The Weekenders (24 page)

“I don't know. Scott's not here. I'm bored, I'm lonely. I saw limes at the store, and all I could think about was how good a drink would taste. I'll tell you what else. I'm fucking tired of being sober. It's too damn hard.”

“Yeah, man. It is hard. That's the point. You been livin' on that pink cloud. You got complacent, let down your guard.”

“If Scott finds out, he'll leave me,” Billy sobbed.

“This ain't about Scott loving you. It's about you loving you, Billy. I think we need to meet, bro.”

“Can't we just talk like this?”

“I don't think so. Is it safe for you to drive?”

“Yeah. I haven't had all that much. Just a couple of stiff ones.”

“That's a lot,” Cal said sharply. “You need to get out from behind the wheel before you do something bad.”

“I've already done something bad,” Billy said. “Anyway, I'm way out in bumfuck Egypt.”

“Come over to my place,” Cal repeated. “I'll make you some coffee and get you sobered up.”

*   *   *

Billy sat in his car in the alley behind the Mexican restaurant, with the car's engine running, staring up at the single light burning in the second-floor window. He sighed and poured vodka up to the rim of his plastic cup. Most of the ice cubes had melted, and the tonic water was gone. He took a sip, sucked on the lime slice, and tried to gather the courage to get out of the car and face the music.

Five minutes later his cell phone rang.

“I see you sitting down there in your car,” Cal said. “Come on up. The coffee's on.”

“Forget it. This is a waste of time.” Billy started the car.

“No!” Cal yelled. “Don't go. I'm coming down.”

A minute later his sponsor scrambled down the steel staircase, with Heidi following on his heels. Cal was barefoot, dressed in raggedy jeans and a paint-spattered T-shirt. He reached in the open window and made a grab for the keys.

Billy batted his hand away. “I'm gone, man.” He threw the car into Reverse and started to back out.

“The hell you are.” Cal ran around and yanked the passenger's-side door open, sliding into the seat. The dog barked and dove onto his lap.

“Get out,” Billy said plaintively. “I can't do this. Just get out, okay?” He was slowly backing the car out.

“I'm staying right where I'm at,” Cal said stubbornly. “You can do it. You've got almost a year sober. You know how many guys quit before they do that? A lot. Most don't make it as far as you have.”

The dog scrambled into the backseat with one sharp bark.

“And this is where I quit,” Billy said, lifting the cup to his lips.

Cal snatched the cup from his hand, spilling vodka and ice cubes all over himself and the floorboards.

“Jesus! Look what you did.”

“Good riddance,” Cal said, tossing the cup out the window. “You don't need that shit anymore, Billy.”

“That's what you think.” Billy put the car in Drive and looked over at his sponsor. “Get out, Cal. I mean it.”

“I'm not leaving this car,” Cal said.

“Suit yourself.” Billy floored the accelerator and the car blasted out of the alley and onto Main Street. A few minutes later he was back on the county road, doing seventy miles an hour. The wind whipped through the open windows and the fields and farmhouses became a blur.

“Slow the fuck down,” Cal commanded.

Billy sped up to eighty.

Cal crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think you're doing, brother?”

“I'm out of tonic water. And ice,” Billy replied. “I will drink straight vodka, if I have to, but everything's nice with ice, don't you think?”

Cal didn't take the bait. “You say you're afraid Scott will leave you if he finds out you're drinking again. Is that what you want?”

“I'm not talking about this,” Billy said. “And leave Scott out of it.”

“Okay, I'll do the talking. You fucked up, yeah. But you don't have to keep drinking. You can save your sobriety. Save yourself,” Cal said urgently.

“Maybe I don't want to be saved,” Billy said. “I suck at sobriety. But I am great at being a drunk. It's the one thing I'm good at. Like playing the piano. Practice makes perfect, and I've been a practicing drunk my whole life.” He shoved the CD back in the player and turned the volume as high as it would go, drowning out Cal's reasoning and his sanity.

