The Year I Almost Drowned (11 page)

Jesse

said.

She pursed her lips and glared at us both. “He caused quite a stir last night.”

She infuriated me; stating the obvious. Jesse ignored her and continued, “I’m

here

to

take

him

home.”

She added more fuel to the fire. “He was sauced up. They thought about throwing

him

in

the

shower.”

I never cared for Ruby, but at that moment I really hated her. I contemplated doing

awful things to her food the next time she came into the diner. Jesse, the

gentleman that he was, ignored her abrasive behavior. He stared at her and

uttered politely, “I’m sorry about that. If we could just get him home now.”

She scowled at him and then shouted, “Cookie, Quinn’s boy is here for him!”

Cookie shuffled over to us from the adjacent room. “Hey Finn, Jesse,” he said in

typical Cookie fashion. I was happy to see him. His friendly face was a relief next

to

Ruby’s

pit

bull

demeanor.

“Cookie, I’m here to get my dad,” Jesse said. His hand found mine, and I held

onto it securely, letting him know I was right there and wasn’t going anywhere.

“Let me go get him. Today’s a huge improvement over yesterday,” Cookie said.

He muddled slowly, opening a huge door. The door slammed shut behind him,

making a loud thwack that startled me and caused me to foolishly jump.

“It’s just a door, young lady,” Ruby said in a patronizing tone, looking up from her

phone. She had been texting. Who I don’t know, but it unnerved me.

Jesse squeezed my hand a little, helping me refrain from telling her off. I kept

quiet. We moved away from her desk and stood against the wall, waiting. There

were a few places to sit, but Jesse was too tense to sit for any period of time.

Cookie held onto Hank, holding his arm securely, as well as a small, thin man like

Cookie was able. Hank was pale. He had dark circles underneath his eyes and

looked as if all the life had been sucked out of him. His shirt was a little torn and

was wet from perspiration. He still looked and smelled like he was intoxicated.

“Jesse,” Hank slurred. He couldn’t stand straight without help from Cookie.

Ruby looked at him and held onto her nose. “He still smells like he’s drunk as a

skunk.” She folded her arms and gave us that “I told you so,” expression.

“That doesn’t help.” I gave her a dirty look. I wanted to say more, but Jesse

nudged

me

to

stop.

“Glad y’all er here,” Hank slurred again. He reeked of alcohol, like he was doused

in every bottle of booze imaginable. He was an awful, sweaty mess.

“What does he need to sign?” Jesse asked Cookie, ignoring Hank.

“Just this form here.” Cookie pointed and handed Hank a pen. Hank scribbled a

few letters and dropped the pen to the ground. He tried to pick it up and almost

tumbled

over.

“Whoa,” he stammered. Cookie held onto him, keeping him from tipping forward.

Hank peered in my direction. His eyes were glazed and heavily dilated.

I didn’t look at him long, I didn’t want to. I was too embarrassed for Jesse.

“We tried giving him a strong cup of coffee but it didn’t seem to help much. That’s

the most drunk I’ve ever seen anyone. He’ll have a bad hangover,” Cookie said

and scratched his chin. He stared at Hank in wonder as if he were some puzzle

he

couldn’t

figure

out.

Jesse squeezed the back of his neck and said “Thank you” to Cookie. He grabbed

his father’s arm forcing him to walk with him out the door. I followed behind them,

not

saying

a

word.

Jesse opened the back door and barked to Hank, “You can sit in the back.”

He sat Hank down, using more force than necessary. Hank fell over on his side

and mumbled things that didn’t make any sense. Jesse slammed the car door.

Hard. He walked over to the passenger’s side, unlocked my door and opened it

for me. I sat down. Hank’s stench permeated the entire car. I rolled down the

window, to let some fresh air in and was instantly chilled. It was a bitter cold day.

Jesse got into the car, turning the ignition. He turned on the heat and blew all of

the vents in my direction. “Roll your window up, Finn. I’ll roll mine down,” his voice

was strained. He was trying so hard to keep it together. I don’t know how he was

able to maintain his composure. I rolled mine up and rubbed my hands together

in

front

of

one

of

the

vents.

Hank continued to talk in the back seat saying incoherent things. Jesse turned

the volume up on his radio, loud enough that Hank’s voice was blocked out from

the front of the car. We both still knew he was there though; there was no way to

forget about his looming presence. Things were quiet until we reached Jesse’s

place. He pulled in front of his trailer and kept the car running.

“I won’t be long,” he said to me and rubbed my hand slightly. I could see the pain

in his eyes. Jesse opened the car door and said in an annoyed, impatient tone,

“Come on.” He yanked Hank out of the back of the car and jerked him upright,

dragging

him

inside

their

home.

I sat in his car for several minutes. It still smelled like a brewery. I wondered what

was going on inside–what Jesse was saying to him. It angered me that he had to

deal with this. No one should. Whatever decent thoughts I had of his father were

long gone. I wanted to see the good in him and believe that he could overcome

his

addiction,

but

the

rose-colored

glasses

were

gone.

Jesse came outside carrying a large black duffle bag. He placed it in his trunk,

closed it and sat down in the driver’s seat next to me. He laid his head against

the headrest and sat there for a minute without saying anything. “Sorry you had

to see all that,” he finally said. His voice was even and steady. For what he had

just

gone

through,

he

was

remarkably

calm.

