by Anna Bruno
For Lionel, the hole in the floor was a glimpse into another world, a world of laundry and spiders and tools, and I can only imagine the Candy Land he dreamed up for it. There wasn’t a woman in the county who could put her hands on her hips and shake her head, and make me want to seal off that hole. I never asked Lucas to fix it.
* * *
CAL CONTINUES TO HASH out the apocalypse situation. I shouldn’t have brought it up.
“Bottom line,” Cal says. “Lucas cannot make the decisions. We’d never get anything done. Have you ever seen that guy order a sandwich? Once, I waited for ten minutes while he decided whether he wanted a slice of tomato on it.” This is not true. Lucas doesn’t like tomatoes on anything. This was a point of contention because I love tomatoes. Tomatoes and mushrooms. I put them on everything. “Actually, ordering the sandwich isn’t the main problem,” Cal continues. “Eating the sandwich—now, that’s excruciating.” He pantomimes taking a bite of a sandwich, masticating the air in his mouth very slowly. “Takes, like, an hour.” This is true. Lucas eats slowly. Cal, on the other hand, can put away a foot-long in under five minutes.
“What can I do?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Ain’t no stock market in the apocalypse, hun. Don’t you worry your pretty face. You can still join us.”
I’m on Cal’s good side because I encouraged him to invest twenty thousand dollars in the market and his investment is doing well. Guys like Cal don’t trust the market. He puts money in the bank so he can run his business, but as I mentioned, he’s one of those bury-the-cash-and-jewelry-where-only-I-can-find-it nutjobs. Though I imagine Summer knows all his secrets. The idea of owning stock is anathema to a guy like Cal.
It took me several hours and three straight nights at the bar but eventually I wore him down and got him to set up a brokerage account. He called “his guy” at the local bank and had him transfer the money into it. Then I gave him a hot tip.
But Cal is right: in the apocalypse, my stock tips won’t be worth a damn thing.
“I could write everything down. Record what’s happened for future generations. That’s a really important job,” I say.
“You can just look pretty,” Cal says.
“Looking pretty is not a basic need. It’s like drywall,” I protest.
“Sex is a basic need.” Cal has this big, dumb grin on his face.
“I’m not having sex with you. Even if you’re the last man on the planet.”
“Not even for the benefit of the species? Okay, fine; you can cook. Lucas can cook too. He’s a feminist.” Cal draws out fem-min-nist slow and smooth. He adds, “I have enough bottled water to last us six months.”
“Food, water, and shelter,” I say. “And friendship.”
Cal raises his bottle to me. He pours whatever’s left down his throat. “Let’s go, Beautybelle,” he says to Summer. I picture them driving home in Cal’s truck—Summer with her legs up on the dash, Cal telling her how she will rule the world someday. It doesn’t matter to Cal what she does with her life. She’ll always be his Beautybelle.
Summer lifts her head. “Can we stay a little longer?”
“It’s almost ten,” Cal says.
“Nobody here minds.” She looks at me.
I nod.
“Amelia,” Cal says, “tell her what’s what.”
“No children after ten,” Amelia says, flashing a smile.
“Unless you’re a man-child. Then you can stay ’til close,” I say.
Summer laughs and allows Cal to slip a clear plastic poncho over her head, before putting on his rain jacket. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet so he can pay his tab. The wallet’s not there. He searches in the other pocket, and then, even though he knows it’s not there, in the breast pocket.
“Who took my wallet? Someone took my wallet!” He looks at Summer. “Did you see anyone suspicious over here?”
She shakes her head no.
“Shit,” Cal says.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I wasn’t watching,” Summer says. She feels responsible.
Cal kisses her on the head. “No, no, Belle. It’s not your fault. I didn’t mean that.”
I call across the bar, “I saw Yag creep over there about an hour ago.”
Collectively, every head turns to Yag, who is at the pool table, about to take a shot. He looks up, flabbergasted. “What the fuck, Emma? I didn’t go near that table.”
“Sure you did,” I said. “When you and Jimmy came in from your smoke. Jimmy went to the bathroom and you hovered over there by Cal’s jacket.”
