Back inside, after setting up the heater, he found matches and lit the pilot on the gas stove. He turned on two burners and held his hands above them for a minute before setting a pot of water and a skillet on top. He opened the walk-in, assessed what would be easiest to cook, and emerged with a pack of burgers. He cracked two off the stack and placed them in the skillet. The buns were frozen, too, so he placed them alongside. He found a dozen votive candles on a shelf and lined them up on the counter to be ready when night fell.
Almost five o’clock. His phone’s charge wouldn’t last very long. He looked up the weather forecast and then the local patch to see if they’d estimated when power would return. Why hadn’t he ever gotten that lever fixed on the water main? Because he was too ashamed to ask whether the guy would work on credit. The whole system was so old that the basement needed to be dug up, the entire line replaced. Insurance wouldn’t cover it.
Could he forgive her? The question dropped into his mind as if whispered into the quiet. No, he thought immediately, the obvious answer, the answer that had been there on Patrick’s face, on Siobhán’s, when they told him on Friday night. Of course not. Not after being made a complete fool of. And yet there was something that trilled between the thoughts that rung out in his head in complete sentences and the shapeless feelings that bubbled underneath, not even close to coherent yet.
There was that one night, so many years ago.
Jess had switched to the firm, deciding several years later than her classmates that she wanted to be on a partner track. She loved working for the union—she knew those men, she understood better than anyone what protections they needed, and don’t get her started on the few women who were in the Laborers’ International, the work and politicking it must have taken to get accepted—they needed her even more. But that job didn’t pay nearly enough for her to get ahead of her student loans. All of a sudden she made a switch in paths, and was working even longer hours, trying to make up for lost time. She was traveling, having dinner with colleagues in San Diego and Seattle. Every time he called her, he could hear voices in the background but couldn’t match them with faces. At home she was always surrounded by files and folders. They wanted to buy a house but it felt out of reach, still. One of them was always at work.
While Jess tried to make herself essential to the firm, he was where he’d always been, at the Half Moon, trying to make sure everyone was having a good time, but also feeling a little stuck for the first time, like he’d eliminated options at some point without even realizing it. John was still there, but other bartenders had moved away, gone back to school, become electricians or stockbrokers or pharmaceutical sales reps. Were other careers better? No, but they had things that Malcolm never cared about before, things that used to make him want to fall asleep from boredom whenever they came up: health care FSAs, 401(k)s.
“If we have a baby,” Jess said when she was making insurance selections from the packet HR had mailed, just before she started at the firm, “we want it entirely covered. Right? We don’t want to deal with a deductible. It’ll be more out of each paycheck but I think it’s worth it. Right?”
“Right,” Malcolm said, without really thinking.
That night. Not even a night. An hour. Jess was nearing the finish line on a case she’d been working on for years. She’d seen a doctor, had gotten a few tests. They had no idea what was ahead of them, but he already felt the weight of it rolling toward them. Work, all they did was work. They went days without seeing each other awake, and that morning he noticed she’d circled two upcoming days on the desk calendar, like he was a prize horse and those were the dates he had to perform. He cracked a joke when he saw it. What happened to spontaneity? Meanwhile, Erica Delfino had been after him for probably fifteen years and made no secret of it. At John’s coaxing, he had a bunch of drinks behind the bar, something he very rarely did. Hugh had been in earlier in the evening, so they could be sure he wouldn’t be back, and it had been so long since Malcolm had gotten truly drunk. That night, when he came out from behind the bar to clear the high-tops and Erica leaned into him, he placed his open hand on the small of her back like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Kitchen,” he said, and had not the first inkling he was about to make the suggestion until it was out of his mouth. She went in first, and a moment later, he followed. It was late, the bar was busy, but the kitchen was closed, the food wrapped tight and put away. Everyone on staff had left except for Malcolm and John and the bouncer, who would stay on the sidewalk by the front door. She hopped up on the counter, and he remembered driving his hand through her hair, which felt different than Jess’s. Her face was a perfect heart. They weren’t friends, her and Jess. He’d never seen them talk. He cupped her neck and felt her pulse fluttering under his thumb. Just as he was telling himself it was not a big deal, it had nothing to do with Jess or the life they were building together, just after he reminded himself that he was better behaved than most, look at John for example, my God, Jess walked in.
Erica was gone instantly.
“What’s up, Mal?” Jess said, cool as could be, taking a slow look around the room. He knew that expression on her face. And surely, she knew his. He assumed she was at home by then, but it turned out she’d gone out with a few friends, ended up going dancing somewhere in New Jersey. When they got into taxis at the end of the night, Jess told her driver to bring her to the Half Moon, to surprise him. She must have stood there and told him that because he knew it afterwards, the next morning and every time the memory popped up unbidden, leaving him with a feeling in his belly like the floor had fallen out from under him. In the moment, inside his brain was nothing but static, white noise. She studied him with a calm so measured that he knew she already knew the answer.
If he responded in that moment he couldn’t remember what he said. He remembered only pushing through the swinging door back to the bar, letting himself be absorbed by the noise, the heat, their demands.
How many years ago was that? He counted back.
For weeks after he could barely stand himself. It crossed his mind at odd times, and every time it did Erica’s face became more common, her willingness more off-putting. He was dumbfounded at how stupid he’d been, how much he’d risked. And for what? To step outside of his life for an hour? To be shored up by someone who meant so little to him? How could he have imagined that would even work?
“What was all that last night?” Jess asked the next day as she spread peanut butter on a slice of apple and he tipped back two Advil. She’d hung out for an hour after finding him in the kitchen. She’d chatted with everyone and had a few laughs, and he made sure he was way in the weeds behind the bar, too busy to talk. Even as she was chatting, keeping everything light, he could see her mind working it over.
“All what?” he asked, the coffee percolating, their mail piled on the counter.
“You know,” she said, looking at him steadily. “Just tell me. It’s okay if you just tell me.”
“I have no clue what you mean.”
Why hadn’t he just said he was sorry? That he was obviously out of his mind and it would never ever happen again? Why couldn’t he say that he missed her and he was worried about some change he felt coming over them?
* * *