Continuation Begins...

CONTINUATION BEGINS…

By Derek Wheatley

MASSACHUSETTS

[ FOR MAM & DAD ]

Continuation begins at the bottom of the bottle of scotch sitting on the small table next to Brian’s armchair. The bottle is 3 quarters full. The glass next to it sits with a golden brown shot in it, waiting to be consumed. A pack of cigarettes completes a sinful trilogy that Laura would never have agreed with. She would shake her head, maybe roll her eyes. Brian hadn’t been allowed to smoke in the house since they married, all of those 54 years ago. Yesterday broke that run; today he dragged on those cigarettes with a rigorous kind of gusto; his sons and daughters now shook their heads at him, but they didn’t have the powers of dissuasion that sweet Laura had. The TV was in the corner, loud cartoons for the twins – Reece and Denise – his great grandkids. Two beauties who never sat still and had disappeared for the last half hour, but the cartoons remained. A cloud of mournful black clothing cut through the emitted smoke. Chatter filled the air, tiny pockets of silence came and went before awkwardness could set in. ‘You okay Dad?’, ‘You okay Grandpa?’, ‘You okay Brian?’. The three statements that began in the church continued throughout the burial in the idyllic cemetery and followed him home to the house. He wasn’t okay, of course he wasn’t but he had to get on. Laura asked him to. There was the supervising of the running of the bar to be overseen – kind of a helpful, experienced eye – to help Sean, his eldest and now bar manager; the bar that had been their project together, a tribute to hard work and determination, and at times a tribute to their love. It made them financially, but on the downside almost broke them, but it turned out that the only thing that could break a bond such as theirs was the Grim Reaper whom they had both learned to fear over the last ten years. But he had wanted to be the first, even more so now.

‘You okay Grandpa?’ It was Gavin asking, a triumphant specimen who had finished his fourth marathon just recently. You had to drag his achievements out of him as if he was afraid to be proud, a possible hangover of Catholic guilt passed down from Brian’s – somewhat - previous life. ‘I’m okay young man. How about you?’ ‘I’m okay I guess, bummed out really.’ Gavin was holding a bottle of water, he would never let anything stronger than herbal tea to pass his lips. ‘You want a scotch?’ It was worth asking, Brian supposed. ‘I’m okay thanks Grandpa.’ Brian patted Gavin on the knee, a wordless release from a possibly long, tough conversation for the lad. Brian sank his scotch and poured another, lit another cigarette and blew the first exhalation of smoke out. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the empty seat that Laura would be sitting on if she hadn’t passed. Its emptiness alone screamed misery. The twins emerged as one, like a tornado through the room. They usually moved slowly by Brian, their eyes curious and cautious. He was old and wrinkled and at times complained constantly about every item of news coming from the TVs 24 hour coverage. He would become animated in movement, his voice robust. Other times they crept towards him, stealth like, almost balletic in their motion. They entered the kitchen and the packed room zoned in on their cuteness; ruffling their hair, tickling their bellies, breathing in their giggles in an effort to break the remorse and sorrow of the occasion. Seconds later Brian could hear them trampling down the hall, down the floorboards which now groaned beneath the carpet under the minimum of pressure. To those two kids, Laura was just a kind old woman who wouldn’t be around anymore.

Brian lifted the glass with his left hand because his right hand still clung to the dried damp earth which he had dropped on to Laura’s coffin. The grimness of the dull thud could just have easily been a final nail. The many lines on his palm were dark in colour, the dirt like highways on a map. Dirt shouldn’t mean anything, of course it shouldn’t. He was still thinking clearly – there wasn’t enough scotch for blurriness just yet – but somehow at that moment the dirt was symbolic, tiny evidence of something that was now close to Laura, the dirt he had tossed was certainly now covered over with more and more dirt, but a tiny bit of a larger collection was on his unwashed hand now. People had since visited the house and he shook their hands reluctantly because he didn’t want to lose the dirt. He rubbed his hands on his black trousers a couple of times without thinking and cursed his forgetfulness instantly. When his palms sweated he had a habit of wiping his hands on his clothing, sometimes leaving dirty smears which Laura hated. She was an American who had never shied away from expressing herself, but that expressing always came in a lady-like manner, always quietly and always to that person and that person alone. But Brian was Irish. A quiet Clare man who arrived in Boston on a boat when he was 22. He was on his own and searched for work and a place to stay for 4 days before he finally found a bed. His first three nights in America were spent sleeping in a public park beneath a tree. A tale that sounds more sorrowful than it was. Brian was reluctant to speak about his feelings, he had been taught not to. The only place to open up fully was in a dark confessional where a priest could hear your sins and then dish out your punishment. Religion held on to him for fifteen years after he left Ireland but with Laura being indifferent to organised religion it eventually petered out to nothing. He had her, and at that point 3 out of his 5 children were born, that was all that mattered to him spiritually. What mattered to him outside of the home was ‘The Burren’, their pub. Their dream. Brian drank another shot and let it burn.