The look on Yag’s face indicates his desire to attack me but he doesn’t have time because he is blocked by Cal and Jimmy.
Jimmy says, “Come on, man. We know you need the cash.”
Cal says, “My wallet has twelve hundred dollars in it. I need that money back.”
Yag throws up both hands. “Search me. I don’t have your fucking wallet. Emma doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about.”
Cal pats him down, finds nothing.
Jimmy walks over to Yag’s rain slicker, which is draped on a stool next to the pool table. By the way Jimmy holds it up, everyone can tell it’s heavier than it should be. He pulls the wallet out of one of the pockets.
“That’s not mine,” Yag says. “It’s my jacket but I have no idea how that got there.”
I look down into my drink.
Yag points across the bar at me. “She did it. She put it there.”
“Why would I do that?” I say.
“Because you’re fucking crazy. You’ve always been a crazy bitch.”
“Leave her out of this,” Jimmy says. He hands the wallet to Cal.
Cal counts the money. It’s all there. He walks over to Amelia and pays his tab.
They briefly discuss what to do about Yag. There’s no way they’d call the cops, and no one’s going to lay a hand on him. Cal is holding Summer’s hand. He shakes his head at Yag, showing him he’s disappointed. He says, “This is our bar. I don’t want to come here having to worry someone’s gonna steal from me.”
Yag protests again, “I didn’t do it. You gotta believe me.”
“How about you take a couple weeks,” Jimmy says. “Pay off your debt. Get your head on straight.”
“Typical, Jimmy. Some things never change. You and Lucas can shut me out whenever you want, but you can’t ban me from the bar. You don’t own the place.”
“I can,” Amelia says. “Take a month. Then we’ll reassess.”
“A fucking month? Jimmy said a couple weeks.”
“We all know you’re not going to pay off ten grand in a couple weeks,” Jimmy says. “A month is reasonable.”
“You did this. This is all you, Emma,” Yag says. “This is no different from when you told me I wasn’t welcome in my best friend’s house.”
“If you need work,” Cal says, “I can throw some your way.”
“Ban Emma from the bar,” Yag screams. “She’s the one who took the wallet. No one wants her here anyway.” He closes his eyes and runs his hands over his bald head. He’s calculating something—I can’t tell what. He snatches his jacket from Jimmy, looks at me, and says, “Emma, step into my office.” Then he heads straight for the ladies’ room and lets the door shut behind him.
Jimmy and Cal both make a move toward the bathroom, but I stop them. “He wants to talk to me because he thinks I did something to him. I’ll handle it,” I insist, telling myself I’m doing it out of kindness when really, deep down, I’m worried Yag might actually convince someone I took the wallet.
I did what had to be done. And anyway, it’s not permanent. It’s just one month and then, as Amelia said, we’ll reassess. How civilized. If only everything worked that way. If only the justice system worked that way, or deportation, or illness. Let’s just give it a month, and then come to terms.
“Holler if he gives you any trouble,” Cal says. “We’ll be right here.”
* * *
“WHY ARE WE IN the ladies’ room?” These are the first words that spew out of my month upon seeing Martin Yagla sitting atop the closed lid of the toilet. The swinging, louvered saloon doors, which cordon off the toilet from the sink, hang open. From my position, having just entered through the heavy door that separates us from the rest of the patrons, I feel a certain intimacy, perhaps a shared insanity.
“The men’s room is dirty,” he says. “You and I both know I didn’t go anywhere near Cal’s jacket. Why’d you finger me? Why’d you set me up?”
Even if Yag is not conscious of his intent, I’m sure he chose the ladies’ room because, deep down, he knows Cal and Jimmy will leave us alone in here. I don’t feel threatened, though, which has something to do with his demeanor. His body language suggests he just wants to talk.
“Did you see what just happened?” he asks. “Jimmy’s trying to excommunicate me. My best fucking friend wants me gone.”
I’m surprised that Yag considers Jimmy his best friend, but I don’t say anything.
“Ever since Lucas dipped out—”
“What do you mean since Lucas dipped out?” I interrupt.
