Book II – Chapter 22: Bentley

Posted On October 8, 2016

The moment Ferris awoke, he wished he hadn’t. Lead seemed to fill his skull — dull, heavy. His temples throbbed as he tried to remember what he’d done to deserve this, and how he had ended up fully clothed in bed. His shirt smelled like gasoline. No, it was grappa. He remembered a piano, with one hand playing clumsily over the keys. Demos’ hand. Ferris had said something — something stupid. What had he said?

“Fer!” The voice hit him like a wall. It was Seamus, somewhere in the kitchen.

Ferris rubbed his aching forehead. “Not so loud, Seamus.”

“Oh, you’re awake. Finally.” The door cracked open, revealing his offensively bright-eyed roommate.

“Have you just been yelling my name all morning?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Seamus tapped his own head. “How’s that hangover?”

“It’s great, thanks. Er, how did you know I—”

“After the state you were in last night, I figured.”

Seamus slipped into the room, bumping him over to sit on the bed. Before Ferris could protest, he was handed a glass of water. It was smooth against his skin, beads of perspiration wetting his palms. His mouth felt suddenly dry and before he could stop himself, he had emptied the entire glass. He could feel it run down his throat, filling his empty, aching stomach. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet.

Ferris exhaled. “Last night? What happened?”

“Your boy called me to help you home. I’m sure he’d have done it himself if he weren’t tiny and frail. Then he ran off somewhere with a knife.”

“A knife. You’re saying he—“ Ferris paused, sniffing the air. “Wait, what’s that smell?”

Seamus grinned. “I know you told me to stay out of the kitchen, but—“

“Oh, god. Did you cook something?”

“Well.” Seamus said. “Haven’t had a proper fry-up in ages. That butcher shop two blocks over had back bacon, you know, real bacon. So I thought to myself, I’ll have a proper breakfast for my mate, that’s you, and I’ll make it myself. Managed to fry some eggs and then some bubble and squeak with those leftovers from your mum’s—“

“Stop.” Ferris held up a hand. “Just stop. You’re cooking and being British and— and we talked about this.”

“But—“

“And you know I don’t eat bacon.”

“You haven’t lived.”

“No.” Ferris closed his eyes, fighting his headache as it attempted to burst free from his brain cavity. “I think I’ve lived too much.”

“Well, grappa will do that to you.”

Ferris swallowed. He wished he had more water. As his eyes trailed from his empty glass to his friend, he recognized the pattern on his shirt. It was a dress shirt, one with buttons. Seamus never wore dress shirts.

“Wait, is that my shirt?”

“Is it? I found it in your closet, so I suppose so. Ah, reminds me. I’ve got to get going.”

“Going? Where are you going?”

The only place Ferris could imagine Seamus going in a dress shirt was a date or a court room. Neither would likely end well.

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise, very important.” He rose from the bed, straightening his clothes with a few casual sweeps of his hands. “How do I look?”

Ferris squinted. There wasn’t much to see without his glasses. “Vaguely presentable.”

“You sound like Demos.”

Ferris cringed. “Agh. Don’t say that.”

“Oh, before I forget.” Seamus tossed Ferris his own phone, which he scrambled with before catching properly. “You slept through some calls.”

Ferris looked down at the screen. Sure enough, there were three missed calls from his mother.

“Great, thanks. And good luck with your trial. I hope they give you a light sentence.”

“Shut up and call your mum,” was the last thing Seamus said before the door drifted shut behind him. Ferris sighed. If it were any other person, three calls in a row would have worried him. His mother, however, had a tendency to make repeated calls over plights such as ‘Turn on Channel 8, they’re playing Ben-Hur. Remember Ben-Hur? Oh, Charlton Heston looks amazing.’ and ‘I want to talk to Stanley. Give Stan the phone.’ Whatever this was, perhaps it could wait until his headache subsided.

It only took a moment, however, of measuring the pain of guilt against the pain of his hangover. Ruth always won.

The phone rang twice before his mother answered.

“Ferris!” she said, as if he had just come back from war.

“Hi, Mom. You called?”

“Yes, I called, because you never call.”

Ferris pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m calling you right now.”

“When I prayed for my son to be smart, I didn’t mean for him to be smart with his own mother.”

“You must have been praying to the wrong god.”

Ruth laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing you caught me. Your Aunt Esther is selling her car and it’s right in your price range. Why you have such a low price range is beyond me. You do get a regular paycheck, why don’t you buy a new one? Something nice you could drive Alex around in?”

Ferris chewed his lower lip. It was strange, the numbness that had so quickly crept over his insides. He could tell her later.

“Oh? Which car was it?”

There was a pause. “Well, the good news is, it’s a Bentley.”

A British car — Seamus would be happy. Demos wouldn’t.

“And the bad news?”