Much to a lot of Americans disappointment when he arrived, Brian was not much of a drinker. To the Irish immigrants and tourists who visited the bar, they could not believe that this large man from the ‘Old sod’ could and would not toss down a few pints and sing out of key about the War of Independence, or the Famine, or the Struggle on that wet little island to the East of this land of hope and glory. His old friend Kevin had just arrived with two bottles of wine and a case of beer which Brian knew Kevin referred to that particular brand as ‘American pisswater’ when other people weren’t around. But it was cheap and the younger generation liked it. Kevin was now in the kitchen giving his condolences to the family. He was a classy man when it was called for but could be crass and crude in front of a TV set when the Celtics were getting their collective ass kicked. He drank Guinness at the bar, the odd whiskey when he was feeling down, which was usually when he thought about Maria who had left him behind almost two years previously after her heart failed her. Kevin always said that it was his weekly drink with Brian at ‘The Burren’ and his Sunday roast with Brian and Laura that got him through the worst of Maria’s death. Laura was a star in the sky to him. An incomparable colossus who could listen, laugh, cry and love in the space of a minute. During the most difficult of times she would reach for Kevin’s hand across the table and cry along with him. The Irishness inside Brian would remove him from the house where he would go and smoke a cigarette or two in the backyard, keeping grief away from him; strong feelings in the kitchen, quiet and uncomplicated in the yard.

Once again, Kevin apologised for missing the funeral. He had a hospital appointment that he couldn’t miss but didn’t want to talk about. Brian waved his apologies away and reached for a glass in the cabinet behind him to pour Kevin a drink. He wanted the bottle finished – it was a psychological thing – and he knew he wouldn’t be able to finish the bottle alone, at least not without throwing up or passing out. An 80 year old man who never drank too much should never try to take on a bottle of scotch alone. He knew this but he was grieving and celebrating what he had with Laura, 54 great years which had produced amazing moments and people, almost a kitchen full of people, all of which had started with the love of Brian and Laura. Wasn’t that alone the most glorious of things? Kevin clinked glasses with Brian, Kevin sipped the scotch more politely than Brian had ever seen him do and praised the flavour. ‘To Laura, eh?’ ‘Yeah…Laura.’ Another raising of glasses but this time a fuller drink. ‘She was a great lady, Brian. One of a kind.’ ‘She sure was.’ Brian swallowed hard, and again. It had started to rain outside, large drops streaking the front windows. ‘It always rains on the day of a funeral. At least it seems that way to me. You know, I’ve been protecting this hand since I dropped the lump of earth on top of the coffin, protecting physical evidence of today. Is that strange?’ ‘No it’s not strange Brian. What’s strange is that you haven’t filled my glass again. That’s strange! You’re the barman, right?!’

‘Another?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘So where do I go now, Kevin?’ ‘Only you can answer that my friend. I know I used to be lost but not for long because I had you guys. Now you have me and all of your regulars down at the bar. Spend more time down there now. Talk to people. Watch more baseball. Put some money in that jukebox and dance with old Joyce or young Stacey! They all love you Brian, you know that. You are an old man now but a healthy old man, unlike me. You don’t need a nurse to keep an eye on you like Samantha does for me. Don’t get me wrong, a sweet peach like her is fun to have around but it’s humiliating when she has to help you out of a cold bath that you have been sitting in for four hours because you haven’t had the strength to get out of it on your own. Think of a prune and then think of an old, old prune. That’s what she has to see from time to time. You just have to get on. So, cheers!’ The glasses clink. The crowd of mourners had spilled into the dining room behind Brian’s head. The conversations were multifarious to say the least and it was best to tune out of them. Twenty years before, Brian had felt that his hearing was going slightly – well that is what Laura thought, because she had to shout rather than speak to him suddenly – but it had levelled off fast and was now pretty good. He wore glasses but mostly for reading; watching TV wasn’t a problem for him, though his left eye tended to blur a little after a couple of hours of constant viewing. Kevin put down his empty glass. He wore thick glasses, a hearing aid and liver spots splattered his face, hands and neck. Was it being left behind that caused this obvious spurt in the ageing process? Would this happen to him now? He needed to dance with those ladies at the bar while he still could. Laura would want him to continue to love people, to make them feel as if their place on earth was as important as it was. Brian could make people feel like that. Laura believed it was a gift.

