My Heart for Yours

11. Tobin

11

Tobin

The bar scene in Crawford is limited, but that's okay. I'm not looking to have a good time anyway. I pull a napkin from the stack on the end of the bar and spread it out.

"Tobin! Surprised to see you here. I was real sorry to hear about your brother, man," Carl, the owner and lone employee of the one and only bar in town says. He's frowning at me, his eyes full of pity.

I hate pity.

"Thanks, Carl," I say, and shake his hand.

"Well, what can I get you? It's on the house tonight. Your brother was a good man," he says.

Was he? I wonder. I mean, he was my brother, of course I loved him, but do good men leave their mom's mourning them because they were too stubborn to step away from an oncoming train?

"Just a beer. Whatever you have in a bottle is fine. Oh, and an ink pen," I say.

He pulls a pen from his shirt pocket and pops the cap off of a beer bottle and slides them across the bar to me.

I take a long pull from the bottle. It's not entirely cold, but it doesn't matter.

I stare down at the blank napkin. What can I write about Eamon that can be said in front of a church full of people?

Eamon was always there for people when they needed him.

I write across the flimsy napkin. I stare at what I've written. Lies. I draw a thick line through the words. If Eamon cared about being there for people he would be here now. Sitting next to me. Telling me about his latest conquest. Or arguing about who was going to win the game on Monday. No, those weren't important things in the grand scheme of things, but I was. Brothers were supposed to be important. I wad the napkin up and shove it into my jeans pocket.

"Hey bro!" I flinch at the word bro like I've just been punched. Nelson Gautreaux has pulled up the stool next to me.

"Hey man, I didn't see you come in," I say. To be fair, I wasn't looking. I was too busy trying to write a eulogy for my real bro.

"I've been here all night," he says.

Of course he has. This town doesn't have much else to offer. I should've just gone out to the lake. It was my first thought. It'd be a quiet place to get my thoughts together and write something for the funeral. But I knew she'd be there. Not literally.

I'm sure Delia is back at her house—her parents thinking she's tucked safely into her bed, though she probably snuck in to be with her boyfriend. At least that's something the Delia I knew would do. With me. I shudder. But the feeling of her haunts our spot out at the lake.