The man looked at Walden, blinked twice, focused. “Jesus, Mr. Fisher, how are you?”
“I’m okay, good. Saw your van out there. Thought I’d pop in and say hello.”
“Funny seeing you,” he said, raising his bottle to him. “Uh, would you like a beer?”
The bartender, a thin, elderly man who looked like a walking twig, had approached. Walden glanced at him and said, “Just a Coke.”
The bartender nodded, retreated.
“You sure you don’t want a beer?” Victor asked. Walden thought Victor sounded as though he’d had a few already, and judging by how he’d parked the van, probably a few before he’d arrived.
“I’m sure,” Walden said. “What are you up to these days?”
Victor shrugged. “A bit of this, a bit of that. Odd jobs. Construction. I’m in kind of a lull at the moment.”
“I heard you and the fire department came to a parting of the ways.”
“Yeah, well, that really wasn’t for me. It’s a pretty macho environment, you know? I gave it a shot, but I never felt comfortable there. Too gung ho for my tastes.”
“Sure.”
“Fuck ’em, I say. I get by. I do.”
“If you ever need anything, you know you can give me a call.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fisher. It really is. But what I need, I don’t think you or anyone else can provide.”
“What would that be?”
“I need someone who can help me get my act together,” he said, setting the bottle down and miming something with his hands, as though he were assembling something. “You see, my act is in pieces. Isn’t that a funny saying? Get your act together? What’s that supposed to mean? That we’re all actors? That all of this is some performance? What was it Billy Shakespeare said? That all the world’s a stage and men and women merely players. Something like that. I think what we’re in is a tragedy without any kind of ending. What do you think, Mr. Fisher?”
“I think you’ve had a lot to drink, Victor.”
“You are correct,” he said. “Don’t think I’ll be jogging tonight. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Get up every day and go about your business. How do you and Beth manage that?”
“Beth passed on,” Walden said. “Just a while ago.”
“Oh, bloody fuck,” Victor said, shaking his head, taking a drink. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” Another head shake. “I almost—this is going to come out wrong, and I apologize in advance—but I almost kind of envy her. If I died, I could stop being so sad.” He paused. “And angry.”
“It’s been three years,” Walden said.
“Later this month,” Victor said, nodding, indicating he was already well aware. “Saturday of the Memorial Day weekend. Isn’t that kind of ironic? We shall remember Olivia on Memorial Day. Oh, yes, we shall.” He raised his beer in a toast. “To Olivia.”
“You should probably head home,” Walden said.
“Like I said, I don’t know how you manage. I mean, I was never actually married to her. She was the love of my life—God, what a cliché—but it’s true, you know? But I only knew her a couple of years. But she was your daughter. That’s got to be worse.”
“You find ways to manage,” Walden said.
“I don’t even know if I’m still grieving, exactly,” Victor said. “But it was like what that writer said in that book. It was a tipping point, what happened to Olivia. I went off the deep end then, and I’ve been trying to climb back up ever since, but once you’re down there, all this other shit happens to you that keeps you there. Is this making any sense?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I’ve had plenty of time to get over Olivia, right? Lots of time to move on.”
“You never get over it,” Walden said.
“Yeah, I get that. But people have to find a way to move forward, right? I mean, fuck, look at all those people who were in concentration camps. What could be worse than what they went through? Yet they went on with their lives when they got freed and the war was over. I mean, sure, they probably never got over it, but they became functioning members of society.” He squinted at Walden. “Would you call me functioning?”
“I don’t know that I’m qualified to judge that,” Walden said.
“Well, let me answer it for you. I am not. But I’ll tell you what I am, to this day. I’m angry.”
“Angry,” Walden repeated.
“At myself. And all the others. What do you think they’ll do on the third anniversary?”
“I bet they won’t give it a thought.”
Victor pointed his index finger at Walden. “Right you are, Mr. Fisher.”
“Walden. You know you can call me Walden.” He paused. “What do you mean, angry at yourself?”
Victor looked away. “I was late.”
Walden nodded. “I know.”
“I was late meeting her. If I’d been on time, none—”
Walden rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t torture yourself.”