Via Dolorosa(19)

Later, back in the room, wet and toweling off, Nick peeled back the shade over the windows and glanced out into the night. Suddenly, and for whatever reason, he felt trapped, unable to free himself and leave the room, leave the hotel, leave the island. It was an island, after all; perhaps to leave would be impossible. And it would not just be leaving—it would be escaping. Could he escape? Perhaps to get away from the hotel and the island and everything he now—and so recently—associated with the hotel and the island would be tantamount to an innocent’s escape from a nightmare and nearly as futile and useless as a pillager’s salting of the Sahara.

He dressed with little enthusiasm. Looking around, he noticed that the keys to the Impala were not on the nightstand where he usually left them. There was nothing there except the Bible, a folded leaflet, and a rectangular handbill, glossy and colorful. With graffito treble staffs and the bellbottom S of a hand-drawn saxophone, the handbill advertised an establishment called the Club Potemkin, which professed itself to be the island’s premiere venue for live blues and jazz. And tonight’s feature musician, he saw, was none other than Goat-Man Claxton and His Aged Trio. Nick let the handbill flutter to the floor. He reached out and picked up the leaflet. Unfolding it, Nick saw that it was on hotel stationary. It read in large, damning black letters:



LIMBO!



How low can you go?



Contest tonight in the Riviera Room!





He looked away and found himself helpless, unfortunate, staring at the empty bed jarringly empty, which had been recently attended to by housekeeping. He looked at the pillow and looked at the vague dimple in its center. Had she been sleeping on that pillow just moments ago? Had she perhaps reentered the hotel room while he was in the shower, crawled atop the bed to rest and, no doubt, to think…and then slipped quietly back out once she heard the shower shut off? His wife?

I have got to stop doing this to myself, he thought.

A half hour later, Nick found himself hunting out a stool at the restaurant bar. The bar and the restaurant itself were not very crowded as the storm had just begun to let up. The more adventurous guests had donned thick, waterproof coats and hats, having grown determined following two days of boredom and inactivity to champion the waning storm. Nick did not mind the silence. He selected a stool at the bar, uninterested in sitting very close to any of the other patrons.

“Well,” Roger said, sliding down the bar. “Looks like we survived the worst of it.”

“I guess that’s lucky for some of us,” Nick said.

“It’s always sad, no matter how many times it happens a season, when the bar empties out and the guests go back out into the island.”

“They’ll always be back, though,” Nick said. “Eventually.”

“Scotch and water?”

“Thanks.”

“Just so you know, Mr. Granger left an open bar tab for you with me. I’m supposed to put all your drinks on it.”

“Damn it,” Nick said. “Don’t do that.”

“Mr. Granger insisted, Nick.”

“I won’t drink if he’s picking up the tab.”

“He’s a stubborn old bastard,” Roger said.

“Sure, he told me so himself. But don’t make me walk half a mile to find another bar, man.”

“Fair enough,” Roger said. “Just, when you see him, don’t let on that I said anything.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Roger disappeared and returned two minutes later with a short, wide glass of scotch chocked with ice.

“Thanks, Roger.”

“No problem. You want a menu?”

“No,” he said. “Not hungry.”

“Your wife meeting you?”

“She’s…I don’t know…”

“Well,” Roger said, suddenly intentionally busying himself with a dishtowel that he’d swiped up off the countertop, “let me know if you change your mind and want something to eat.”

“You’re a pusher.”

“I’m trying to make a living.”

“Sure,” Nick said. “As a pusher.”

“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“What is it?”

“What happened with you and Granger’s son?”

Something deep within him stiffened. He was abruptly face-to-face with young Myles Granger: he could see every crease in the boy’s face, every pore and pock and drying scab on his face. Unshaven…but there was not much to shave. His eyes were dead blue…and there was something of…perhaps a hint of vague accusation in them, as well.

“You really save the kid’s life?” Roger went on.

“We were in the same platoon over in Iraq. We broke off into teams and were ambushed marching into Fallujah. Our entire squad was killed. Except for Myles Granger and me. Myles, though…he was hit pretty badly. I could tell just by looking at him that there was maybe a chance he might live but that he’d lose his legs. He didn’t want to lose his legs. He screamed about his legs.” Almost reflectively, he said, “He screamed over and over about his legs.” Nick tasted his drink, and said, “He died two days later in triage.”