“We don’t see him anymore, not since—” Then it hits him. “They hang out without me, don’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I mean, they’ve been friends for so long they have their own way of communicating.”
“They think I’ve never lost anyone,” he says. “Like they have.”
The fake pine smell of the bathroom hits me again.
“That’s not how it works, Martin. I know you want to make sense of it, but loss doesn’t push people together. It tears them apart. If Lucas and Jimmy are still close, it’s because they found a way around the loss. They tapped into something that existed long before we ever knew them. Bottle rockets in the backyard or summer nights in the cemetery.” I’m not sure if this is true, or if I’m saying it for Martin’s benefit or my own. He’s not really listening.
“You know I took an extra year to finish med school?” he says.
“I know that, yes.”
“Everyone just assumed I went off the deep end, like I went off my meds or something.”
“So why did you?” I ask.
“I was in love,” he says. “Just once. I loved her as much as Lucas loves you.”
“With who?”
“Maeve,” he says. “Jimmy’s sister.”
I do a little mental math. Yag’s time in med school coincided with when Jimmy returned home. Maeve’s cancer had already spread.
“When Jimmy arrived, he made us stop seeing each other. I wasn’t allowed in the house.”
“Why?” I ask, even though I know why.
“Same reason you later banned me from your house, I guess.” He shrugs. “Jimmy said she was too fragile for me.”
“She was dying,” I say for no reason.
“Exactly,” he says. “And I loved her. I loved her and I wanted a little more time with her, and she wanted more time with me. One night I snuck her out. Jimmy was at the bar. Their parents went to bed at nine. Maeve asked to see a ten o’clock movie, just to feel normal for a night. It was a good idea until we ran into Lucas, who understood Jimmy’s wishes and sided with him. He ratted us out, of course. Jimmy was at the theater within ten minutes. He dragged her out in her wheelchair as she protested. I would’ve fought him but Lucas held me back.” He chuckles. “I thought Lucas was my bro. To tell you the truth, we weren’t close. We weren’t anything. Just two guys who hung out at the same bar.”
There are other women at the bar—the group of college girls that came in for shots. One of them could barge in at any time. I bolt the lock on the outer door, an action I usually forgo because the toilet stall is private. Yag is telling me something he needs to tell me, for whatever reason, and I don’t want to be interrupted.
“I’d told my parents I couldn’t go anywhere that summer. They’d planned a trip to Montreal, but I didn’t want to be away for two weeks, so I insisted on staying behind. Jimmy and Lucas made sure I never saw Maeve again, though.”
“You loved her,” I acknowledge. “She must have known.”
“She died that summer.” Yag starts crying. I’ve never seen him like this. I always thought he was just another Peter Pan asshole.
“Imagine if Lucas was dying,” he says. “And someone thought you were so worthless that you weren’t allowed to say goodbye.”
I can imagine exactly that, I think. Except someone would be me. I’d keep myself away.
I squat down to look at Martin at eye level. Shifting my weight from the balls of my feet to my heels, I realize I can’t hold the position for very long. My knees ache. I drop my butt to the floor and sit cross-legged at his feet. My body reminds me how badly I need to pee. I will hold it for as long as I can. “So why’d you keep hanging out with Lucas and Jimmy?”
“We took a break,” he says. “Maybe six months after Maeve died, I started seeing them around the bar again. I dunno. I guess I was lonely.”
Looking at Yag now, I can see how Maeve would have been attracted to him. He has smooth, milky skin, almost feminine, and before he lost it, he had a mop of curly blond hair. He’s short for a man but not too small, not scrawny. He’s lean and muscular, and in his twenties, he wouldn’t have carried the softness on his gut. To top it all off, he has these beautiful, serene green eyes—eyes that, until now, I don’t think I’ve ever looked into. I want to tell him Lucas and Jimmy were wrong to keep them apart. I want to say I’m sorry because that’s how I feel, but sorry doesn’t mean anything. I wish Yag had told me this story before I’d planted Cal’s wallet in his jacket. If only I’d known his story, or considered he had a story at all, beyond what he’d shared with the guys at the bar, I’d have cut him some slack. If only. If only.
