~*~
The rain beat heavily on the metal roof of the bus as it cut through the fog and the dismal cold of the evening. It swerved out of traffic for one last in-town stop, wheels diving and jostling the puddles that had collected on the street. The doors swung open stiffly, paused a moment, then opened up all the way. They picked up a single soul, an old woman, who clutched four shopping bags and a faux fur purse. She looked down at the faces staring up at her, felt insecure and settled on an empty seat near the front of the bus.
Those who had been travelling with this bus at the beginning of the trip sat in the back. A young mother took up the back left corner with her two children. Her daughter cried in her arms, her little red nose pressed against the cardigan that her mother wore. She soothed her baby who was a very sickly child from the moment she was born; a premature birth had complicated matters. Her little boy had escaped her loving arms and was playing with a shiny new Tonka truck in the middle of the aisle. He made car noises with his mouth as he directed the truck into a puddle of water that someone had brought in.
To the right of the woman was a young businessman who wore thick, dark glasses and a flat hairdo. He held a newspaper to his face, but was not really reading about his successful company in the business section. Instead he watched the young boy play and thought of his own dismal childhood. While most of the children on his block played on weekends he was much too busy growing up. Most made friends during their time away from school, but he learned all about the stock market and companies as he followed his father to business meetings. At the time he had went along with it, as most children would, but as he grew older he became weary. By then it was too late. His childish desire to grow as old as fast as possible was no longer a desire, but a foolish wish granted.
In the seat ahead of the young man were a group of female Japanese students. They chattered in their language and wore “Hello Kitty” purses on their shoulders. They sat quite still, with their hands clasped in their laps and their knee-high skirts smoothed into their proper place. Only they, and the little boy on the floor, were making any sort of noise.
Across from the group of Japanese girls sat another young man. He sighed and pressed his forehead against the chilly glass, allowing the window to cool his pounding head. He didn’t seem to mind that the brim of his hat bent dramatically as he did this. Rain captured by the hat oozed from the brim and down the window. Some of the water caught a hold of the young man’s wavy brown hair that was, until now, dry of any rain. He wore a thick black rain jacket that played his ankles when he walked. The dark pants he wore were not cotton or wool and did not protect him from the cold air. With nothing to protect his legs from the brisk evening, the cold took the opportunity to nibble at his fair skin until it stung bright red under his attire. His shoes worked contrarily with his ensemble; they were Nikes, Air Payton IV’s, to be exact, with black and white stripes and vibrant yellow laces. They were muddy and soggy from their travels in the weather, but still were unmistakably new.
As they pulled back into traffic, the young man listened to the steady drumbeat provided by the rain, heard the young girls’ whispers to his right, envied the boy driving in the aisle and enjoyed the steady rhythm of the beating arms on the windshield. The wipers had no more control over the heavy downpour and only assisted the view of the driver momentarily before more rain smothered the glass. He wondered if he would have been better off taking his own car, but soon remembered that his car was built strictly for show. It would have taken even longer to get where he needed to be if he had gotten stuck in the mud. Besides, he was saving the planet and whatnot.
They hit a crevice in the road and the young man sees the little boy’s Tonka truck skitter toward him out of the corner of his eye. The truck stops at his shoe, bounces backward from the impact, then reels forward once more. He bends down and holds the yellow toy on the palm of his hand, staring at it with an abundance of feeling.
The boy crawls over to retrieve his truck and looks up at him with wide cerulean eyes. Brian smiles; he hasn’t been able to do that for a long while. His eyes crinkle in the corners and he feels radiant. He can see the two girls watching him with an eager curiosity from across the aisle. If he looked up the bus he would notice several pairs of eyes trained on him as he returned the toy to the child. The boy echoed his smile, but crawled back to his mother when she called his name. Thomas. The young man smiled wider.
Shortly after the boy left, the young man began to feel nostalgic. He fished in his back pocket for his wallet and pulled it out in front of him. His driver’s license fell onto his lap and tumbled to the floor. He bent to pick it up and gave it a long glance. There was his smiling picture, not a bad mug, all things considered. He seemed so different a year ago – he wasn’t used to changing so rapidly. In the picture he had felt young and safe with a wife and another child on the way. He’d felt secure in his position and comfortable in his life.
