Emilie Richards - The Parting Glass

The cellar door was located—inefficiently—inside the kitchen pantry. The cellar itself was tiny, damp and unpleasant, and only used for storing kegs or a temporary overflow of canned goods.

“I can’t imagine he’d go down there,” Jon said. “Will he even remember the cellar’s there? I didn’t.”

“It’s hard to tell what he remembers. But for a long time the saloon was his life. He knows every nook and cranny.”

“I’ll check.” Jon turned away, but Megan stopped him.

“No, let me.”

“I’ll come with you,” Niccolo said.

“Shouldn’t you and Jon stay up here and try to figure out what to do?”

“It will only take a moment.”

They started through the throng of guests toward the kitchen. Megan was impressed with everyone’s calm. She heard weeping, and coughing from the dust, but order had been maintained. She comforted people as best she could and promised they would know what to do shortly. When she reached the kitchen, she saw the old maple tree lying in front of the window, heavy branches like arms lifted imploringly toward the sky. Greta and another kitchen staff member were waiting for them.

“I don’t know why this window’s still in one piece, but it is,” Greta said. “Do you want us to knock out the glass?”

“Not yet,” Megan said. She couldn’t imagine anyone escaping that way. Perhaps a small child would fit, but no one could know what awaited a child outside. For the moment it was better to keep everyone together. “Greta, have you been here the whole time? Since the tornado hit?”

“I ran out into the saloon right afterwards. We all did. To see what happened.”

“You didn’t see Rooney come in here, did you?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.” Greta sounded contrite, as if she should somehow have had her wits completely about her during the crisis.

Megan was fighting panic. “I smell gas,” she said. “Very faint, but noticeable.”

“The stove is off,” Greta said. “And I blew out the pilot light. That was the first thing I checked when I came back in here.”

“We’ll check the furnace when we go downstairs, but it’s fairly new, isn’t it?” Niccolo asked.

“Last winter,” Megan said.

“Then it should have a safety shutoff. That’s probably not the problem.”

“Let’s find Rooney. One thing at a time.” She put a hand on Greta’s shoulder. “Hold the fort, okay?”

“We’ve got clean towels, and we still have water. We’ll help people clean up as best we can.”

Megan headed for the pantry. The cellar was so rarely used that boxes of supplies partially blocked the doorway, taking advantage of every inch of room. The saloon had always needed more storage area. Now it would need so much more than that.

“I guess he could have gotten through without moving anything. If he stepped over these, opened the door a crack and squeezed through,” she said, pointing to the boxes.

“The electricity’s off, so there’s no light down there.”

“We’ve always kept a couple of flashlights on a rack in the stairwell. I never go down without one. I’m afraid I’ll end up in the dark if there’s a power failure.”

“We’ll take a quick look.”

“I was going to increase our property insurance,” she said as he helped her shove boxes aside so the door would open wider. “I just never seemed to find the time for a consultation with our agent.”

“Don’t think about that now.”

“When you vowed for better or worse, I bet you weren’t thinking the big guy upstairs might take you up on that last part so soon.”

“Megan, this is the better part. It’s a miracle no one was killed. If the twister hit us directly, it would have taken the whole building and everyone in it. We probably caught the tip of the tail.”

That wasn’t lost on Megan. Miracle was not too strong a word, particularly if help arrived quickly and cleared an exit.

She edged in front of him. “Better let me go first. I know the layout. I can feel around for a flashlight.”

“I see light down below.” He stepped aside.

Megan felt a rush of gratitude. Light meant Rooney was downstairs. Now she was only afraid they might find him in a state of terror.

She felt along the wall to the rack where the flashlights were kept and found only one, snapping it on to illuminate the path. “Rooney,” she called. “Don’t be afraid. Nick and I are coming to get you.”

She started down, shining her light just in front of her so that Niccolo could find his way, as well. Halfway there she saw her father below them, banging ineffectually on a paneled wall with his palms. He was a slight man and—she noted—paler than usual. She wondered if he really believed that his meager weight was any match for the saloon foundation.

“He must have panicked,” she said so that only Niccolo would hear. She moved faster and hoped that her new husband could still see well enough to keep up. At the bottom she started toward Rooney.

“Hey, Rooney, it’s okay. The fire department will get here soon. And they’ll get us out. But you need to come upstairs with Nick and me. You shouldn’t be alone down here.”

Rooney turned to examine her. He did not look panicked. He looked, in fact, disturbed by the interruption. “Here somewhere.”

She was often puzzled by her father’s attempts to communicate. There had been a time when almost everything he’d said was a mystery. More recently, though, all the other changes in his life had led to clearer, more precise exchanges. They’d had real conversations where both of them were heard and understood. She was afraid this wasn’t going to be one of them.

“Yes, you’re here,” she said. “But it would be better if you were upstairs.”

He gazed at her as if she were a little girl again. “No way out.”

“Maybe not this minute, but the fire department—”

“No way out there.” He shook his head and pointed above him. He looked annoyed, as if Megan just didn’t understand.

“No, but there will be.”

He turned around and began banging his palms on the wall again. Megan imagined that prisoners pounded cell walls the same way. “Rooney, that’s not going to help. Come on upstairs with me, okay?”

“Are you looking for something?” Niccolo asked him.

Megan wished Niccolo would stay out of the exchange. She was afraid Rooney was going to become even more distracted. “Nick, I—”

“Here someplace.” Rooney moved down an arm’s length and continued pounding.

“Megan, he’s not upset. He’s looking for something,” Niccolo told her. “Do you know what it might be?”

“I don’t think—”

“Listen…” Rooney stopped pounding a moment, then started up again.

She was growing more disturbed. She didn’t like being away from the others. Maybe someone had gotten through to the fire department. She wanted to know if help was on the way. She wanted to figure out strategy. She wanted to see to her guests. “Rooney, I don’t hear anything! Please come up.”

“It sounds hollow.” Niccolo took her arm. “Do what he says and listen.”

“So what if it’s hollow? Who can tell why…” But she fell silent, aware that nothing she could say was going to turn the tide.

“What’s behind there, Rooney?” Niccolo asked.

Rooney grinned. “Jail time.”

Megan caught Niccolo’s eye and shook her head. Niccolo was expecting too much.

“Jail time?” Niccolo asked. “Jail for who?”

Rooney was picking at a sheet of paneling now, trying to pry it loose with fingernails that weren’t up to the task.

“For who?” Niccolo repeated.

Rooney stepped back, obviously frustrated. “Tools. Hammer might do.”