Cal reached into the cup holder and grabbed Billy's cell phone. He scrolled through the numbers, nodded, and held the phone up for Billy to see.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm calling Scott. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.” Cal's finger was poised on the screen.

“No!” Billy grabbed for the phone, but Cal jerked sideways. The next thing Billy knew, the Olds veered off the road and onto the shoulder. A massive oak tree loomed in his headlights. He slammed on the brakes. Too late.

*   *   *

The first thing he heard when he regained consciousness was a soft whimpering. With effort, he looked over to check on his passenger. But Cal was gone. Billy's view was obscured by what looked like a tree limb, and what he could see of the seat was covered with bark and leaves and bits of sparkly glass pebbles. He felt a warm liquid trickle down his cheek, reached up to touch it and stared at the blood covering his fingertip. His head felt as though it had been pummeled with a sledgehammer. He passed out again.

He had no idea whether minutes or hours passed before he came to again, but he was cold, his head throbbed, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He moved slightly and cried out in pain. He gritted his teeth, and with supreme effort managed to wrench open the heavy car door. He pulled himself out of the vehicle and propped himself up on the open door.

Moonlight spilled onto the crumpled hood of the Olds. Now he heard the whimpering again. He staggered toward the source of the sound. Heidi, the German shepherd, was crouched down on the grass, her muzzle pressed close to the motionless head of her master.

Billy stood for a moment, rooted to the spot. “Cal!” he cried, rushing to his friend's side. He knelt down in the heat-seared grass and, with a trembling hand, gingerly touched Cal's neck, feeling for a pulse. The dog whined, a high-pitched keening sound that chilled Billy's soul. She nudged repeatedly at Cal's shoulder with her snout.

Billy stroked her fur, and she turned her head slightly, looked up at him with deep, liquid eyes, hesitated, and then licked his hand. “He's gone, girl,” Billy said softly. “He's gone.”

*   *   *

His phone rang. The sound was muffled, and he was still disoriented. He walked in circles until he found it where it had landed on impact, a few yards from the car. He picked it up and saw that the missed call was from Scott.

“Oh, God,” he moaned.

He would never forgive himself for what happened next. Billy started walking. He didn't look back, didn't allow himself to think about Cal. Cal was dead. And Billy was alive. He had to get away. His panic rose with each step that carried him away from the accident site. And it
was
an accident, he told himself. He kept to the side of the road, darting into the underbrush to hide each time he saw the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

When he was well away, he took out his phone and called the only person he knew who wouldn't ask questions, wouldn't judge, wouldn't lecture. He called Wendell Griggs and told him the truth. Or a version of the truth. It didn't really matter, because Wendell would eventually figure out his own truth.

“Where exactly are you?” Wendell's voice was curt, businesslike.

“I don't know,” Billy wailed. “I'd been drinking a little bit. It's dark, and there aren't any houses around.”

“Pull it together, goddamn it,” Wendell said. “What road are you on?”

“The county road. Maybe six, eight miles from town.”

“Did you pass the Pak-n-Sak?”

“Yeah. I guess it's a mile or so back.”

“I'm leaving the island now. I'll pick you up there in half an hour, but make sure you don't let anybody see you.”

“I won't.”

*   *   *

He was hiding behind a Dumpster in the Pak-n-Sak parking lot when the black Jeep pulled in. Billy jumped into the front seat and Wendell sped away.

“How much farther?” Wendell asked.

Billy's head was throbbing, and he pressed bloody fingertips to his temples. “Not sure.”

“A mile? Two?” Wendell gave him a sideways glance. “Jesus, you're a mess! There should be some wet wipes in the glove box there. Clean yourself up.”

Billy did as he was told. “I think it's not too much farther. Better slow down. Wait. Yeah. Right up there. That's the tree.”

Wendell pulled the Jeep a few yards off the shoulder of the road and cut the headlights and then the engine. Billy started to get out of the Jeep.

“Stay here,” Wendell said.