Sadly, he traced the letters that stood out on his license: Brian Thomas Littrell. It seemed like such a waste of space sitting there in his wallet; he hadn’t felt much like driving lately and he soon would put his Mercedes in his wife’s name. His wife was the temple of the female enigma. Sometimes she knew his life better than he did. He couldn’t imagine being her and going through everything in her place. She had given him everything he had dreamed of: two lovely boys and a baby girl, friendship, first love. He didn’t want to cause her pain, if he had the choice.
As the bus took another sharp turn, Brian stuffed his license deep into his wallet. He sifted through numerous credit cards and wadded-up receipts before he found what he had been looking for. It was a picture of one of his babies, his first son, Joshua, who was the spitting image of him. In the picture he smiled a row of tiny, perfect teeth and wore a mop of wavy, light brown hair. He played in the sandbox that Brian set up in the backyard shortly after he was born. He was dressed only in his play shorts and he had a generous amount of sand in his hair. He had to squint his beautiful blue eyes into tiny slits because the sun had been bright that day. Brian’s wife had taken the picture and the boy was trying to offer his mommy a shovel, but she was too busy with the “photo machine”. Brian tried correcting his son by telling him “It’s a *camera* Baby Duck”, but the little boy liked saying the big words more than the smaller ones. Right in the corner of the picture, by his son’s foot and buried almost completely buried with sand, was Josh’s favorite Tonka truck. v Brian put the photo back into his wallet as soon as he felt his eyes brim with tears. His nostalgia was now replaced with overwhelming sadness. He had not brought a book to get his mind off of the pain that was now returning. All he had in his briefcase was a copy of the bus schedule, a sweater (his wife’s doing) and a single yellow rose. He tried to concentrate on the trees, the wet earth and the lampposts but the motion of the bus made him nauseous.
The bus swerved and Brian’s stomach churned. The jostled bile felt like acid at the back of his throat. He heard his wife’s voice echo in his mind, sweet and gentle, urging him not to travel today. Brian insisted, however, because it always seemed to rain so hard on this particular day. Besides, it was an anniversary. He explained to his wife that he would not purposely miss their wedding anniversary (it already came and went this year) so he would not miss this important anniversary either. She knew that he had not felt good about going out to dinner for the fifth year of their marriage and he had definitely felt worse after dancing (the stares didn’t help at all) but he had stuck with it, just to make sure that she had a great time. He mentioned this to her and she let him go, but only after much hesitation and after seeing the pleading look drawn on Brian’s features. She knew that Brian had promised Kevin that he would come back in a year and that he would not get a chance to do it again.
Brian wondered if Nick would be there. And if he was, what could he possibly say to him? Sorry I haven’t called, written, invited you over for coffee or tea, watched a game with you, played Nintendo with you, or introduced you to my kids. Sorry I erased your name from my answering machine and purposely ignored the phone when I saw on the call display that it was you. Knowing Nick, the truth probably wouldn’t go over well.
Nick is a smart kid; Brian knows that. He’s probably got it all figured out by now. Nick’ll probably be ten, maybe twenty minutes late today, but afterwards he’ll want to talk and Brian’s not sure that he’s ready. He feels that as soon as he has that discussion with Nick, he would have accepted his path in life; he simply isn’t ready for that. Though, he wasn’t being at all fair to Nick and time was slipping by so quickly now.
It was a long time since Brian and Nick had that fight. They went their separate ways because they both couldn’t handle what they couldn’t control. It had been foolish of them and Brian knows this. He thinks of all the time they wasted and all of the memories that they chose not to create. Nick had not invited Brian to his wedding and Brian had been crushed. The marriage didn’t last very long - a few months at the most; Brian had read about it in the paper. Brian had taken to catching up with the world by reading the newspaper, but now he found it tasteless and impersonal. Not like him at all.
Brian dares to look out of the window once more. The treetops glisten and sparkle with beads of rain and the lampposts cast a brilliant glow against the night. Brian craves this sort of tranquility and although the rain will make him sore later, it’s a blessed change.