My feelings toward Martin are softer now. I even decide to give him a pass for the succession of young girls, one after another, each one more attempt to bury the memory of Maeve.
I point at the bathroom door. “Those people are your friends. Lucas too.”
“Jimmy sold me out in a hot second when you planted the wallet. You know what? I’m glad you did it. Now I know where we stand. It’s got nothing to do with his sister.”
“It’s been a long night. Jimmy’s drunk. No one’s thinking straight, yourself included.”
He wipes the tears from his face. “Beer tears. That’s what my mom calls them,” he says. “Screw Jimmy. He and Lucas can have their sad-sack friendship.”
“Lucas always cared about you,” I say. “I’m not sure if he can be there for you now, but that’s got nothing to do with you.”
“How am I gonna come up with ten grand anyway?”
“Borrow it from your parents. Go to work for Cal. Pay it back over time.” I stand up and shake my legs out. “Give me the stall for a minute, or I’m going to piss my pants.”
He stands up and walks over to the mirror.
I close the swinging stall doors, yank down my jeans, and talk as my bladder empties. “Any minute, some drunk college girl is going to start banging on this door, needing to pee,” I say. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna walk out into the bar. I’m going to tell everyone that I planted the wallet, that it was just a gag. I’ll buy everyone a round as a show of goodwill, and the apologies will come just as quick as the blame. Then you’ll play another game of pool with Jimmy. Take the edge off. And we’ll all go home and tomorrow will be another day.”
I flush and step out of the stall to wash my hands. He nods, seemingly pleased with the plan. As I begin to unlock the door, he puts his hand over mine. “Everything you do turns to gold,” he says. “Your book. The fund. Maeve was the only one who made me feel like somebody.”
“I am a mother—” I begin. He throws me a look of recognition, and I don’t have to finish the thought. He accepts my use of the present tense, or doesn’t question it. I was a mother. I am a mother. I will always be a mother. Even Martin Yagla understands that.
We unlock the door together and exit into the bar.
There’s a girl waiting outside on her phone, legs crossed, holding in her pee. She looks annoyed. “What?” Yag says to her. “Never fucked in the bathroom?” We both laugh at the look on her face, mouth contorted upward in disgust.
I point at Amelia and tell her the next round, for all the regulars, is on me. Then I come clean about the wallet.
* * *
I READ SOMEWHERE ONCE that drinking is healthy for relationships. Statistically speaking, couples who drink together are more likely to maintain lifelong bonds. Never mind that the study was probably funded by the alcohol industry. This finding was congruous with what I believed to be true about relationships, in spite of the fact that my parents had split and Lucas and I had also split. I’m not talking about a glass of wine with dinner. I’m talking about a sustained habit of drinking together for several hours at a time. The kind of drinking that forges pathways of communication that would not otherwise exist; the kind that replaces therapy altogether. Lovers and friends can cover quite a bit of ground in eight hours of uninterrupted time. Aside from college dorms, that kind of time only exists in bars.
Sometimes I think that’s where Lucas and I went wrong—we stopped going to the bar together. Maybe if we’d kept up the habit, we could have worked through things. Maybe we’d still be together. Don’t get me wrong: the bar can’t make the pain go away. Drinking can, for some hours, but it always comes back. The bar is simply a place where a person can live with the pain, because it isn’t home, with the trappings of loneliness, or work, with the slow torture of avoidance. It is just a place where one human in the world chooses to be among other humans.
We didn’t stop going to the bar when we had Lionel. We met here twice a week, when my class let out at four o’clock. Lucas’s mom watched our son on those days, and she seemed happy to spend a few extra hours with him.
On weekends, we’d have friends over for barbeques in our backyard, or, every now and again, we’d take our son with us to the bar. Some combination of the chatter and the clanking glasses put him to sleep as a baby, and everyone seemed to appreciate his wide-eyed wonder as he started to grow. The regulars all called him Lion, and they let him sit in their laps and grab on to their legs, dangling from bar stools. Amelia gave him maraschino cherries, on the house, which I pulled apart into little pieces so they could slide down his tiny throat. For our little Lion, the bar was a tiny world, better than a playground.
