A Toast to the Good Times

Chapter 9



I kick at the snow and wish to god I could transplant myself back to my apartment. I want a start-to-finish do-over of the last two days. I stop at the end of the driveway and stare left, then right, then left again.

Where the hell am I going to go?

Not back inside to fight some more. The train station is too damn far to walk, especially in this cold. My nose is burning in the frigid air, and the fact that I only grabbed my hoodie on my way out the door even though there’re thick blasts of flurries swirling down doesn’t help anything- especially my mood.

Why am I always made out to be the bad guy?

I start in the direction of the only warm place within walking distance. It isn’t far, and I could probably walk there blindfolded, but its familiarity doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily appealing.

What it really is, is a last resort.

A lesser of two evils.

A testament to how f*cking terrible things are right now.

The exterior of the bar is even less impressive than I remember. I’d never let my place look so piss-poor. The walkway is torn to shit, several stones are missing from the steps, and the awning in the traditional Murphy tartan plaid is ripped.

Jesus, Pop, no wonder you almost lost the place, it looks like shit.

I pull the door open, and the warmth of the room floods over me. I’m instantly inundated with memories of sitting on those damn bar stools, watching Dad pour drinks. I was never allowed to touch the bottles.

“You can’t pour it until you can appreciate it.”

I heard my dad snap that in my direction a million times before my twenty-first birthday, and it never failed to irritate the crap out of me and make me antsy as hell for the day I turned legal. Dad always said that was set in stone by Granddad when he was a kid, so during all those pre-twenty-one years of indentured service, my only jobs were to refill the peanut bowls, sweep, take out massive amounts of garbage, wipe down the bar, and wash and dry trays of dishes.

I keep my head down, and my eyes trained on the hideous green carpet as I cross the room and pull out one of the black lacquered stools. The husky bartender with the handlebar mustache and chin-patch of a beard, Bergin, has worked here for years and he recognizes me as soon as I sit down, because asking for a little anonymity in this shit hole town, in my family’s bar, is way too much to ask for, even if it is Christmas Eve, and I sure feel entitled to a Christmas miracle right now.

“Landry? No kidding. What’ll you have, kid?”

I cringe at the word, kid, and half expect him to pass a Roy Rogers across the bar to me.

“Nice to see you again, Bergen. Bulleit. Neat.”

He nods and pours my bourbon.

“Rough day, huh?” he asks, sliding the small glass toward me.

“Rough life,” I mumble.

There’s a snicker from the man sitting on the stool next to me that dives right under my skin and latches onto my last nerve.

I gulp down the bourbon and ignore the sting as it flows down my throat and into my mostly empty stomach. I wish I would have gotten to eat those crepes before Paisley’s bombshell decimated our Christmas Eve breakfast.

“You sure haven’t changed, Landry,” the man in the old flannel shirt next to me says.

I peer under his low Yankees cap.

“Rusty? You look like shit, man.” It’s rude, but it’s also Rusty, and he’s one worthless SOB and not exactly someone to bother wasting my best manners on.

He shrugs in a way that says he knows exactly how wrung-out he looks.

“So, tell me, what's so terrible in the charmed life of Landry Murphy today?” Rusty smirks around his straw.

“What’s that you’re drinking, Rusty, a fuzzy navel?” It’s a low-blow, but what respectable bartender or drinker, for that matter, could resist mocking the icy, orange drink Rusty’s sucking down?

He nods unapologetically, his neck bent low like there’s a cement block handing around it. He runs a hand over his grizzled scruff, way more gray than brown. “They were Karen’s favorite.”

Karen.

Were.

And suddenly, Rusty’s disheveled appearance, the chick drink he’s slurping down in this dive on Christmas Eve, his use of the past tense...it all falls into place.

F*ck.

Karen was Rusty’s wife. She got sick a few months before I left town, but I didn’t know she’d passed. I clear my throat, look from one side to the other, and wish the floor would rip open under my feet and suck me into hell, where I definitely deserve to rot for a long, shitty time.

“Rust, I’m sorry, man. I hadn’t heard.”

