“Tell me a shtory.”
“Some other time,” I said.
After adding the fresh grounds along with a small pinch of coarse salt to the filter basket, I poured in the water and switched the device on. I started to return the grinder and bag of beans to the cabinet but decided against it and left them where they were. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
My own earlier introspection was still floating around in the back of my head, but I consciously put it aside for the time being. I had my suspicions about why my friend was currently parked on my couch in a state of advanced inebriation, but my brain was also developing new theories with each passing second. The only way I was going to know for sure was to hear it directly from him.
Still, whatever it was that had brought him to this state, he had sought refuge here for a reason; and it was a good bet that the reason was to talk.
He was loyal to a fault and had been there for me more times than I could count, so the very least I could do was listen and be there for him.
I walked back into the living room to find my friend in a staring contest with Dickens, our black cat, who was perched on the end table quietly inspecting the boisterous human anomaly. As I pulled my rocking chair around to face the sofa, I took the opportunity to look him over myself. The fact that I could see a pistol riding on his hip and his badge clipped to his belt immediately dispelled one of my theories- he hadn’t been fired or suspended.
“Coffee will be ready in a few minutes,” I offered. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you tell ME a story?”
He pointed at Dickens and then looked over at me. “I thing yer cat hase me.”
“I think he’s confused by you,” I replied. “Can’t say as that I blame him.”
“You confused,” he asked, his head bobbing as he tried to focus on me.
“A little, maybe,” I returned. “Mainly wondering why you’re sitting in my living room totally wasted.”
“‘Caush I’ve been drinkin’.”
“No kidding. But I’ve known you a long time, Ben. You don’t drink like this.”
“New hobby,” he mumbled.
“You might want to think about picking a different one.”
“Yathink?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“‘Kay, I thought ‘bout it,” he said almost immediately.
“Yeah, well you might want to try it again when you’re sober,” I instructed. “So, why don’t you tell me what’s up.”
“Opposite of down,” he cackled.
“Yeah, you’re a regular comedian,” I returned with a frown.
“Oh’yeah,” he said suddenly, a distant but serious look washing over his face. “Iss her.”
“What?” I asked with a shake of my head.
“Her,” he repeated, tossing his hand limply outward in an uncoordinated attempt to point. “Iss her.”
I followed the haphazard thrust with my eyes and looked back over my shoulder at the muted television. A news update was playing out on the glowing screen, with a picture of Tamara Linwood inset at the upper corner.
“You mean they identified the remains?” I asked as I turned back to him.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Iss her.”
I wanted to seize on that point and run with it, but I knew he was in no condition to follow through. I resigned myself to the fact that this was something that would need to be addressed later. How much later was the question.
“I don’t think that’s why you came here, Ben,” I pressed.
“Hellno, I came here ta’ visit my friend. You seen ‘im? Shortguy, rise a broom.” He cackled again.
I was just about to sit back and give up on the conversation when I heard the hissing burp of the coffee pot as it finished its brewing cycle.
“I’m going to go get us some coffee,” I told him flatly as I rose.
In the kitchen, I pulled down a pair of mugs from the cabinet and filled them. I started to pick them up then thought about the lack of coordination my friend had just displayed. Figuring that hot coffee and he were not about to mix, I carefully poured a third of his cup back into the pot.
After a quick wipe of the counter with a dishtowel, I hefted the mugs and headed back for the living room. I was beginning to get the impression that Ben was too far on the other side of sober to actually talk about what had driven him to this point. Still, I was hoping that with a little luck, the java might nudge him back in this direction and get him rolling.
Unfortunately, my hopes were immediately dashed when I returned. My friend’s head was tilted face upward against the back of the couch, his mouth hanging wide open and his eyes closed. Dickens was draped half across his shoulder and half across the back of the sofa, purring with an in and out warble.
“Ben?” I said aloud.
He didn’t respond.
“Ben?” I said again as I sat his cup of coffee on the end table and then gave his arm a nudge.
Nothing.
I let out a sigh and cocked my head, letting my gaze drift out into space. I took a sip of my coffee then walked across the room to the bookshelf and picked up the telephone.
If my suspicions were correct, Ben being trashed stemmed from what little I had overheard the day before. I could well be wrong, but I was guessing that he and Allison were at odds. Still, from the looks of things, he wasn’t going to be moving for quite awhile, and there was no reason for her to worry about him when he didn’t come home, even if they were angry at one another.
I tucked the device up to my ear and heard nothing but a hollow clicking sound. Puzzled, I tapped the off- hook switch a few times. Still, I heard only the hollowness. I settled it back onto the cradle and with my coffee in hand, trudged back into the kitchen to check the phone there. I found the same thing. Next, I ventured back through the living room, down the hall and into the bedroom. There, I found the reason for the dead line. The phone next to the bed was on the floor, along with everything else that had been on the nightstand. In the wake of the carnage were two lounging cats, Emily and Salinger, glassy-eyed and surrounded by the remnants of a catnip-stuffed toy mouse.
“Hope you two didn’t make any long distance calls,” I said aloud as I picked up the phone and married it back to the cradle.
After giving the line a moment to reset, I lifted the receiver and got a steady dial tone. As I stabbed in Ben’s home number, I mutely wondered how long the phone had been off the hook and if anyone had tried to call.
“Hello?” a familiar voice answered after the third ring.
“Hi, Allison, it’s Rowan,” I said.
There was an overt silence at the other end then her voice issued again. This time it was a stilted mix of trepidation, confusion, and maybe even annoyance. “Oh, hi, Rowan.”
I was taken aback by her tone, but I decided to ignore it and ventured forth. “So listen, I’m sorry to call this late, but I didn’t want you to worry. Ben’s okay but he’ll probably be sleeping here tonight. He’s passed out on my couch.”
The silence crept in once again.
“Why would I worry?” she finally asked.
“Umm, uhh,” I stuttered. “I just thought maybe you might be concerned when he didn’t come home.”
“He hasn’t told you has he?” she asked, her voice audibly softened with a note of understanding now in place of the confusion.
“Allison, he’s too drunk to make a coherent sentence,” I replied.
I heard her sigh at the other end. “Rowan… Ben and I separated at the beginning of the month. He hasn’t lived here for two weeks.”
It was my turn to fall silent. In all of my imaginings of what might be wrong, the foremost had been something between the two of them. But, not once did I even consider that it was something this bad.
“Rowan?” she said.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” I answered. “Listen… Allison… I’m…”
