Heroic Measures (continued)

After a time, the tears stopped. His eyes felt swollen and sore. He blinked to clear his vision, forcing the last of the tears from them. Walter wiped at them lightly, feeling his fingers come away wet. He stared at the shining fluid as it evaporated and was absorbed by his skin.

He reached out and took his son’s hand again, this time holding it loosely in his own. It felt unnaturally smooth and soft against his palm.

“I’m sorry, son,” he whispered, and began to weep again.

#

As Walter walked out of the building, he felt the eyes of the staff upon him. He did not know whether they were aware of his personal pain, his nearly unbearable loss. He was certain that it showed on his face, but no one stopped him to explain it.

He stepped through the sliding doors, hearing them scrape closed in their tracks behind him. Looking up at into the gray sky, crowded with clouds the color of wood smoke, he felt the growing wind against his cheeks.

The rain will be here soon.

He guessed that he might make it home before the storm began—certainly well before its greatest strength arrived. As he walked the wide concrete path back to his car, he thought of somewhere else he ought to be besides home. He knew what he would find there: an empty kitchen, an empty bed, an emptiness greater than he was ready to face again so soon.

He sat behind the steering wheel, struggling with himself. Home was where he was expected to be.

The house, he corrected himself. It would never again ever be a home.

A certain peace passed over him. A decision had been made: his next destination. He could see himself there, clearly. He started the car and began to drive.

He could have walked, he realized. It was less than a handful of blocks away. Coming back to his car in the rain later, however, held little appeal for him, even given the short distance.

Another car was pulling away from a space near the door as he turned into the parking lot. He took that as a sign that he had made the right decision. Although they knew him here, they would do little more than subtly acknowledge his arrival and then leave him alone with his thoughts.

He entered through the front door. The interior appeared as it always did, except for the tasteful adornment of a small bit of tinsel and holly garland here and there along the furnishings. It was not until that moment that Walter remembered that the next day would be Christmas Eve, and the one following would be Christmas Day, and that he would be spending both of them alone—alone for the first time . . . ever.

The server brought his drink, although he had not ordered one yet. The young man said nothing, simply placing the glass on a square paper napkin and then moving on to the next table. Walter looked toward the bar, but was unable to catch the bartender’s eye. He gave up when it seemed as though the man was deliberately trying to avoid his glance.

Walter sipped at his drink, wondering what blend of Scotch it was. It felt almost like thick, warm silk along his tongue. The sensation carried down his throat, providing a soft burn more like brandy. Walter realized then that bartender had served him one of the premium aged single-malts. He glanced up again.

The bartender gave him a slight nod without smiling and then turned his attention to a moderately well-dressed twenty-something couple who had just arrived through the hallway that led to the restaurant.

News travels, I guess.

He sipped at the Scotch again, relishing its smoothness. He felt its warm glow radiate out from his stomach in all directions.