’s service. She glanced in the man’s direction and nodded politely, even though the interruption aggravated her. A bevy of questions about Italy waited on the tip of her tongue.
The man Agnosio served appeared to be in his late sixties and wore a long, khaki trench coat, and a look of aged depression. His stringy, white hair rimmed the sides of his bald head and fell around his ears. I’m definitely the youngest one here, she concluded. Not exactly how I imagined the night starting.
After serving the stiff drink, Agnosio made his way back to Alyx so they could finish their conversation. Her head swam with the effects of the bitter alcohol, and she was only a third of the glass in. Maybe she would find the peace she sought at the bottom of the glass, after all.
“So you’ve never been to Italy, eh?” he asked as she took another sip.
Alyx shook her head as she swallowed. She had always wanted to visit, but was unable to of course.
“Quindi lei sa la sua bellezza cant confronta alla vostra,” he said with a slick smirk.
Alyx didn’t know what he said, but assumed by the nature of his tone that the words were flirtatious. She swirled the glass full of dark liquid and rested her back against the stool, raising an eyebrow while crunching on a piece of ice. “Does that work with all the ladies?”
He threw his arms up in defeat as he laughed. “It was worth a shot, no?”
She couldn’t help but flash a smile in return. “What was it you were saying, or do I want to know?”
He grabbed a rag from a bucket beneath the counter. “Just that you were more beautiful than the city itself.”
Alyx’s shoulders bounced as she chuckled. “You’re something
else, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” he said as he wiped the bar.
“Tell me, though, what is it like over there? Tell me about the landscapes, the people, the food… tell me everything!”
He tucked the rag into his back pocket and set a bowl of mixed nuts on the counter. “We don’t have time, mi amore. There is too much to tell.”
“Tell me about the landscapes at least, I beg you!”
He reached across the bar and cupped her cheek with the palm of his hand. “For you, I will.”
With his forearms rested atop the counter, he told her of the days he would sit on the roof of his home and look over the terra cotta rooftops to the purple mountains in the distance, recalling that the butterscotch and crimson sunsets in the summer could rival any others around the world. “It was truly a charming place,” he said with distant, faraway eyes. “Sometimes I wonder why I ever left.”
“Why did you?”
He sighed and walked toward the older gentleman who motioned for another drink. “The American dream, why else?”
As she wiped the sweat from the glass with her finger, she wondered why he would consider bartending in Atlanta a ‘dream’, and then looked above the bar at the framed photos that hung beneath the shabby crown molding. The photos captured him and celebrities in front of that very bar, one signed by Clint Eastwood that read, “To my favorite bar owner.” That makes more sense.
* * *
Four hours and seven mixed drinks later, Alyx paid her tab. The humming neon clock that hung above the rows of liquor bottles read eight o’clock, reminding her that the night clubs awaited. Although, she might as well stay at the pub that now crawled with young bar-goers. An empty seat couldn’t be found in the place.
The old bar had an entirely different atmosphere at night. It came alive. A band had come in to play grungy cover songs, and people swayed to the music, carefully holding onto their drinks so not to spill them. Inebriated girls danced on the bar as the men at the pool tables ogled and jutted their elbows into one another’s arms.
Because of the full bar, she and Agnosio couldn’t banter anymore. He worked frantically along with his bar back to serve the customers, his rag now slung over his shoulder that he would periodically use to mop the sweat from his face if he wasn’t wiping the sweat rings from the bar. In his absence, she had chummed up to a group of women that were out partying after one of them recently divorced. She clicked easily with them because the last thing they wanted to talk about was relationships. She also had a conversation with a man who visited the city on business and came to the pub because it was within walking distance from his hotel. He was a sweet, middle-aged man, who wore a red bow-tie and was in no way interested in picking anybody up. He only wanted scotch and a slice of cheesecake while watching the intoxicated clientele.
After paying her tab, Alyx slipped down from the barstool and made her way to the bathroom to powder her nose, concentrating on placing one high-heeled boot in front of the other. As she walked, her legs shook like a newborn calf from the three rum and cokes and four margaritas the bachelorettes insist she drink.
On her way there, a man sitting at the ‘obnoxious’ table – as the older business man hailed it – stuck out his arm.
Whack!
His hand struck her across the butt cheek. She managed a few more wobbly steps and stopped dead in her tracks, mortified as she listened to their loud, annoying bellows echo over the steady noise within the bar. He smacked… my ASS!?
She wasn’t sure of what to do. Not being a usual bar hopper, and never going to one alone, dealing with rowdy, vulgar men didn’t occupy a spot within her list of talents. If Benjamin had been there, he would have asked the offending butt-smacker to step outside and inevitably beaten him cross-eyed. But because she was alone, she thought it best to ignore the rude idiot and continued toward the bathroom when Agnosio appeared out of nowhere.
She cautiously turned around and watched in trepidation as he stopped at their table and planted his fists down in the center, knocking one of the frat boys’ beer mugs into his lap. “Whoa!” the boy shouted as he leaned back in his chair, and their laughter died down.
