Морган Лливелин - Drop by Drop

The former sheriff of Sycamore River expected to join his longtime drinking buddy, Morris Saddlethwaite. The two spent many evenings in Bill’s, discussing the chaotic state of the world and trying to drink one another under the table. Friday and Saturday were sacrosanct, however. Hooper Watson wanted to be home on those nights to see who his daughter, Angela, went out with and how late she returned.

Saddlethwaite had not yet arrived, so Watson perched his bony behind on a wooden barstool. “Rock and rye, Bill.”

“Can’t,” Burdick replied. “No rye, not today.”

“Whaddaya mean? You been keeping rye for me since the time I didn’t run you in for selling hard liquor to a minor.”

Burdick continued polishing glasses. “That liquor wasn’t so hard, Hoop, and she was no minor.”

“Sez you. What about my rye?”

“The distributor can’t get any. Trouble at the distillery, faulty equipment, he said.”

The door opened and Morris Saddlethwaite entered. Blowing on his hands, he announced, “I swear there’s a blizzard coming. At least the wife’ll turn off the air-conditioning, it’s costing us a fortune. When it works, that is.”

Watson swung around on his stool. “Y’know what Bill just told me, Morris? Damned distiller’s got faulty equipment. Fuckin’ Change’s ruining everything.”

Saddlethwaite carefully hoisted his 230 pounds onto the adjoining barstool. “I won’t let no Change drive me to drinking water,” he declared, “no matter how bad it gets. Some things are more’n a man can tolerate.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Watson, “soon as Bill gives me something fit to drink. I was just saying life is a misery. No rye whisky to be had and my girl’s at home weepin’ her eyes out over a loony tree hugger.”

Saddlethwaite prodded his ample posterior with thick fingers, trying to fit more of it onto the hard wooden stool. He missed the plastic-covered cushion that used to welcome his buttocks. “Which tree hugger? Town’s full of ’em, putting up posters and collecting money on street corners.”

“I’m talking about that redheaded son of a bitch out on Pine Grove, the one with the vet practice. Angela thinks he’s seeing someone else now.”

“I thought you hated both sides of him.”

“I do, Morris, he’s not near good enough for my girl. But I don’t want her bawlin’ in her bedroom, neither. You got anything behind the bar that even smells like rye, Bill?”

Try as he might, Colin Bennett could not get to sleep. His mother had given specific instructions to his sister: “I’m meeting your father for dinner and I expect you to take care of yourselves tonight. It’s important. Jess. See that Colin’s in bed at a reasonable hour, and you too. No having friends over, do you understand?”

Jessamyn had no trouble with Colin; the boy was suffering from one of his headaches and was willing to go to bed early. As soon as he was quiet she left the house to walk to a girlfriend’s home several blocks away.

His sister had given Colin an aspirin before she left, but it did not seem to be having any effect. The boy tossed and turned in bed, his brain a jumble of thoughts. Until a few months ago his world had seemed normal—as normal as it could be, for a pubescent boy with raging hormones and erupting pimples. Now every day brought a new crisis for which he was unprepared. His sister was no help. Didn’t Jess realize their parents were on the verge of divorce? What would that mean?

The house sold, a custody battle, the kids having to take sides, maybe even dividing up the dogs? What if they wound up going to school miles away from Sycamore River and his friends? He would have to start battling all over again to make the team, in a place where his father’s college sporting reputation cut no ice. Maybe never get another coach like Coach Lonsdale, who let the guys get away with so much stuff…

When Colin heard a distant boom he thought it was thunder.

He waited, expecting Satan to bark his familiar challenge to the Storm Gods.

Satan didn’t bark.

Carried on a rising night wind, the noise came again. Not thunder; it was a furious rippling growl that rose in volume as if a giant beast was slavering over its food. And moving closer.

Satan in his kennel began to howl.

Throwing back the covers, the boy slid out of bed and padded barefoot to one of the casement windows on the west side of his room. With an effort—something was sticking—he raised the bottom half of the window and looked out.

A clear, starless night greeted him. He could not see the moon, but there was a faint pink halo around the big holly bush in the yard, like a light shining on it from behind. Colin wondered where the light was coming from.

The growling beast exploded into a roar.

Colin hurried to the next window. An angry red glare suffused the sky in the direction of Daggett’s Woods.

The boy gasped. RobBenn was over that way.

Could there be a fire at the complex? Was anyone calling the fire department? Could anyone call the fire department?

His parents were supposed to be having dinner somewhere, but where?

The blast that followed was louder than all the other sounds together. “Daddy!” Colin screamed in terror. “What’s that?”

Robert Bennett could have told his son what was happening. But the CEO of RobBenn was fully occupied with dying.

At the Golden Peacock Nell was tapping her fingers on the tablecloth. She had finally managed to get through to Rob on one of his AllComs and tell him about the dinner arrangements. He had texted back, “I’ll be there, just finishing up here…” Then the device failed.

At least he had not offered an excuse. Nell was grateful for small blessings.

In the restaurant she had no option but to sit and wait as the minutes crawled by.

The maître d’ bustled over to her. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Bennett?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure my husband’s just tied up at work, but he’ll be here. In the meantime, may I have another glass of wine?”

She sank back into the plush upholstery, sipped her wine and waited. And waited. Trying to concentrate on the good things about Rob and recall early, happy days together.

There had been a time when Dwayne Nyeberger rarely lost his temper with his wife, or if he did, she did not know. He had limited himself to subvocal mutterings well out of her hearing. These inaudible conversations had let off a fair amount of steam.

Since his breakdown—which he referred to as his “little episode”—he made no effort to tiptoe around other people. When he came home late from the bank and his sons were not there, he was enraged. “How could you let them wander off, you fucking imbecile!” he shouted at his wife. “You’re dumber than a fucking sack full of hair!”

She cringed. “They didn’t ‘wander off,’ Dwayne. They were outdoors playing.”

“On a school day?”

“They’ve been skipping school a lot lately, I told you about it. Sometimes the school calls, but these days…” Tricia made a futile gesture with her hands.

“Have you called the police?”

“Not yet. My AllCom…” She made another futile gesture. “I took the bus to do some shopping and when I got home… how much trouble could they get into, Dwayne? In a nice town like this?”

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” he shouted. “If I wanted smart kids I should have married a smart woman!”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Dwayne doubled his fist.

Her fear affected him like gasoline poured on a fire.

“D’ja hear that?” Hooper Watson asked abruptly.