Their eldest child Siobhan carried a tray of sandwiches into the front room. Kevin took a napkin and three triangular segments. Brian waved her away, received a stern look from his darling first, and so felt forced to take a couple of triangles filled with cheese and salad. She watched him as he grabbed a napkin; she looked tired and had definitely cried in the last half hour. She was carrying on though. Tough as nails, Irish blood! She had two kids of her own and was the grandmother to the twins. There was another six grandkids in the house that belonged to Brian. They had been brought up with constant reminders of their roots and some of them had even visited Ireland; coming back with stories of cold beaches, warm pubs, welcoming locals and persistent rain. During All Ireland games when the Banner County were being shown live on the big screen in ‘The Burren’, the whole family would converge in a raucous wave, dragging the uninitiated and unsuspecting new customers into shouting at a game whose rules they didn’t understand. His granddaughter Ruth was Clare’s biggest fan. She wore the jersey and helped hang the blue and yellow flags from the lights outside the bar at the start of each summer. All year round the inside was decorated with hurls on the wall, Clare jerseys signed by teams of then and now. Most of the new kids who came to the bar asked about the “strange sticks” on the wall and the odd balls in the glass cases, lined up between various liquor bottles behind the bar. Brian was still the first to answer questions about the game and dismissed the young minds comparison of a sliotar to a baseball as lazy. Ruth was in the kitchen right now; 22 years of age, slim, tall, and wearing black from head to foot. She was an example of womanhood in its finest form, a reminder of a young Laura from all those years ago.

Kevin went to the bathroom again, comparing his bladder to a grape every time. Brian was getting drunk now and the bottle was only just past the half way mark. He thought of his and Laura’s first meeting. He was working in a fancy bar downtown which served good food and had a pianist playing quietly in a dimly lit corner every night of the week. She came in with her parents and was wearing a peach coloured dress. Her father was in a good mood and ordered a bottle of white wine. For some reason – maybe pride – he told Brian that his daughter had turned 21 that day. Brian congratulated him and his daughter while he tried to look casual uncorking the bottle. Brian couldn’t help watching her as he wiped down surfaces just to look busy. She was just about the most beautiful girl he had seen. Her father asked for the “young Irish kid” when they had finished their meal. Brian approached, awkward in his movements, still grappling with his large frame being wrapped in a starched shirt and polyester pants, not to mention the size 13 shoes squeaking on his feet. ‘What part of Ireland are you from, kid?’ He was smoking a thick cigar that smelled smooth and rich. ‘Clare, sir.’ ‘My grandfather was a man from county Leitrim. Have you ever been there?’ ‘No sir, only Galway, Mayo and Dublin.’ ‘That’s a shame. So how long have you been here?’ ‘Three years, sir.’ ‘And how has it been for you?’ ‘Pretty good really. Maybe not quite as good as I had hoped. It has been going slow financially, a bit of a struggle at times.’ ‘How is the pay in here?’ ‘Okay I guess.’ ‘That means it is unsatisfactory!’ Brian smiled, shrugged. ‘Maybe you could work in my bar? It’s a couple of streets over, not far.’ He just put it out there as easy as he expelled the thick cigar smoke. Laura was smiling at her mother. That was enough, Brian was in.

