“Look, we don’t know this guy at all,” I said. “He might not want us around.”
“Who gives a shit what he wants?”
Donald scrambled for his cigarettes. “What’s the point?”
“I want to know what happened.”
“For Christ’s sake, I just told you what happened.”
The waitress interrupted just in time, placed steaming mugs of coffee in front of us and asked if we planned to order breakfast. Through a forced smile I told her the coffee would be sufficient. Once she was out of earshot Rick leaned forward and zeroed in on me, forearms on the table between us. “What do you think?”
I warmed my hands on the side of the mug and gazed at the rain. “Bernard’s gone, man. Doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what we do.”
Rick flopped back against the bench. “Fine, you guys do whatever you want. I’m going over there.”
“Why?” Donald asked. “For what purpose, exactly?”
“One,” Rick snapped, “I want to know where they buried him. Two, I want to know if he has any stuff left. Might be nice to have something of his, right? Like, remember when Tommy died and his mother sent us stuff?”
I did remember. Specifically, an illustration Tommy had made in elementary school his mother had given me not long after his death. I still had it tucked neatly away in my desk at home, and though I hadn’t looked at it in years, the knowledge that it was there—some palpable piece of him, his history—was somehow comforting. I glanced at Donald, who was twisting a napkin in his hands as if it had done something to offend him. “We do need to know where he’s buried.”
“I don’t even know where the house is,” Donald said.
Rick threw back some coffee. “I do. We went out for lunch a couple weeks ago. I picked him up out in front.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?” I asked. Rick gave a nod and looked away. An uncomfortable silence fell for what seemed an eternity, amplifying the sound of the rain. Flashes of the nightmare slithered through me, summoning a chill that began at the nape of my neck. “I hadn’t seen him in about a month,” I finally said.
“Me either.” Donald threw the napkin aside. “I should’ve called him back sooner, I—”
“Don’t do that to yourself, man.” Rick cracked his knuckles with a loud pop; a nervous habit he’d possessed since childhood. “This ain’t our fault. Bernard had some hard times—just like the rest of us—and he made a decision. That’s it.”
I sipped my coffee. “Why would he do it? Jesus, why would he—”
“Fucking cowardly if you ask me.”
Donald glared at him. “No one asked.”
“He didn’t even have the balls to leave a note.”
Donald crushed his cigarette in a small glass ashtray and slid it away with disgust. “Sometimes you are such an asshole. Do you think maybe we could mourn for a while before you start passing your usual lofty judgements? Don’t we owe him that much?”
“We were his friends. We’re like brothers. He should’ve come to us if it got that bad. He should’ve—”
“Did he call you in the two weeks since you saw him last? Did he? He called me. I know he called Alan, did he call you too, Rick? Did he?”
“I never called him back either,” I admitted. “I kept meaning to but…”
Rick took a gulp of coffee and returned the mug to the table with a violent slam. “Fuck this. Things got tough and Bernard checked out. He took the easy way out, man, that’s all I’m saying.”
“The easy way,” Donald said through a mock chuckle. “Is there such a thing?”
I reached across the table, grabbed Donald’s pack of cigarettes and shook one free. I’d quit a few months prior, but now, recognizing a stressful and sorrowful time, the addiction was beckoning, calling to me once again. I rolled the cigarette between my fingers. “If we’re going to do this let’s get it the hell over with.”
“You don’t need that.” Rick reached across the table, snatched the cigarette and crushed it in his hand. “Took you months to quit, why blow it now?”
Donald’s jaw dropped. “Yeah, crush the whole pack, it’s not like I have to pay for them or anything.”
“Like I give a shit. Those things are killing us.” Rick opened his hand, emptied the torn paper and loose tobacco onto the table then scrambled out of the booth. “Come on.” He dug a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off a few singles and tossed them over the mess he’d made. “We’ll take my Jeep.”
Rain drummed the roof, struggled with the squealing cadence of windshield wipers for attention. The interior of Rick’s Jeep Cherokee was neurotically immaculate, and since he didn’t allow smoking, Donald, who was already fidgeting about in back, leaned forward and poked his head between the bucket seats. “What the hell is he doing in there?”
I squinted through the blurred window. “Looks like he’s talking with the attendant.”
“Christ, pay for the gas and get on with it.” Donald sat back and crossed his legs, jeans squeaking against leather. “Sometimes, Alan, I could strangle the bastard.”
“It’s just Rick’s way. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Well I’m getting tired of Rick’s way. God forbid he shows any emotion other than happiness or anger. Wouldn’t be sufficiently butch, apparently.”
I adjusted my position so I could look into the back. “That’s Rick, always has been, always will be. He’s as torn up over this as we are, he’ll just never show it.”
“Just like when Tommy died. The sonofabitch never shed a tear,” Donald said in an almost absent tone. “It doesn’t surprise me two of us ended up dead before we hit forty, only which two. I never thought I’d outlive any of you. Makes you wonder if life isn’t arbitrary after all.”
“Maybe you’re just indestructible, you miserable prick.”
Our eyes met, and somewhere behind the bloodshot roadmaps and dark circles I caught a glimpse of the past in Donald’s expression, one of impish humor and biting exuberance, his trademark in years past, before the booze, before the darkness.
It seemed an inappropriate time for laughter, but we laughed anyway.
It faded quickly; absorbed by the din of a relentless rain.
The grating voice of a local sportscaster droned from the car stereo. The Bruins were struggling for a playoff spot and had lost the night before. Normally I would have been interested, but I focused instead on the hiss of tires against wet pavement and the fast-approaching cityscape of New Bedford.
“Fucking Bruins,” Rick moaned. “You ask me, they need to goon it up, drop the gloves and throw some fists. All these fucking do-gooders are ruining the game.”
I turned from the window long enough to glance at him and offer a quick nod, hopeful he would take my cue and be quiet before Donald let loose on him.
“It’s even changed at the high school level,” Rick said. “Shit, when we played we got the job done—and we played like fucking men. Remember the game against—”
“If I give you a dollar,” Donald said from the back, “will you stop talking?”
Rick grinned. “You’re just jealous because you never played.”
“Yes, positively green with envy.”
“Sure, make jokes, you know it’s true.”
“Can we talk about something else?” I said quickly.
Donald scoffed. “How about nothing at all?”
Rick tightened his grip on the wheel and decreased speed as we left the highway and veered along the Downtown New Bedford Exit. “Same thing with football,” he said. “I was one of the best players our school ever had, but you always made it out like it was no big deal. Guys like you always do, because you got no talent for it.”