“I’m

sorry

you

had

to

deal

with

it.”

He took a deep breath and said, “I’m glad it’s over. I’m through with him.” He took

another

breath.

“I’m

staying

with

Matt

for

a

while.”

“That’s

probably

best.”

Hank opened the front door and shouted, “You can’t leave me, Jesse!”

Jesse

put

the

car

in

reverse,

never

looking

back

at

him.

***

My grandparents’ were up waiting for me, sitting in their living room. Nana was

drinking a cup of hot tea; my grandfather was reading the paper. They had a fire

going. The room felt warm and welcoming. It was a reprieve to the horrible day.

My grandfather stopped reading the paper and Nana put her cup down on the

coffee table when I came inside. I could sense they wanted me to tell them what

had happened with Jesse’s dad. I sat down across from them.

“How’s

Jesse?”

Nana

asked.

“Holding up, I guess.” I bit on my bottom lip. He was a mixture of emotions:

disappointed, angry, hurt beyond repair, but I didn’t disclose that.

Nana

frowned.

“I

hate

this

for

him.”

My grandfather scowled. “Hank has never been a father to that boy.” It was the

first time I had ever heard him express any opinion about Jesse’s dad. “His mama

was a good person, just like Jesse is. When she died, Hank just gave up. He’s a

weak

man.”

“Jesse’s been taking care of him since he was ten years old. No child should ever

have to do that. He had to be an adult while he was still so little,” Nana said.

“Hank seemed liked such a gentle man. I was wrong,” I said, referring to his

violent

tirade

at

his

boss’

house.

“When you judge someone to be one way and then see their true colors, it’ll

always surprise you. Since Jesse’s mama died, Hank’s numbed his pain by

drinking. He doesn’t know how to cope and if you can’t cope with life’s

disappointments, you’re in serious trouble,” my grandfather said and picked his

newspaper

back

up

and

began

reading

again.

A minute or so passed until my Nana said with a forlorn expression, “I just hate

this

for

Jesse.

I

know

he’s

hurting.”

My grandfather put his newspaper back down on his lap. “That’s one of the

strongest young men I’ve ever met. He’ll survive this.” He looked directly at me

and said, “What you’ve got Finn, is a man, a real man, not some pansy-assed

nineteen-year old who’s still wet behind the ears. He’ll get through this just fine.

There’s no need to worry about him.”

A soft melody played on the jukebox. No one was in the diner except my

grandfather and me. Meg and Hannah had left. I sat on a bar stool–drinking a cup

of coffee–reading a book–as I waited for my grandfather to finish balancing the

books in his office. There was a subtle knock on the door, a quiet tapping sound.

I turned around and saw Cookie and Everett standing at the door. I got up and

unlocked

the

door

for

them.

“Hey

Finn,”

Cookie

said.

“Is

Charlie

in

his

office?”

“Yes,”

I

answered.

Cookie

shuffled

to

the

back.

“Hi,”

I

said

to

Everett.

I

locked

the

door

behind

him.

“Hi.” He looked around and then said, “Sorry we’re bothering you when you’re

closed.”

“Don’t worry about it. Cookie comes here a lot after hours.” I walked back to the

counter and sat down. He stood next to me. “Do you want a cup of coffee?” I

asked.

“Okay,”

he

said.

“Thanks.”

I got up and poured the last of the coffee into a white Lilly’s Diner mug. “Cream

and

sugar?”

“Just black.” I made a grossed out face. “What?” he asked, noticing my

expression.

“I

don’t

know

how

you

can

drink

it

like

that.”

He laughed. “When I was overseas, I didn’t have any other choice. Cream and

sugar

are

luxuries.”

“Oh.” I handed him the cup and sat back down. He sat next to me. I opened up

my book and started to read, but I could feel him staring at me. I looked up from

my book and in his direction and then back at my book. It was hard to read while

he

just

sat

there

staring

at

me.

He took a sip of his coffee. “Sorry I had to give you a ticket.”

“You didn’t have to give me a ticket, you chose to,” I corrected him, still looking

at

my

book.

“That’s the problem with this town. Every other cop just lets everyone else get by

with

things.”

I averted my eyes from my book and stared directly at him. “You mean they don’t

write people tickets for petty stuff.” I was being rude and even though he had

been nice enough to give me directions, it still irked me that he wrote me that

ticket.

He put his coffee mug down on the counter and tilted his head to the side. “You’re

very

feisty.”

I glared at him. “I’m feisty? Maybe I just don’t like getting a ticket.” He was really

starting

to

annoy

me.

“See. Feisty.” He picked the coffee mug up again and started to drink from it. I

sighed heavily and tried to read my book. “Your hair is different.” I ignored him.

“Did

Meg

cut

it?”

“Yes,”

I

answered

in

an

exasperated

tone.

“I

like

it,”

he

said.

I didn’t acknowledge the compliment. I pulled the book closer to me and rested

my elbow on the counter, my hand to my chin. “If you don’t mind, I need to finish

my

book,”

I

said,

still

not

making

eye

contact

with

him.

“Carry on.” He stood up and walked to the juke box. He put two quarters in and

played Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young. He bopped his head up and down. “This is

a classic. When I was in Afghanistan, I had this buddy who was a huge Young

fan.