‘You okay Dad?’ James, his youngest son, a boy who had it tough. Two years married - one miscarriage in and his wife got up and took off. James was left with an empty house, some heavy bills and a few mental health issues. He didn’t like to talk about these things though (another legacy of the families Irish history perhaps?!). But what he didn’t speak of seemed an invisible weight on his being. He was far too thin, he had lost hair on top so shaved the sides tight to match up and he carried thick, dark bags under his dark brown eyes. ‘Yeah I’m okay James. Are you okay? Would you like a scotch?’ Brian was already reaching for another glass. ‘No thanks Dad. I don’t drink anymore, remember?’ ‘Of course…sorry. So are you alright then?’ ‘Not really Dad but I’ll be okay. It will take a bit of time I guess. She was great you know? A real rock. We are all going to struggle a bit without her.’ ‘I know James, I know. But we need to try to keep communicating like she made us do when she was here. It’s like we have to do her job now to help us. Does that make sense to you?’ ‘Yeah, surprisingly it does Dad.’ He patted Brian on the knee. ‘Take it easy on the scotch Dad. There is talk of us going down to the bar later.’ ‘Okay great, sounds good.’ James left for the kitchen. Brian poured another scotch, feeling like a child now, paranoid that they may all be keeping tabs on his alcohol intake. A neighbour from across the street had just been let in from the heavy rain. She shook Brian’s hand and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m really sorry for your loss Mr Brogan. She was a lovely lady.’ The neighbour smelled of soap and Brian couldn’t remember her name; was it Miriam, Monica, Mona? It began with M anyway, he was sure of that. She too left for the kitchen. He watched her grimly shake hands and dole out kisses. Sally! It was Sally…

Brian stood in the bathroom pissing loudly into the bowl. The room always smelled nice because of Laura’s love for potpourri which filled bowls on the shelf above the toilet and the space around the sink. There was a knock at the door. ‘Just a minute.’ ‘Sorry Grandpa!’ It was hard to tell which of his granddaughters it was. After washing his left hand and only the left one, he opened the door to find Marilyn wiping at her eyes with a lump of tissues. She was a beautiful 20 year old with brains to burn. Marilyn was Sinead’s youngest, she was sobbing quietly so Brian took her into his arms. He felt the effect of alcohol in the words when he spoke into his granddaughter’s ear. ‘I’m sorry sweetheart. I know you’ll miss her. You know you meant the world to her. You could have real conversations together and we both know how hard real conversations are to come by, don’t we?’ Marilyn nodded against his shoulder. Her parents called her Marilyn because her father Calvin loved those old iconic pictures that Marilyn Monroe was in. ‘Monroe was a star, and so will this little Marilyn be!’ – an oft quoted line from the delivery room 20 years ago. ‘You gave her so much in her life Marilyn, and I hope you will continue to give me what you do already.’ Another nod and a hiccupped ‘of course’ smothered in grief. She passed him and locked the bathroom door behind her. Brian steadied himself before returning to the front room where Kevin was devouring a chicken leg and flicking through the TV stations. ‘Are you okay chief?’ ‘Yeah, good. I was just trying to talk Marilyn through things; she seems to be taking things harder than anyone. It’s tough to see.’ The twins were sitting at the seldom used dining room table behind his seat, eating ice cream from plastic bowls. Their uncle Gavin was sitting between them, smiling at them, talking to them and wiping their chins with a crumpled napkin.