“It’s about as old as you are, bubele. And you’ll have to decide today, or she’s going to sell it to her neighbor, Ms. Scheinker. Remember her? She was there that one time we went to Long Island for Passover and Esther had everyone over. Well, they say the more the merrier, but I wouldn’t want to host that many— ah, well, anyway. Why don’t you come over? I’ve got a picture of it here.”

“You could just email it to me.”

“You don’t want to see your mother, then? You’re too busy to come home for two seconds, to look at a picture?”

“Mom, no.”

“Good. Be here at noon. I’ll make you some pasta.”

“But I don’t—“

“Love you, bubele. Bye!”

The call ended. He slumped onto his back, wishing the bed would simply swallow him whole. He could still smell bacon from the kitchen.

#

Once Ferris saw the photo, he could see why his mother hadn’t wanted to email it to him. It was still in an album. The page had creaked against the binding, faded paper sealed with a clear sheet. His aunt was standing in front of the car and, beside her, his parents. He lingered on his father’s face, momentarily forgetting there was a car behind him at all. There he was, in a gray suit and a campy smile.

“Well?” Ruth said. “What do you think?”

Ferris kept his eyes on the page. “It’s an old photo.”

“Don’t you worry, that car hasn’t changed a bit. She kept it in the garage most of the time.”

That was right — the car. It was a Bentley Eight, traditional and angular. Ferris didn’t deserve a luxury car. He could never have paid for it if it were new, but now, nineteen years later, it had somehow fallen right into his budget. There was something charming about the old thing, its finish a dark, gunmetal gray. It was the same color as his father’s suit.

Ferris closed the album. “Tell her I’ll take it.”

He felt marginally better after lunch. Despite his lack of appetite, Ruth’s cooking always seemed to calm the various pains knocking around in his shell. She made food the same way Demos did — with art, and with love. His hands were still damp from washing dishes when he made his way upstairs. His bedroom door opened with a faint creak — it hadn’t been used much in the last few years. Even so, everything remained how he’d left it. There were old coats in the closet and a few books he had left behind. He slipped one off the shelf, a copy of Moby Dick he had bought to replace the one Demos hadn’t returned. All this time, he’d thought the original had never been read, that Demos had abandoned it under a pile of fashion magazines. Yet, just last night, he’d quoted it, reciting the line as if he’d read it a hundred times.

The Ghost was always full of surprises. Ferris wondered what else he didn’t know, what other truths had been left unsaid.

He sat on the bed, letting the book fall open on his lap. Six hundred pages on one fucking whale.

Ferris rubbed his forehead, wishing he could remember more of the previous night. It had all blurred together, a with a sheen of white ivory and the burning scent of grappa dominating his memory. Everything had grown so complicated.

Glancing up, he tried to think back to when things were simple. All he could recall was snow, that black Lincoln Towncar and the bloated body in its trunk. He saw flame, ash, burnt out cigarette butts and blood streaked down a passenger window. There was the sound of money churning through a bill counter, the smell of horses, of gasoline. Ferris’ eyes screwed shut, trying to think back further. Further than that. He remembered his father in the living room, the hushed voices of three men and the clink of scotch glasses. Then there was Demos, thin, white, like a boy who had already died. He’d smiled at him.

Things had never been simple.

The door opened once more. He could feel his mother sit down next to him, then her hand as she straightened his collar.

“You feeling all right?”

Ferris closed the book. “I’m not seeing Alex anymore.”

Ruth’s hand went still on his collar. “Oh, bubele. What happened?”

“She found out.”

There was a silence between them. There wasn’t anything more he needed to say, any further explanation for Ruth to understand. Gently, she released his shirt.

Ferris took in a breath before he spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What made you stay with Dad? When you found out?”

“Well, I loved him.” Ruth quickly caught herself. “But that doesn’t mean—“

“She didn’t love me. She didn’t have a chance to.”

“Ferris, honey. Listen to me.” His mother straightened her glasses, her lips tight as she collected her thoughts. “Alex was a good girl. I wasn’t. I liked the nice house, the nice car. I thought it was all worth it, for our family, to have everything we’d ever need. It bothered me a little, at first. But deep down, I was just a selfish, crazy girl. I’m not without blame. I’ve let the most terrible things happen in my own home, and I never said a word.”

Ferris looked down at his hands, his knuckles wrung together like cords.

“If you want to be with a good person,” Ruth said, “you’ll have to be good, too.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then you’ll just have to look somewhere else.”

He shook his head. “I’m tired of looking. I don’t want to look anymore.”

“Well, that’s fine bubele. But you still owe me grandchildren, one way or another.”

Ferris managed a crooked smile. “Can I just get you a bunch of cats?”

“I’ll consider puppies, but that’ll only tide me over for a year or two.”

“Well, I—“ A buzz from his side interrupted his thought. It was his phone. With an awkward shift of his weight, he fished it from his pocket to read the text.