“I didn’t expect that you would’ve.” He rubs his chubby hand across the rough surface of the bar. I notice he’s still wearing his wedding band. “I heard you moved away to what, Delaware?”

“Boston,” I correct.

Rusty nods and shakes the last syrupy remnants of the icy drink sludged in the bottom of his glass. “Like it there, huh?”

“Better than here.” I polish off the rest of my drink and motion for Bergin to give me another.

“Here’s not so bad. You’ve got family at least.” Rusty’s normally gruff voice sounds broken. When I don’t respond, he continues. “Or are you and your old man still not seeing eye-to-eye?”

“Not so much.”

“Come on, kid. It’s the holidays. Your Dad isn’t so bad.”

“He’s not. He’s not so bad for an arrogant a*shole who can’t look me in the eye because I made a decision he didn’t agree with. Because I decided to live my life for myself instead of getting stuck here for eternity.”

I flick the bowl of peanuts in front of me, then feel like a dick for scattering them all over the bar. Bergin gives me an irritated look, and I sweep the mess from one hand into another and drop the peanuts in my jacket pocket, feeling like the biggest shit in the world while I do it.

“Success is all relative. This place means a lot to him. And it did to your grandfather, too.”

Naturally, Rusty would throw Granddad into this talk. He and Rusty went way back, and he always said that Rusty’s loyalty trumped any character flaws I ever pointed out. Bergin places another round in front of us and pushes the bowl of peanuts I’d assaulted to the other side of the bar before there’s a repeat offense.

“If it meant so much to him, he wouldn’t let it fall apart around him like this.” I motion around the room to the faded drapes, the peeling paint, the mirror with a huge, horizontal crack, the rough bar top in need of a strip and a polish.

How Dad managed to save the place from going completely under, I don’t know, but he sure didn’t throw any work into it once it was safe.

“Landry, kid, there’s a lot you don’t know or understand.”

Rusty slurps at his peach drink through his straw, his lips damp and shaky. I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy, sitting in this place, drinking what might be the worst drink on the planet as some sort of sad tribute to his late wife.

This is, hands down, the most depressing holiday ever.

“Care to educate me?” I ask, letting my eyes take in other details that make me grimace; cobwebs in corners, the burnt out lights in the exit sign, the grimy mats behind the bar.

“What are you so upset about?”

Rusty presses his bushy eyebrows low over his bloodshot eyes, and I take a minute to appreciate how weird it is that a man this gnarled and ugly is drinking a beverage usually reserved for hot young coeds. And then I feel like a jerkoff for making fun of his tribute drink, even if it’s only in my head.

I raise my shoulders and let them fall again. “I’m not upset, Rust. I’m just sick and tired of being made to feel like the a*shole of the family because I didn’t want to hand over the cash my dad needs to save this dump.”

Rusty inhales deeply, then holds it for a long time, before letting the breath out. It’s almost torturous sitting there, waiting for his reaction.

“Do you know why Murphy’s almost went under?”

“Because my Dad can’t manage a business.”

I state it matter-of-factly, though I really have no clue how things got so bad, so fast with this place. We always had a nice home, with food on the table and clothes on our backs, and then, out of nowhere, things were tight and Dad was about to lose the family business. I never really stopped to wonder where the hell the money went or why.

Rusty shakes his head back and forth and stares into the bright peach liquid in his cup.

“When Karen was diagnosed with leukemia, it was at the worst possible time. Not that there’s ever a good time, you know, but for us, it was really bad. Financially, I mean.”

I can feel the acid rising in my throat, choking me up. I’m not completely heartless. Losing Granddad was the hardest thing I’d ever been through. I can’t imagine being in Rusty’s shoes and losing the person I’d shared a bed with for twenty years.

“I’d just gone back to work after being off for almost a year after I had my back surgery, and we’d used up all our savings. Karen never thought twice about it, even though she was a hard ass about budgeting. She just wanted me to rest and not stress about hurrying back to work. She was always the healthy one, you know? Eating that organic stuff and running in the mornings. I should have been the one to get a sickness, not her.”

The tips of my ears are getting hot like they always do when I’m nervous. And all I want to do is beg Rusty not to say what I think he’s going to.