He tries not to leave the house more than twice a week. Both times he visits the church and prays far more than he used to. It’s hard on his wife because she has to work, cook and sometimes pick up the children from daycare when Brian’s too tired to take care of them. There’s a groove on the bed where Brian sleeps, sometimes seventeen hours a day. His wife always asks the doctor if it’s normal for him to sleep that long, but the doctor just shrugs and nods. Brian dislikes his doctor, but doesn’t switch to a new one because his wife thinks that he is good with the kids. Brian can’t disagree with that – he’s never seen kids so happy after a booster shoot and a cherry-flavored lollipop. However, he doesn’t like the way the doctor makes him feel. He’s a very private person, has been for most of his life, and the doctor makes him feel naked even when he is fully clothed. He’s an enemy, as far as Brian’s concerned.
He’s tired now. He probably has the shortest distance to travel of all of the guys, but it affects him much more. If he naps on the bus, he’ll probably have one of those dreams and scare the passengers. The last thing he wants to do is draw attention to himself.
It takes him awhile to realize that he has company. He looks down to see a mop of chestnut hair and a resplendent grin from the boy in the aisle. The truck is nestled in the boy’s lap, parked between his knee and a crease in his pants. He doesn’t seem to mind that his pants are soaked up to his knees and that there is mud caked on his palms. The boy looks up and beams a 100megawatt smile.
“My name’s Tommy, what’s yours?” He smiles wider, and there’s a missing molar in the upper right corner of his mouth.
Brian clears his throat; he hasn’t spoken to anyone in over three hours and that was when he said, “Good afternoon” to the bus driver, then took his place in the back. He summons a weak smile and croaks, “Brian.”
“I like blue, do you like blue? I like cats, do you like cats? I like cookies, do you like cookies? I like Digimon, do you like Digimon? I like drawing, do you like drawing?” Tommy chatters without a pause for Brian to answer his questions. “Do you want to play with my truck? It’s my favorite.”
Brian thinks about this for a moment, then decides to, why the hell not? “Okay.” He steers the little truck down his bony thigh, noting that there is a biracial driver behind the wheel who is wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a straw hat. In the passenger seat there is a clump of mud.
Beside Brian, Tommy is in his glory. This man must be a gazillion years older than his mommy is, and he’s playing with him. His mom had always told him that she was too old for play. Well, then he’d just figured out a way to prove her wrong.
The truck left a trail of water on Brian’s dress pants, and after the water started to seep through, he handed the toy back to Tommy, who remained seated beside him. Tommy appeared to be fascinated by him and, even with all of the childishness and the innocence that radiated from the boy, Tommy subconsciously knew more about Brian than he had even told his wife. His children were like that too. They knew when daddy got a headache and they knew when they should not pester their daddy with their play. They even tried to shush the baby when she cried and Brian explained to them that he appreciates the effort, but babies will cry whenever they want to and there’s nothing they can do about it.
Someone commands for the bus to stop and the bus pulls over to the side of the road. Brian can see a house across the street, huge, dark and uninviting. There are pillars with lights built into them lining the house, but not a single light is on. He shudders and wonders who would volunteer to live lonely in a place like that.
The man with the newspaper stands, straightens out his attire, tucks the newspaper under his armpit and nods to everyone as he walks up the aisle. When he gets to Brian, they look at each other for awhile until the man nods. Brian knows that he doesn’t understand. The man says “G’night” to the bus driver with his rich accent, exits the bus and crosses the street to the corner of the world.
Brian still needs to take the bus all the way to the station. Then he must have the strength to walk. It’s a short distance from the bus station to where he needs to be – he planned it that way. However, if he doesn’t have a rest on the bus, he may not make it.
Tommy senses this, too. “Do you want a pillow, mister? My mommy brought me one – it’s in her bag – but you can use it.”
“That’s okay, thanks. You don’t want me drooling all over it.”
“Eww!” he squeals and giggles, then continues to play with his toy, leaving Brian to his dreams, which are deceptive, dark and few and far between. A steady drum beats in his ears, mimicking his heartbeat. Brian thinks of his wife’s head on his chest, falling asleep with the sound of rhythm and the assuring comfort of her husband’s life.