Laura’s father’s bar was always full. It wasn’t exactly a dive bar but it wasn’t very swanky either: cigarette burned carpets, drink stained shapes throughout, damp spots in various places on the ceiling. The clientele was mainly blue-collared workers smelling of sweat and hard labour; tired looks and gasping joy when they downed their first beer before the bottle or glass had even time to display thick condensation. Brian got in to the swing of things quickly and could talk to the customers about almost anything. There was one TV in the corner for the odd sporting events, black and white and dwarfed by the room. Thick clouds of smoke only cleared in the summer when the windows and doors were propped open in an effort to cool the place down. To start with Laura rarely appeared, in those times a lady would never come into the bar on their own, so she would only arrive with her father on the odd day. She always looked stunning. After a few months, Brian summoned up the courage to ask her out. She was shy and a little awkward but said yes. Brian did what he felt was the right thing and asked her Dad if it was okay. He was happy about it and shook Brian’s hand as if he had just asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage - that wouldn’t come for another ten months. He was still working at the bar when they married. He was happy there for a while before Laura’s suggestion that they maybe go out on their own, buy their own bar, an Irish bar maybe? He could get a loan from the bank. She could look after the business side, the numbers and orders. Brian could be the barman, the decorator, the man to blend Irish with American so that they could draw on both nationalities and make a good living for the family. By then they had one child already and another on the way. Laura’s father greased the wheels for them and the bank topped them up. Laura found the spot, a slightly run down area which meant the building was relatively cheap. As luck would have it, the city council would start a rejuvenation project there eight years later, which dragged the youth towards the area and into the bar, separating the older crowd on one side and the younger on the other. The perfect man to blend those generations together was the big gentle Irishman Brian.
‘
You know Brian, you should join a club now or something. I know you have the bar but you should mix it up. Maybe you could go visit the Senior Centre for a game of chess or cards.’ ‘Do you go there?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well then why would I go there?’ ‘Well I would be going there but it is too much trouble, besides I have Samantha for company for a couple of hours a day. You don’t need a nurse my friend, so you should go to the centre during the daytimes. The bar is great but you don’t want it to get stale.’ ‘No, no, no, that bar could never get stale. Different or the same people, it is always new, it’s always a treat stepping through those doors. It is a joy I can’t describe to see Sean running that place now. He wanted that responsibility from when he was old enough to collect glasses through grownups legs. Imagine it Kevin, handing over a thriving business to your eldest son who has HIS eldest son keeping things up to date on the internet and what-have-you. Makes a man proud.’ ‘I bet it does my friend and that deserves another scotch I think!’ Sean stepped into the room and turned a couple of light on. It had gotten dark quite quickly and it was still raining, banging on the roof. ‘Your old Dad here was saying how proud you make him.’ ‘Awh come on Kevin, you know us Brogan males don’t speak about things like that, feelings etc.’ ‘Well today should be the day that those things change, even for a short time.’ ‘Yeah I guess. There has been nothing but tears and sandwiches in the kitchen. How’s about in here?’ ‘Scotch and sandwiches. Would you like one of the former?’ ‘Sure thing Dad. Thanks. What do you think about the idea of going to the bar soon? I can ring ahead and get some food organised.’ ‘Sounds good to me Sean.’ Brian handed his son a large scotch. The three of them touched their glasses together. ‘To your Mom.’

Brian lit another cigarette. Brian’s granddaughter Daria took the twins home to put them to bed. Her husband Justin stayed behind, a very tall man who always looked nervous. He apologised to Brian that it was Daria who had to leave and not him. ‘The twins never settle for me. Daria is so good with them, telling stories and getting them to relax and unwind.’ Daria was Siobhan’s daughter, her only child. Siobhan and her husband Andy had tried for a second but it never happened for them. Brian had learned all this from Laura of course, the children’s sounding board and agony aunt. She could take multiple things on board, juggling each item in her mind until she dealt with things one by one. The opening night of ‘The Burren’ went well because of Laura, stunning in a shiny black dress which stopped just below her knees. She worked the floor like a pro, talking to customers, gathering glasses, wiping surfaces down with a damp yellow cloth. She danced with two elderly Irish men who had been in the States for years and years; neither of them had lost their Donegal accents or their earthy charm. Brian was behind the bar with a young man named Donal who had arrived in Boston two weeks before via London. He got the job after approaching a paint-splattered Brian on the street, coming out of ‘The Burren’ whose windows were still boarded, still three weeks away from opening. He reminded Brian of himself when he had just arrived. Donal had bar experience, good manners and a quick wit; his strong Kerry accent got some getting used to for the natives who instantly regretted getting into conversations with him once they heard how fast and how funny he talked. As Brian locked the door on their opening night at 4:15am, Laura came to his side and kissed his cheek. She held him and whispered: ‘We did it sweetheart, didn’t we?’