Moonlight illuminated the maroon Olds, and he could see the silhouette of the dog, still crouching by a lifeless form. Billy didn't want to see any more. He closed his eyes and slumped down in the seat.

Ten minutes later, Wendell was back in the car. He pulled back onto the roadway and headed toward town.

“How was Heidi?” Billy asked as they pulled away.

“Heidi? Who the…”

“The dog,” Billy said quickly. “Cal's dog. She jumped in the car with us. She was in the backseat when it happened. Is she okay?”

“What do you care?” Wendell's eyes were trained on the road. “It's taken care of.”

They rode in silence.

“Here's what's gonna happen,” Wendell said suddenly. “Listen up, Billy, because this is important.”

“I'm listening.”

“My boat is at the marina in town. I'm taking you back to the island, and I'll drop you at your place. You look like shit, by the way. Is anything broken?”

“My head is killing me. I might have a concussion. And maybe a cracked rib?”

“You'll heal. Unlike your friend back there. You're gonna stay in your house, not see anybody until the cuts and bruises are gone.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm gonna take care of it. When the police call about the accident, you're gonna tell them Cal must have borrowed the Olds without your permission. He knew you always hid the keys under the floor mats. How do you happen to know that guy anyway?”

“He was my AA sponsor,” Billy said.

Wendell gave him a sharp look. “I wondered why you were on the wagon.”

 

27

Riley tiptoed out of the darkened house on Friday morning. The sandy road was damp with dew as she walked east toward the village. The island was still slumbering, but she heard birds twittering awake in the treetops and, as she walked, sunlight began to filter through the deep green canopy overhead.

She stopped once in the middle of the road, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of pine needles, wisteria, and even the faintest tang of skunk. “Live in the moment,” she whispered. “That's all you can do. Just live in the moment.” Today was the day she'd decided she would make the arrangements for Wendell's memorial. His body still hadn't been released, but what did that matter? It was a chore that she wanted to put behind her.

As she mounted the wooden stairs of the Mercantile, lights flickered on inside, and a young woman in jeans and a turquoise Mercantile T-shirt unlocked the door and gestured for Riley to come inside.

The old worn floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she passed the shelves of gourmet groceries toward the back of the store, following the irresistible smell of fresh-ground coffee and baked goods.

Riley stood in front of the display case, eyeing the temptations. There were rows and rows of cookies, frosted cupcakes, and brownies. A swinging door from the kitchen opened, and a baker in a black T-shirt and a white apron emerged with a large sheet pan balanced on one shoulder.

When he lowered the pan to the marble countertop, she realized the baker was actually Nate Milas. Without looking up, he slid the glass display case door open and began arranging muffins on flat baskets.

She gave a discreet cough. “What can I get you?—” he started, and then stopped when he realized that Riley was the customer.

“Well, hello,” he said. “Welcome to the Mercantile.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Don't tell me you're a baker now.”

“Nah. I'm just free labor. I help my mom out here some mornings when she needs an extra set of hands. One of our college kids who works the morning shift can't come in until eight today.”

The kitchen door swung open, and Annie Milas bustled through, carrying cartons of milk and half-and-half, which she set on the countertop coffee station.

“Hi, Riley,” she said, joining her son. She was at least a foot shorter than Nate, her silver hair pushed back from her face with a knotted blue bandana, and an easy smile.

“Did Nate tell you about today's muffin specials? Blueberry oatmeal, apple raisin, banana maple, and strawberry cream cheese. And I've got orange marmalade and bacon cheddar scones that should be out in about five minutes.”

“They all sound amazing,” Riley said. “But for now I think maybe just a fruit cup—and a large coffee.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Annie teased.

Riley took her order out to the porch and found a small round table facing the water. She sipped her coffee and thought about the day ahead. As she was spooning up the last strawberry in her fruit cup, Nate appeared on the porch carrying an insulated coffee carafe and something wrapped in wax paper, which he presented to his only customer.

“Mom wanted to know if you'd help her out by giving this a taste. It's a dried cherry and pecan scone. She's testing a new recipe.”