Even as he dreams he feels the throbbing pain in his head. It moves with a fluid, rapid motion, travelling from the northeast sector of his cranium to the southwest. Brian had almost not survived the operation following a severe concussion from a minor car accident. The doctors had given him a CAT scan after he complained of headaches weeks after the accident. They discovered fluid lurking in his skull and set about a standard operation to remove it. So Brian had his head shaved, he prayed to God the night before and the minute before, then let doctors take over.
They positioned the drill and drove a hole through the thick layer of bone. The operation went well until they discovered in an x-ray that there was a large cellular formation nestled on the medulla oblongata. They told Brian they could not operate it away without risking nerve damage. Instead they offered the secondary treatments – all of which he refused.
Brian had a hard time believing in anything after that. A crucified Jesus was removed from his bedroom wall, along with a painting of the parting of the Red Sea. He threw his favorite cross necklace into the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept the clothes he had outgrown and unwanted presents from his in-laws. When he had the strength, he gave his personalized Bible to the Salvation Army.
A week later his wife convinced him that he was being inane and ridiculous. His faith had not betrayed him, he decided with the help of his wife and kids. He was just needed for something…bigger. He’d called his mother and told her the horrible news. She didn’t cry, which was a relief to Brian, but she did pack her bags and make her way over. She was gone now, but she would return sometime in the next week. His brother needed her after becoming seriously wounded by a mysterious office fire. When she returns, she’ll bring Harold with her.
His father, however, was on the bus with him. Brian could almost feel the man’s strong hand on his shoulder; the feather-light touch the very essence of strength. His father had died a long time ago; eons had seemingly passed. Tragedy had rocked his home that night when his father had taken a shot of whiskey and had crumpled to the floor. No one had known that a deadly virus had manifested itself in the man’s body and had chewed up a great portion of his liver. The contents of the alcohol had eroded his already damaged liver, causing a quick painless death. But, he was still very strong in Brian’s heart.
Brian awoke to someone tapping him politely on the shoulder. The old woman with the faux fur purse and the shopping bags stood in the aisle by his seat, with her arm extended to his shoulder. She was wearing a floppy hat and she looked ridiculously colorful in her attire.
“The bus has stopped, dear,” she said in a smoky voice. Concern is etched in her features, along with several wrinkles; wrinkles that probably would never age Brian’s youthful face.
“Th-thanks,” he stutters and gets up on wobbly legs. It’s ridiculous, but he needs the old woman’s hand to stand properly. They exit the bus together, but leave in opposite directions.
The rain bears down on his black umbrella and water pools onto the sidewalks and streets. It’s warm, despite the rain, but Brian’s hands are red because he did not have the foresight to bring gloves. He wonders if Nick might have an extra pair, but snubs himself for forgetting that Nick would never think up something like that on his own. He can still remember Kevin scolding Nick about his shoes, socks, hats, gloves – everything. Hell, even Brian scolded him. Everyone felt like they had to look out for Nick. Now that there was no one looking out for Nick, Nick was looking out for everyone. So perhaps he did have a pair.
He arrived and it took longer than expected to walk the short distance. His knees were sore and so was his back. He sighed and pushed open the gate, and then he limped inside familiar territory.
Brian started to shiver, but sauntered forward anyway. A dim light shone down from the cement mausoleum and Brian could watch the raindrops bounce off of the gravestones in four separate pieces. As he made his way, he stepped over a cluster of broken flowers that had been torn away from a loved one’s grave by a brutal gust of wind.
As the path wound to an end, Brian noticed that, even though he had purposely arrived early, someone had beaten him there. At first he thought it was Howie, but the figure was much too tall. It had to be Nick.
Nick stood by the grave, his head lowered in thought. He did not hear Brian approach him. Brian stood behind him and quietly opened his briefcase to remove the yellow rose inside. Nick heard the buckles of the briefcase snap shut and whirled around to face Brian.
He grinned at the older man like he was a child again. “Hey, Sarg!” Nick exclaimed, referring to Brian’s crew cut. “Permission to hug you, sir?”
“Shut up and hug me, you big oaf.” They embraced for three moments before letting each other go.