“I had to keep working fulltime to keep benefits for Karen. She had to be able to keep her same doctors, that was important. But some days, after a round of chemo, I had to take off work to take care of her, and I’d lose pay. It was hard, Landry. Those doctor visits and co-pays and tests and drug costs...it was just too much for us. And I never wanted Karen to know we were struggling as bad as we were, because that saint of a woman let us blow through our life savings because I had a backache for Christ’s sake.”

Don’t say it, Rusty.

“And that’s when your dad stepped in. Tommy and I have been friends since we weren’t even tall enough to see over this bar, you know that,” he says. He pats his palm on the wooden top of the bar as I grip it to steady myself. “He saw how badly we were struggling and offered to help. ‘Course, my pride stopped me from letting him do it at first, but after a while, I didn’t have any other choice. Landry, I would have done anything, anything, if it meant getting Karen the care she needed. And your dad was our saving grace for a long time. He kept us afloat so I could make sure I could be at all of her doctors’ appointments, your mama sent over meals for us to enjoy together so I didn’t have to take time away from Karen to cook. And even when we knew she wasn’t going to make it, your parents made sure that we had the best last months of her life together we could have asked for.”

His voice hitches and his fingers go tight around his glass.

I have no words.

Rusty sniffles hard and wipes a quick, impatient hand over his eyes, before he clears his throat and holds his glass up to me.

“So, before you go swearing off family and writing off your dad because he doesn’t have the best looking bar stools, you ask yourself what’s really important in life. And that’s the end of this sad old drunk’s lecture. To friends who always have your back, even when you’re lying in the mud and don’t expect to ever get the hell back up. Cheers.”

I tap my glass to his and shoot the last fiery gulp of my drink while he swallows the sticky sweet remains of his.

I’m thinking of Rusty and Karen, who used to sit by him in the bar some Friday nights when he stopped in to have a drink before they went on a date. How she looked at that old bastard like the world revolved around his drunken ass, how she laughed at his lame jokes, and how they were always just decent and cool to each other, like two friends who also happened to be crazy in love.

I tighten my hand on my glass and hold a blink for a few long seconds to help wrap my head around a loss that jarringly sweet and sad.

Mila’s face flashes in front of my eyes.

Then the red dress.

And the kiss.

What the f*ck? Where did that all come from?

“Rusty—”

He waves off my words before I can even form them in my own head. I don’t argue, because I don’t know what to say. I came here to drink away feeling like the world’s biggest prick, and this... I don’t even know how to process all of this.

My dad almost let his business go under to throw a lifeline to a friend. And, in my mind-blowing selfishness, I walked away and left him struggling.

All of them struggling.

I never even bothered to ask about them. I never took the time to know what the hell was going on.

“I think I should go.” My head is spinning, and this time I doubt it has much to do with the series of drinks I just tossed into my near-empty guts, not that they helped. I pull out my wallet and toss a twenty onto the bar top. “It’s on me.”

When Rusty nods in thanks, I can tell his eyes are watering.

I pause before pulling my hood over my head in preparation for the freezing walk home.

“You have plans tomorrow, Rust?”

“This is it.” He gestures to the sad, falling-down bar, and, though I didn’t think it was possible for this place to get any more depressing, Rusty’s taken it to a whole new level.

“You want to swing by the house and have dinner with me and the family later on? We always eat around six.”

He nods slowly, looking into that glass like it might bring back a little of the woman he’s missing so hard, it’s breaking him apart.

“I’ll think about it. Thanks, Landry.”

When I push through the door and the blustery wind hits me, it freezes the tears I’ve been fighting and stops them from falling. And I get why Rusty is in there drinking his wife’s favorite frou-frou drink.

What I don’t get is why didn’t Dad tell me all of this? Or Mom? How did they let me go on not fully understanding what was important?

I blink hard against the roaring wind that’s picking up, probably preparing to dump a blizzard load of snow on our heads.

And then Mila’s in front of me again.

Except this time, the red dress is replaced by a thick red jacket and furry boots.

And this time, she’s really here.