I am minutes from falling to pieces in this middle of this crowded bar. My grandmother, after so many years of suffering, finally passed away. My grief is all consuming. Thankfully, there is nothing to plan. Nana, Ms. Type A that she was, planned her Memorial service and viewing within a week of learning she was dying.
The only thing I can do is let the hours pass until her funeral tomorrow, but the ticking seconds are a chisel chipping away my strength. The bar, an escape from painful small talk with distant relatives who only care enough to make an appearance.
I am tucked in the farthest corner possible. It’s a busy night, Friday, 9 pm, July 12. Tourist season is in full swing in our tiny lake community. I’m surrounded by old friends, returned home for a summer respite. Despite these friendly faces, I am alone, empty, unable to relate to these happy people.
I escaped from the stifling silence of my parents’ house, once a warm home, now a mausoleum to this place in hopes of finding a distraction, but not even the smooth burn of my whiskey seems to be touching my pain. I sit twirling my curls around my finger, stopping only to take alternating sips between my Jameson and lager.
I hide in the screen of my phone, fearing that any eye contact will elicit a disastrous How are you? from a well-meaning patron. The result of such a question would surely break the already crumpling levee barricading my emotions. How should I be? My friend is gone forever.
“Another round, honey?” Sherry asks sweetly.
“Might as well,” I call, my voice louder than I would like but necessary over the relentless drone of the crowd. Was that my second or third round? I know I’ve been here for a while, definitely long enough to be uncertain of how much I’ve had. Second, I’ll say second.
I return to my social media scanning, but a movement in my peripheral catches my attention, a man approaching the vacant chair to my right. He is only a few inches taller than myself. He is quiet and has kind eyes. My distraction seems to have arrived. Maybe this was a good idea after all,
“Is this seat taken?”
“No, go ahead.”
Sherry glides towards him and slides a coaster across the bar, “Usual?”
“Sure Honey,” he says and he leans towards me, struggling to pull his wallet and phone out of the bulging pockets of tight khakis. Sherry sets a beer and an empty rocks glass in front of him then pours him a double Jameson, neat.
He turns to me and here comes that dreaded question. I tense with anticipation.
“So, how are you?”
“Not so bad,” I lie, surprised at my composure. He smiles and takes a sip of his whiskey and chases it with a swig of beer.
“What’s your poison,” he asks, pointing at my beer.
“Yuengling, you too?” I say noticing the similar amber liquid in his pint glass.
“Yeah, it’s my favorite. You know, you can’t get this stuff on the west coast where I’m from.”
“Oh, really? Learn something new every day. Why not?”
“I’m not sure. I guess some things are like that. You also can’t get Swedish Fish out there. I had no idea what they were until I moved here.”
“Oh man, those were my favorite when I was little.”
“No way, Almond Joys are the best,” he says, raising an eyebrow, as if insulted.
He plunges into story after story about his childhood. I laugh and tell him about childhood camps, friends, picnics, burning myself with a sparkler on the fourth of July. I show him the faint scar, barely visible, on my knee from one of my many bicycle accidents.
Inevitably, I talk about my many summers at her house, Camp Nana as my father called it, and her death. Calm begins to erase the emptiness. The conversation is easy, and he is a great listener. He hangs on every word but has the ability to add his own experiences when I’m getting too serious. He distracts me from the looming funeral and obligatory familial interactions.
“Last call. You want one more?” Sherry interrupts as he finishes telling me about a time when his grandmother took down a mugger with jar of Pond’s Cold Cream.
“No, I’m good. How about a water?” I splutter amid my inebriated laughter. Sherry turns to my companion who waves her off.
“Is it really two o’clock already?” I add.
“It would appear so,” he says, “you want a ride home?”
“No, I’m going to walk. It’s just up the road. I can get my car in the morning.”
“I’ll walk you,” he says as he takes my hand.
We cross the parking lot. At this late hour, we can walk in the middle of the road. The lights on the bar sign go out as we pass the entrance. Around us, all the houses are quiet. The stars are shining, unobscured by the usual light pollution. I breathe in deeply. The smell of the lake and a faint fishy aroma fills my lungs. I sigh. With this release, I can feel myself relaxing and letting go of my pain. I revel in this moment of peace before having to face my family the next day.
We take our time walking down our long winding dirt road, not wanting to leave the cool early morning air. The stillness of the night, only broken by the occasional cool breeze. The crickets are sleeping, the birds not yet awoken. I am happy. We enter the house, the dogs, too tired to care about our intrusion. We fall into bed and welcome our slumber nestled in each other’s arms. Whatever happens tomorrow, I know that my husband and I will face it together, just as we are now.
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