“Why are you so early?” Nick asked, his hands still attached to Brian’s shoulders.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Well, I knew you’d be here early and I was hoping we could talk before anyone else got here. Plus, I brought these,” Nick pulled a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket, “cuz you never remember to bring your own.”
Brian was touched. He put the gloves on as he spoke. “I was hoping I could have a talk with Kevin before anyone else got here. But, since you’re here, I’ll just tell you both now.”
He bent laboriously and Nick held him up by the armpits so that he wouldn’t waver and fall to the wet earth. Brian used his hand to brush a long strand of grass from the grave in front of him. The grave was slightly unkempt but was loved by many hands each year, if the mounds of flowers were any indication.
Brian used his other hand to trace and stroke the letters he knew so well. “Kevin Scott Richardson” read the epitaph, “Loved and Cherished by Many”.
“Kevin,” he started, speaking coarsely through his tight throat, “it was so painful to see you everyday in the same old hospital room. It was even more painful to see you go. You always were so strong; you took after your father.” Brian laughs, but it’s pained. “I hope you two are together now. And I hope you left some room for me.” Brian feels Nick jolt behind him, but Nick says nothing. “I tried my best to follow your advice; I went to the screenings, I went to the doctor every month and still they didn’t find anything until it was too late. I’m worried about my children. I don’t want them to end up this way.” Brian sobs quietly and Nick helps him to his feet.
“Brian why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would have come! I would’ve…” Nick pulled Brian into another hug and felt his thin body poke at his ribs. He’d had some suspicions; all of which he’d hoped were incorrect. Kevin had also kept the news of his developing illness quiet. Brian was just as stubborn as Kevin was and although they looked nothing alike, it was easy to see that they were related if you knew their personalities well enough. They were more than cousins to each other, they were more like two brothers travelling down the same path, past the same bend in the road and down the same steep ridge. Nick couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sadness because, knowing Brian, he had waited until death was one block away from his front door before telling anybody that he was sick. He also knew that Brian was suffering and now that he was a man he would be able to handle this loss the same way he had handled Kevin’s.
“Brian, have you told your children?” Nick was worried. Kevin hadn’t told his four little boys about his devastating illness and his mourning wife had been unable to force herself to do the deed. Everyone had seemed to be too preoccupied to tell them; Howie was in Vegas, Brian was on vacation (a clever euphemism for his hospitalization) and AJ simply did not answer the phone. Nick had told the children that their dad had made it all the way to heaven and that he was looking down on them. He wasn’t exactly sure of what he was supposed to say. He loved all of the kids his band brothers had created and though he had none of his own, he was quite able to speak with them. And they seemed to understand him when he told them to be strong and that their daddy was never coming back.
“Oh. I don’t have to tell them, they just *know*. But I’ll talk with them later. My family’s already quite prepared for my…”
“Yeah.”
Nick watched as Brian placed his rose next to Nick’s at the base of Kevin’s headstone. He forced himself to be strong as he stood before his old friends, the dead and the dying. He felt the pain come flooding back; everything he’d felt at Kevin’s funeral was settling in his stomach, beside the beer and the burrito he had for lunch. Somewhere in the distance a clock struck half past eight.
“Brian.”
“Hmm?”
“When you find God, will you ask him why?”
Brian sighed. “Nick, he’s not doing this to spite us. I just…it’s my time to leave. That’s all. I like to think I’m needed somewhere else. But I’ll always be with you.”
The voice of Nick’s counselor told him to exhale. “If you’re not too busy with God and important stuff, would you help me win a game or two?”
Brian chuckled. “Of course. I know that you couldn’t win without me.”
They wait in silence and the rain hesitates before finally coming to a stop. Brian checks his pulse while Nick pretends not to notice. In the distance, two dark figures approach at a rapid pace. With their long jackets and expensive shoes it is easy to tell who is approaching before any faces can be made out.
Howie is actually wearing a sensible pair of boots, a hood and an umbrella. He also has on leather gloves and a no-nonsense look. One hand is firmly jammed into his pocket while the other holds his umbrella. He approaches with his usual swagger, but the edgy expression on his face makes Brian tense.