“You men have had enough. It’s time you left,” Agnosio growled and nodded toward Alyx. “And you also owe that lady right there an apology.”
One of the more obnoxious ones stood from his chair, scraping the legs against the old, wooden floor. The rest of the bar’s patrons paused to watch, awaiting a scuffle. “You gonna make us?” he countered with a puffed chest.
Two bouncers made their way to the table, pounding their fists into their palms. Their scarred knuckles told of their countless bar fights.
Alyx’s hand covered her mouth. Uh oh!
“Not just me,” Agnosio replied, pointing toward them, “my friends Scott and Bubba here too.”
Her hand moved to cover her eyes, her fingers parting only slightly to peer through. She almost couldn’t stand to watch, all of this commotion over Agnosio defending her honor.
The cocky boy turned to size them up as they lumbered toward him, and he stumbled into the table. They were twice his size and ten times as mean. He pointed to his friend across the table with his thumb. “If Adam here apologizes, can we stay?”
Agnosio shook his head. “You guys need to leave.”
He rubbed the patchy hair on his chin to consider his options. “It’s not worth it, man. Forget y’all,” he snapped, swatting his hand in the air, “let’s leave, guys. This place sucks.”
They all mumbled in agreement and stood in unison to leave.
“After you pay your tab, of course,” Agnosio reminded them. “And apologize to Alyx.”
Alyx crossed her arms, glowering at Adam.
He tipped his ball cap. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said, and they walked toward the bar.
Agnosio followed behind them as though he herded a flock of drunken sheep, and Alyx staggered to his side. She tossed her arms around his waist. “Thank you,” she whispered, to which he patted her arm in return.
She made her way to the bathroom – now slightly woozier than before – and when she opened the door, a gasp escaped her lips. A man stood behind a busty woman with his hands placed strategically on her naked hips, their pants lying in a pool around their ankles. “E-Excuse me,” Alyx slurred and slammed the door shut.
The couple laughed from behind the closed door, and she rested against the wall, covering her mouth. Her last Margarita threatened to heave its way up her throat. She clinched it shut to keep the cold chunks from spewing out and wiped her sweaty forehead with the sleeve of her sweater. All of the excitement coupled with the stiff alcohol made for one toxic cocktail. I’m not made out for this. I need to go home.
She stumbled through the backdoor of the pub and down the street, using light posts and trashcans as props. When she made it to the bottom of her complex stairs, her vision blurred as multiple footsteps hammered down on the other side of the street. “That girl is wasted!” a man heckled.
She placed her right boot on the first step with a heavy thump, and her arms wrapped around the rail in preparation for the fainting she knew was to come. She rested her cheek against the painted wood and stared groggily after the group of men who crossed the street. Her eyes rolled back, and before the alcohol knocked her out for good, a pair of arms cradled her body as her numb legs finally gave in. Who in the…
She wanted to scream for help, but the sound got lost on its way out, and she melted into the darkness.
CHAPTER 9:
Like a Band Aid
Isaac placed the last dirty dish into the washer after their late dinner of Salisbury steak, while Micah played video games in his room. As he closed the door and pressed the “Start” button, guilt of his distance from his son during their meal took root. Micah had honed in on his distress, repeatedly asking him if he was “ok” as they ate. Isaac’s quieter than usual demeanor gave him away as he would continually drift off into thought, po
ndering over the details of his dream. Of all the ones so far, this one felt the most real.
The words of the Spirit Guide still echoed through his mind. That it was about to start, and he needed to be careful. He couldn’t seem to shake the worry that these words instilled, because if all of it were true, it meant that Micah’s future was uncertain.
He made his way to the fridge to grab another beer. He didn’t usually drink this much during the week, but needed the help of the alcohol to calm his worries so they wouldn’t overtake his reason. It never took him this long to shake a bad dream.
He wrapped his shirt around the top of the bottle, and it fizzed as the cap snapped off. Just the sound of it comforted him. As he went to take the first swig, he shook his head to ward off the Spirits Guide’s words, pushing them into the back of his mind where he kept all of the other impractical worries. He couldn’t stand to mull over it any longer.
In an attempt to change his thought patterns, he opened the door to his studio to admire his recent collection of paintings. While he shuffled to the center of the room, looking over the canvases that sat neatly organized atop the glass shelf, the image of the old man’s intrigued expression when he mentioned the paintings barreled their way into the forefront of his mind. He glanced down at his ring. Oman appeared to be incredibly interested in the large hunk of metal, as well. He played with it between his fingers and looked back out the window at the skyline. Why couldn’t he just forget all of it? Let it all go? It was only a dream, after all.
He turned the bottle up and took three more gulps, emptying it half way.
As he gazed at the rooftop, Oman’s words of caution found their way back in again. You are being watched. Despite Alyx’s protests to the contrary, Isaac knew she had spied on him. But did that necessarily mean that the strange visitor’s words held credibility? Or was his dream simply a manifestation of his overactive imagination coupled with paranoia. To believe that his words had credibility meant that his dream was real, and he couldn’t very well accept that. I’m just paranoid.
