Bill stood for a moment, watching him, and then lowered himself to the chair again. His jacket remained zipped and buttoned. Look, I know I did some things I shouldn’t have, he said, but it’s not anything I can change. I’ve already said I’m sorry.
A man with a feathered dart in his hand passed the table and seemed to survey both of them in turn as if sizing them up for a brawl. Hey, the man said, you two guys up for a dart game?
Not this time, Rick said.
Your loss, the man said, striding to where the dartboards hung on the wall in a slim alcove at the back of the bar. Someone closer to the door, behind Bill, burst into laughter.
I don’t know what else you want me to say here, Bill said. I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry you went to prison.
Yeah, everyone’s sorry, Rick said. He looked beyond Bill now, farther into the bar. Then he said, You know Susan wrote me a few years ago.
At the sound of her name, even after all these years, he felt his heart stutter in his chest. Oh yeah? he said.
Yeah, maybe four or five years ago. She married some guy out in Lemmon Valley. Had a couple of kids and everything.
Good for her.
That’s not the point. Point is, she told me about you and her when I was in prison the first time.
Me and her what?
Oh come on, man, Rick said. Now you’re just acting stupid.
The bottle on the table. The wet ring it made.
She said she just wanted to come clean about everything and that she was sorry but she had to get on with her life. So that was like the final piece of the puzzle, you know? I mean, you guys all just left me behind and didn’t even look back once. And here I am with shit-all to show for it. Everyone gets a fresh start and I’m left holding the bag? I don’t think so.
Bill lifted his beer and drank. He could taste nothing. Nothing at all.
Why’d you leave me there, Nat? Rick said.
He looked away for a moment and then looked back. I couldn’t have gotten to you in time, he said.
Bullshit.
I don’t know what else to tell you. It all went to shit so fast. There wasn’t any time to think.
You shouldn’t have had to think.
He sat watching him, the gray ghost that had once been his friend. Then he said, It just doesn’t matter anymore. You gotta move past it.
Doesn’t matter? It was twelve years of my life. Because of you, man. The whole fucking thing. That’s what I realized in prison. Everything that got fucked up in my life was all because of you.
I don’t know what to tell you, man. I really don’t.
Rick sat looking at him.
We done?
Fuck we are.
If you keep asking me the same thing I’m gonna keep giving you the same answer.
You fucked this up, Natty, Rick said. Just like you fucked up everything you ever touched. You really fucked this up.
You don’t know me anymore, Bill said.
Oh, I know you. You haven’t changed that much.
Yes, I have.
I don’t think so, Rick said. He smiled again, that thin shining line.
Bill sat looking across the table at him, his mouth dry, heart thumping away in his chest, Rick staring into his eyes. I don’t know what else to say, he said at last. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for how it worked out.
Not as sorry as I am.
Why’d you want to see me, Rick? Why are you even here?
I’ll tell you why, Rick said. His voice was cold now. I came up here to see what happened to the money but also to find out what happened to you. He shook his head slowly, dolefully.
This is what happened to me, Bill said. Now go home.
Rick looked up at him now, his eyes wet and clear. Go home? he said. I’m not done talking. He smiled now, his gray teeth shining in the bar’s neon signage. I gave you a chance. I want you know that.
A chance for what?
Redemption, he said.
What’s that supposed to mean? Bill said. His voice was steady but he felt as if he was shaking inside, his skeleton trying to loose itself of his skin.
It means I’ve been waiting twelve years to pay you back, Rick said. Now I’m the one done talking. Pay for my fucking beer. He stood quickly.
Rick, Bill said.
And at that word Rick spun, suddenly and without warning, his hand clamped to the back of Bill’s neck before he could even flinch, Rick’s face so close that he could smell the burning scent of his breath. You think you’ve changed, Rick said. The shit I did in prison just to survive you couldn’t even begin to imagine. And let me tell you this, my friend. I know where you live and where your girlfriend lives and where she works and where her kid goes to school. So you just think about that.
You’re making a mistake.
I’m not the one making a mistake. Not this time.
Bill’s voice was thin through his teeth. I’m sure we can figure this out, he hissed.
Let’s find out, Rick said.
He released his grip then. Bill knocked his chair over in his haste to stand, the table lurching forward and both beer bottles tipping. Rick! he yelled, but the man was already halfway across the room and then was at the door and then was gone.
Bill glanced slowly around the room, fists clenched and trembling, beer splashing the floor at his feet. The jukebox played its song of cowboys and lost love. Then he ran headlong for the door.
In the blowing snow, the yellow Honda was turning out of its parking spot, its chained tires whacking the surface of the concrete like muffled machine gun fire, the taillights a faint red blur as the car braked and then slid forward. Bill called his name again as he came down into the parking lot, his feet slipping everywhere but somehow reaching the car as it slid toward the asphalt of the highway, his fists battering the yellow curve of the roof, screaming that name again and again as the car pulled out and away from him, its tire chains flopping in the snow, pulling out onto the highway and into the darkness of the storm.
THE DRIVE to Bonners Ferry would have taken fifteen minutes on a clear day, but the snow was blowing sideways across the road and the pickup seemed to shift across that landscape as if adrift. They had plowed, had probably plowed many times, but the blizzard was so thick that he could sometimes not find the roadbed at all. And yet he kept moving forward, the snow a tunnel that seemed to curl in upon his vision, not opening up but closing upon him like a fist and the road continuing forever toward a destination that seemed, in the storm, to move farther and farther from his rolling tires.
When he finally pulled into the Safeway parking lot in Bonners and saw Grace’s pickup there he nearly wept with relief, the truck sliding in next to hers, his door already opening. She stepped out onto the snow and he embraced her and told her he loved her and that he was sorry and she looked at him and put her hands against his face. This guy’s nuts, she said.
He nodded. I called the sheriff from the bar. He’s out looking for him.
Good, she said. Where are we going?
He hesitated before answering. Then he said: Coeur d’Alene.
Bill, she said slowly, you’re coming with us, right?
I can’t, he said.
She looked away.
You know I can’t.
Dammit, Bill, she said. There were tears in her eyes now. What am I supposed to do now?
Highway’ll be clear down to Coeur d’Alene. Get a hotel room and I’ll come down later tonight.
Later tonight? She would not look at him. You probably don’t even have a phone up there right now.
I can’t leave them, Grace. I haven’t even had the chance to feed them tonight.
They’ll be fine for one night.
You’re probably right but I just can’t do it.