Beside him, AJ walks with a substantial loss of grace. His shoes, unlike Howie’s, are strictly for fashion and are not the least bit waterproof. He hops over a large puddle and ends up in a smaller puddle instead. His pants and his rear become soaked, along with part of Howie’s coat. He grimaces as his shoes fill with water and watches, fascinated, as a bloated earthworm floats out of his shoe and into the puddle. It drifts to the edge of the puddle where the water is most shallow and remains there until a gust of wind blows it a few more centimeters.
“Brian.” Howie’s greeting is short and pained. Nick is a little stung that Howie has chosen to ignore him, but he manages to remain silent. AJ is now behind him and he wants to borrow Nick’s gloves but Nick won’t let him get the genuine leather wet.
“Hi.” Brian understands what Howie is not saying. Howie knows.
“I spoke with your wife on the phone at the station. She was worried. She said you’d promised to call her when you got here, but you forgot your cell at home.”
“Yeah. She knows I’m an airhead these days.”
“She also told me about you, Brian.”
“I was going to tell all of you right now-”
“It’s too late now.” The howled against their ears and Brian’s jacket fluttered behind him. Nick thought about angel wings and AJ stood there, stunned. A silence brewed and although it was uncomfortable and awkward, it was familiar.
“You’re sick…like Kevin was?” AJ finally manages. He’s smart enough to understand, but he needs conformation.
Brian faces him and AJ can see that his eyes are sick. He knows that look. He saw it on Kevin whenever he gave him a drink of water or brought him another pillow. Although he had not become too acquainted with the look (there simply had not been enough time) he knew it well.
“I’m sorry I didn’t keep our promise.” Brian is genuinely sad – it’s written across his youthful features.
“Why did you wait so long to tell us?” Howie has lost a lot of control over his emotions. Inside his eyes salty waves totter from left to right every time he blinks.
“You were all so happy – starting families, having girlfriends – I just felt so wrong every time I picked up the phone to give you guys a call. It hurts, but sometimes it’s the best choice to make.”
“How much longer?” Nick croaks, his eyes trained on his boots and the damp yellow roses on the grave.
“Doctor says a month. Then again, he said that a month ago, so it’s difficult to tell.”
“Brian-” Howie starts, but Brian cuts him off.
“Today is Kevin’s day. Give me your roses.” Brian places Howie and AJ’s roses next to his and Nick’s, then steps back slowly. They each take turns talking to Kevin and updating him on their lives. Each man is filled with sorrow that the one day of the year they get together to catch up on old times is the same day that one fifth of their band died. They all wish they talked to each other more often and not just on this occasion, but none of them makes a move to organize a get-together. Still, they felt connected to each other, even as time passes and ages them.
An hour passed and Brian became too weak to stand on his own. Nick lifted Brian’s weak, shivering body into his arms, arms that he had been building three hours a day every day at the gym ever since he’d found out that Kevin was sick. He was not shocked that his friend was impossibly light. Howie struggled to keep up with the younger man’s strides as he held his umbrella over Brian’s feverish head. AJ strode in silence, but ran a damp hand over Brian’s crew cut. Howie slapped his hand away and shouted at him for getting Brian’s hair wet, but AJ smiled anyway. Brian’s hair looked good that short.
When they got to the station, Brian informed them in his small, tired voice that he had taken the bus and that he needed to take it again in order for him to get home before dark. Howie firmly told him “no.” Nick laid Brian down on three cushioned armless chairs before suggesting they all go to his place.
When all that was returned were strange looks, Nick shrugged and said, “Why not? It’s ten minutes away from here and I’ve got ten bedrooms.” They agreed (except for Brian, who was resting) and helped Nick strap Brian comfortably on his side in Nick’s Mercedes. Howie and AJ followed Nick in their vehicles.
When they arrived at Nick’s extraordinary ocean-view mansion, Nick gave AJ the house key so that he wouldn’t have to wrestle with the lock. He rushed Brian to a guest bedroom, afraid that he may catch a fever or perhaps pneumonia. Nick grabbed some towels and a fresh pajama. He tried to help Brian with his pajama but Brian insisted that he could do it himself. Brian hooked his hands under his shirt and pulled, struggling groggily to get it over his head. His arms and head got stuck, and Nick gently pulled them out. He tried with difficulty to avoid looking at Brian’s ribcage.
