Via Dolorosa(7)

“Did you love her?”

“Of course.”

“Was she pretty?”

“She looked just like you would want a wife to look.”

“Did you have any kids together?”

“One.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

“This is like extracting teeth, Roger. What’s her name, this girl of yours?”

“Faye,” said Roger, suddenly digging around in his rear pocket. “She’s the reason I moved to the Carolinas.” He produced a worn leather wallet, flipped it open, and slid out a creased, dog-eared photograph of a beautiful, dark-haired, smiling girl.

“She’s very beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Roger said, looking at the picture as if to commit it to memory. He then slid it back into his wallet and tucked the wallet away in his pocket.

“Children need a good, healthy place to grow up, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Roger agreed.

“And you’re no longer married?”

“No, sir,” the bartender said.

“Why?”

“It didn’t take.”

“It didn’t take?”

“No, sir,” Roger said. “The marriage, it didn’t take.”

“You talk of it as though it were a goddamn organ transplant.”

“I’m sorry.” Something potent and previously available had suddenly dried up inside Roger, Nick could tell.

“Crap.” Nick paused, thinking, and looked at his drink. When he finally looked back up at the bartender, he said, “Forget it, man—Roger. It’s none of my goddamn business. None of it is any of my business. Don’t listen to anything I say tonight. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing wrong with some conversation.”

“Oh, sure,” Nick said. “Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with that at all.” And he rolled his shoulders—forcefully casual. “It’s just easier to talk about the rain sometimes. Or the—the what?—those bugs.”

“Cicadas,” Roger said.

“Cicadas,” he repeated. “Right.”

“How about another Dewar’s?” Roger, too, sounded just as eager to change topics.

“That’s something good to talk about, too. Scotch is something good to talk about.”

“Then I’ll fix you another one.”

“Let me get it, Roger,” a man said, coming up behind Nick and placing a hand on Nick’s shoulder. It was the bell captain, looking tired and drained and with half-hearted, glassy eyes. He was still in his uniform, though the collar was now unbuttoned and a bloom of steel-colored hair puffed out from his reddened chest. His ample, squat body looked uncomfortable in the uniform—big-bellied, thickly forearmed, simian-knuckled.

“Nicholas,” said the bell captain.

“Hello, Mr. Granger,” Nick said, and squeezed the bell captain’s forearm with his left hand. “You don’t have to keep buying me drinks every time I see you.”

“You will never pay for an alcoholic beverage whenever I’m around, Nicholas,” Granger said. “What you do when you’re on your own, however,” the bell captain continued, “well, that’s another story…”

“I feel like a mooch.”

“Nonsense.”

“At least have a drink with me,” Nick said.

“It’s been a long day, Nicholas. I think I can manage to actually get some sleep tonight. I’m going to try, anyway. With this storm, we’ve had no one arriving for the past several hours. A lot of cancellations. The hotel is very quiet and I’m going to use it. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Emma and I ate dinner down here a few hours ago,” he told the bell captain. “I guess everyone’s staying in their rooms. We were the only couple in the place.”

“I’m glad for the two of you. It can be such a romantic place. The whole island can be romantic.”

Nick, who did not wish to talk about romance, said, “Just one drink. It isn’t very late.” And before the bell captain could protest further, Nick requested a second scotch from the bartender.

When the drinks came, the two men drank together and mostly in silence. It seemed the most appropriate way to drink scotch very late at night in a hotel during a thunderstorm. There you go again, he thought to himself. There you go, thinking like an old man. How old do you really think you are, you lousy son of a bitch? Just because you’ve seen some things and just because your good hand has become your bad hand, do you honestly think you’ve lived enough to act and think so old? He knew he was a fool, and knowing this brought a wet little smile to his face. It could have just been the scotch, though.

“Tell me about Emma, Nicholas,” Granger said. They were both nearing the end of their drinks and it was the first real thing the man had said since he’d sat down. “Tell me about the two of you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know what it would be like to be your father, Nicholas, and to sit here and hear about my son and his wife. I want to know what it would be like to be proud and happy for you. I truly am proud and happy for you, Nicholas, but just for one little moment in time I would like to know what it would be like to be proud and happy as your father.”