Via Dolorosa(8)

Nick did not know what to say and Roger, the bartender, was watching Mr. Granger skeptically.

“Oh, hell,” Granger said after a moment. Perhaps he, too, felt the awkwardness. It seemed the entire bar was filled with awkwardness tonight. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. That was a lousy thing to say. I’m sorry.”

“Everyone seems sorry for something tonight,” Nick said from the corner of his mouth.

“I am,” Granger said.

“Not a big deal, Mr. Granger,” Nick said.

Looking up at the bartender, Granger said, “You know the story, don’t you, Roger?”

“What story is that, sir?”

“The whole story. The story about Nicholas, here, and my boy. You know that story, don’t you, Roger?”

“No, sir.”

“You know about my boy Myles?”

“Yes, sir,” Roger said. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry for you, too, Roger,” Granger said. “We’re like brothers, you and me. And we need to remain like brothers.” He said, “We’re all sorry and we’re all like brothers.” And the bell captain thumped a small, plump, red fist to his chest. His voice had taken on a peculiar cadence; it sounded the smallest bit hopeful. “Like brothers,” he repeated.

“Oh yes, sir,” Roger said, nodding without expression.

“This boy,” Granger said, rising from his stool and referring again to Nick. That hand was back on Nick’s shoulder again, too. Nick could feel the bell captain’s weight against him, righting himself as he stood. Granger said, “This boy.” He said, “Some boy.”

“It’s nothing,” Nick said, not looking directly at the bell captain.

“He saved my son’s life,” Granger said to the bartender.

“Is that true?” Roger said.

“I didn’t,” Nick interrupted. “Honestly.”

“He did,” Granger went on. “In Iraq, he did. He’s modest so he won’t tell it like it is, but I know the truth of it and I know what happened. I know because I have it in writing, in handwriting. A medic that worked on my son, he wrote it in a letter just before Myles died. I know that Nicholas tried to save my boy’s life.” Turning back to Nick, and lost in his own approbation, Granger said, “Some boy.”

“It’s late,” Nick said. “You look tired, Mr. Granger. It’s been a long day, too.”

“I apologize, Nicholas. I shouldn’t have made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, sir.”

“You’re a good boy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

To the bartender, Granger said, “He’s a good boy.”

“So then the next drink will be on the house,” Roger said with very little enthusiasm.

“Yes! Because,” Granger went on, “he does not pay for a drink in my company. Ever. For as long as I live.”

“All right,” Roger said.

“For as long as we both live,” Granger clarified.

“All right,” Roger said again.

“For as long as Nick and I both live, I mean,” Granger further clarified. “Not you and I, Roger.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Though we are still brothers. Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

Granger nodded, pleased. “Goodnight, then, Roger.” And in slow motion he turned. “Goodnight, Nicholas. And I’m sorry for spouting all that father stuff. It was uncalled for.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Granger,” Nick said. Once the hand was off his shoulder, Nick turned to watch the bell captain leave the bar and disappear down the corridor that communicated with the hotel lobby. Granger walked like someone with a doomed destiny—heavy, dejected, resigned. Nick could see the old man’s shadow stretched long and out-of-shape along the gray-green linoleum floor tiles and move ghostlike along the wall.

“They call him the poor son of a bitch,” Roger said, emptying the remainder of the bell captain’s drink into the sink pit beneath the bar. “Behind his back they call him that. There he goes, the poor son of a bitch. Off to drink again, the poor son of a bitch. Lost in himself, the poor son of a bitch.” Roger was watching his own hands manipulate and twist a greasy dishrag into some sort of cudgel. “And,” Roger continued, “it’s one thing to be a poor son of a bitch out in the open and when you know you’re one, Lieutenant, but it’s quite another to be one behind your own back.”

“It’s late, man. He’ll be all right.”

“He was in here an hour ago when he got off duty.” And then, as testimony, he added, “The poor son of a bitch.”

“I could tell he was a little drunk. But that’s okay. He’s entitled.”

“Hell,” Roger said. “We’re all entitled.”





—Chapter III—





Nick woke early, but Emma was already up and gone. He touched her side of the bed and it was not warm. He wondered how early she had gotten up.

The sheer curtains had been pulled halfway across the glass patio doors, and the shades over the windows were still drawn. From where he lay, he could see only a cursory account of the outside world. There was scarce daylight; the rain was still coming hard, that second day of the storm, and the sky looked tired, yellow-gray, and worn out. The whole room looked exhausted and smelled strongly of sleep. The sun, shielded, burned silver the thin cirrus threads on the horizon. The coastline was a brute coastline, obstinate and heady, heavily foamed, bleached, alkaline. And despite the full onrush of the storm, the island sat eerily swaddled in quiet, like a great, beating throng suddenly paused, or like the cumulative pendulums of a massive network of clocks, all simultaneously frozen (and against all semblance of rationale) at forty-five degrees to the right, directing time to a standstill.