Seamus Aston – 1:16pm: hey m8 come to th crafty crook on 9^th, ive got that surprise 4 u

The Crafty Crook was a bar. Whatever surprise Seamus wanted to show him at a bar in the middle of the day could probably wait.

Ruth, however, seemed to think differently. “Oh, you go on and see your English friend. We can talk more later.”

“Mom, you’re reading my texts.”

“You look at your phone in front of your mother and expect me not to read it?”

“Silly me.” Ferris stood, laying the book aside on his desk. “All right, Mom. I’ll call you later.”

“Sure, you will.”

#

The Crafty Crook was surprisingly lively, considering the time of day. Ferris had walked past the brick facade on many occasions, but had never actually stepped inside. It held the typical atmosphere of a pub, with dim lighting and slick wooden surfaces. There were rows of kegs and taps, most for English ales he hadn’t even heard of. Several of the tables were occupied, yet Seamus was nowhere in sight. Ferris glanced at his watch, wondering if his friend would be late for his own ‘surprise.’

“You gonna have a drink, or are you just going to loiter in the entrance?”

Ferris glanced back in relief. It was Seamus. “Oh, I thought you weren’t—“

It took a moment to click. Seamus wasn’t standing at the bar; he was standing behind it.

Ferris stared. “Who let you back there?”

“Me.” Seamus’ brow lifted. “I work here, mate. That’s the surprise. Thought I’d show you myself since you probably wouldn’t have believed me.”

At first, Ferris didn’t respond. There he was, leaning on the counter, the sleeves of his button-up rolled to the elbows — a bartender.

“Holy shit.” Ferris still hadn’t moved. “You have a job.”

“I have a job! Why don’t you sit down? You look like a nutcase standing there.”

Hesitantly, Ferris took a stool at the counter. He wondered if he should clean his glasses, if he were seeing things — hearing things. Without a word, he watched as Seamus poured two whiskies, sliding one across to his friend.

“Have one on me.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Seamus said as he lifted his glass, “but you inspired me, Fer.”

Ferris blinked at his whisky. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for this?”

Seamus grinned. “I never left BST.”

Ferris knew this was a bad idea. He hadn’t even recovered from the previous night and was already inhaling the fumes of another drink. This, however, was a special occasion. After years of pressure, of wandering from one couch to another, Seamus had finally found employment. Ferris picked up his glass.

There always seemed to be a special occasion.

“I’m proud of you.” Ferris couldn’t help but smile. “Cheers.”

It was a few hours later that he could barely remember his own time zone. Ferris had started paying for his drinks, not wanting his friend to lose his job on his first day. It seemed the dubious connections Seamus had made on the town had landed him with an opening at a pub he’d frequented. He had done something right — something responsible. Ferris, on the other hand, was acting far from responsible.

“You trying to forget something, Fer?” Seamus said as he slid another ale over the walnut counter. “I’m going to have to cut you off in a minute.”

“Jesus, the sky must be falling.” Ferris cradled his forehead. “Seamus is telling me I’m drinking too much.”

“Oi, I’m a proper adult now.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Seamus did have a point. This wasn’t like him. The last time they’d gone to a bar together, he’d been the designated driver. It was normally one drink — one paltry drink, if anything. What was he trying to forget? What was he trying to punish himself for?

His head was starting to pound again. The ale didn’t even have a taste anymore.

“Ugh. I’m going to have to get a cab,” Ferris said.

Seamus offered his friend a smile. “No worries, we’ve got them on speed dial.”

Ferris attempted to straighten himself, glancing down at the row of other patrons. The pub had grown considerably more crowded as the evening came, now reduced to standing room only. A couple two seats over had been kissing for quite some time — at least, he was pretty sure they were a couple. Even when he averted his attention, he could still hear it.

“Hey, Seamus.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve—,” Ferris locked his eyes on the rim of his glass. “You’ve kissed Demos before, haven’t you?”

Seamus didn’t seem to be phased by the question, cracking open a bottle for a customer. “Sure, we fooled around back in school.”

Ferris wondered if his face had suddenly heated, or if it had been like that for a while. “What’s it like?”

“Oh?” Seamus laughed. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m drunk.”

“It was nice — real nice,” Seamus said, his hand pausing around a bottle of gin. “But I don’t think he meant it.”

For a second, there was only the bar, the chatter of a dozen conversations, of liquor and ice, glass bottles clicking on tabletops and stools scraping against the wooden floor. Seamus looked away, maintaining a wistful smile.

“You know,” Seamus said. “I don’t know if he’s ever meant it.”

“Oh.”

Ferris tried to think through the buzzing of the pub, of the ache in his head and the heat that had started burning from his chest up. This seemed important, whatever it was, whatever Seamus was saying. The more he dwelled on the thought, the muddier it got. His headache had intensified, screaming for attention beneath his temples. The words, the bar, this feeling — they were already slipping from him. He was only certain of one thing. By the time the sun rose, by the next time he looked at himself in a mirror, this, too, would be forgotten.