When everyone was settled, Nick threw himself onto his bed and gazed up at the ceiling. He knew that he would not be able to sleep and that was all right with him. Later he’d go into the kitchen and fix himself a drink.
His eyes trailed along the ceiling as he became lost in his thoughts. He kept thinking about the little things that Kevin used to say and do and felt an urge to hear him say those simple things once more. Then, the urge became desperation and he got up to fix himself a drink. He had a bar in his room, hidden neatly in a bookcase filled with “How-To” books that he never cared to use. Blindly, he reached in and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, then sank to the floor to drink it. He drank enough to make his stomach feel heavy and the bag of pretzels he had eaten on the way back tugged at the back of his throat. That was another bad habit. The crumbs always got stuck in the leather seats and Nick could feel them in the summer when he wore his shorts. He’d bought a dust-buster, but the pretzel pieces were jammed too far into the seat to be removed.
Nick finished with the bottle, but he didn’t want to get up to put it away, so he tucked it between his legs. He didn’t hear the hesitant tap on his door or see a figure creep into the room. Nick was resting his head on a shelf of the bookcase and he had his eyes shut tight. It wasn’t until the figure stood in front of him and cleared his throat.
“Wha?” Nick exclaimed and fumbled to an upright position. “Brian what are you doing?”
Brian frowned at the bottle that was now titled at a dangerous angle. He frowned deeper at the cloudy look in Nick’s eyes. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Here, sit down.” Nick padded the spot next to him. Brian crouched laboriously and slowly lowered himself onto his rear. He sighed and stretched out his legs, then reached out and grabbed the whiskey. Nick thought that Brian would break the bottle, but instead he took a swig. Grimacing he handed the bottle back to Nick.
“Yuck. Now I remember why I don’t drink.”
“It’s an acquired taste.” Nick took another swig, regretted it, and settled the bottle back down. “What’s up?”
“Oh!” Brian says as he remembers what he came for. “I was looking in the bathroom but…uh…I was wondering if you had any Tylenol – or something like that.” Nick could see that Brian’s hands were shaking and that the pain was bad. Nick had noticed when he was taking care of Kevin that it always seemed to be quite bad around this time of night.
Nick got up quickly, wavered a little on his feet, but returned unharmed with two pills and a glass of water. “Here,” he said, “and don’t forget to go to your doctor and get something stronger.”
This earned him a glare. Brian took the pills and drank up all of the water. Nick had not filled the glass up all the way because he knew that it would be too heavy for Brian to hold. Brian starts to feel guilty that he didn’t spend more time helping to take care of Kevin. He and Nick argued about it constantly. He gave Nick a lot of excuses that didn’t go over well. For example, he told Nick that couldn’t possibly fit visiting Kevin in-between his family life and his work life. It was too much. Nick didn’t have a job or a family (a wife, kids, and about a million dogs) and so he became firmly attached to Kevin’s bedside. He loved Kevin but he could not handle so much responsibility by himself. He also couldn’t handle watching Kevin die by himself. Brian began to understand.
Nick helped Brian back to bed, re-filled his glass and gave him the bottle of pills. Before he left the room he opened the bottle and put the lid on the dresser. “Don’t take more than what you need,” he warned and then exited the room.
Familiar thoughts crept back into Nick’s mind. ‘Please,’ he thought miserably, ‘I hate to see him in so much pain. Please take him quickly.’
~*~
A month later Brian passed. Everything was quiet and ceremonial following his death. Or maybe it was just Nick, AJ and Howie that felt that way. They had known it was coming, had ordered the flowers and the urn. Although after the funeral, when Howie, AJ and Nick sat together in Brian’s backyard drinking coffee, they felt the weight of the loss. They didn’t have to speak, but they knew that they were all thinking the same thing. They had been right to let Brian go. Still, they couldn’t help but look at each other and wonder who was next. Even though they didn’t spend as much time with each other as they used to, the bond they had created between each other forced them to experience their losses as painful jolts to their hearts and souls.
As the moon shifted between the stars, all three men gazed up at the sky.