‘Where’s Kevin?’ A question put out there, into the ether. Brian hoped it would connect with someone in the steady buzz around him. Had he drifted off at some point? Had the alcohol won? The bottle was by his side, huge damage had been done to it, the remaining quantity didn’t look too daunting but Brian could see his own movements already, even before he made them. He might clumsily knock the bottle or the glass, or both. Help came in the form of his grandson Fergal. ‘Hey Fergal, have a drink with your grandfather.’ ‘Okay pops, sure.’ ‘You’re the barman and we are both having a scotch.’ Fergal reached for a fresh glass and Brian’s empty one. He poured generously. ‘To Grandma.’ Fergal had cried at the cemetery. Laura’s death had demolished all of the kids in the house. Fergal grimaced at the sting of his drink. Brian sipped his and placed the glass between his thighs. The TV was on a news channel, mute. The ticker at the bottom of the screen rolled past with the same news over and over. ‘Hey pops? I’d better see if Wendy is alright. She doesn’t know most of us so it is quite a thing for her to meet all of us on an occasion like this.’ ‘Sure, sure, bring her to meet the old man here later.’ ‘Of course pops!’ With that he was gone. Brian lit up another cigarette, inhaling deeply. Siobhan arrived in the room flustered and tired looking. ‘Really Dad, what’s with all the smoking?’ ‘I’ve always smoked honey.’ ‘Not in the house!’ ‘That was for your mother.’ ‘Can’t you keep that up for her?’ She sounded so much like Laura now, smooth and persuasive. ‘From tomorrow, okay Siobhan?’ It placated here for now.

It was breaking up slowly now. Neighbours had left. Various friends remained, helping and consoling upset family members. Tables of gutted sandwich crusts looked a horrid mess. Empty bottles of wine were lined up in the kitchen in an orderly fashion. Brian wondered if he had missed Kevin’s departure or if his old friend was still in the house somewhere, maybe out on the back porch speaking to one of the kids or taking in the rain, the kind of weather he most loved. The inner walls of Brian’s cheeks felt numb, his tongue was slimy. When were they going to the bar? To his second home or is it his first? But maybe there will be something off about the bar now. Of course Brian hadn’t been behind the bar working for almost 12 years. He retired because he had slowed up considerably and on busy nights got swallowed up by orders until he had to ask customers what they had asked for again. He didn’t need telling from Laura, Sean or the other staff, he just knew it was time; and he missed it! The buzz of getting those drinks on the bar top and giving the customer his smile when they handed over their money was immense. Of course he still went to the bar two or three times a week, he had to, he needed the craic that he got from the public, the young and the old. Laura hadn’t missed it after she left the bar during her second pregnancy. The truth was that she didn’t love it. She did it all for Brian, just to shape his dream. She loved being with the kids. It was tough at time of course. Six nights a week she kissed him goodbye. He would kiss her back and all of the kids too before they went to bed. He loved and loathed those moments. That crackle of anticipation of a full bar watching a major sporting event, counteracted by the sadness of knowing he wouldn’t get to speak to Laura until late morning the following day. But now? Now he couldn’t speak to her at all.

They kissed and hugged him, the less intimate shook his hand, taking away more of that precious dirt from his palm. Single conversations could now be heard; who was going with whom and in whose car. Some had already left for the bar in groups of fours and fives. It would be a busy night for whoever was manning the bar. Brian was categorically drunk now and had lost count of the times that he had swallowed away tears for Laura over the last few hours. Small talk was coming through on a conveyer belt into the room. Family stood and sat, spoke on the move, spoke with sadness in their voices. He was an old man and they felt sorry for him. What would he do without Laura, his rock? They all feared loneliness and projected that on to Brian. Finish the bottle, finish the bottle and continue on. He finished his drink and without thinking ahead of his movements – a very helpful thing to do when you are drunk – poured another. The bottle held a couple of shots at the most. Someone had changed the channel to a college basketball game, but whoever had done it was now gone. The volume was up and sneakers squeaked on the court floor. It was a strange sound when isolated. Brian took a drink and allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. Voices faded. Squeaks got louder. Rain was still there in a kind of therapeutic him, heavy drops. It washed over Brian. He finished the drink before falling asleep.

People moved around him, continually looking at him, some with sympathy and some with a deep fondness. The remaining mourners had figured out who would take a ride with who and between the sons and daughters of Brian they had decided it was better to let him sleep it off. It would do him no good to be dragged off to the bar when he already drank more today than he could handle. The talking didn’t disturb him. He was still; head drooped, and chin resting on chest, both arms flat on the arm rests. He was dreaming of the pub. No one in there but himself. If he told this dream to a psychologist they might talk of loneliness or the fear of being abandoned. Gavin was writing a short note, just to tell Brian where they had gone and that someone would be over for breakfast in the morning, most likely the one with the clearest head. Lights around the house went off. Whispers of disgust at the pouring rain quietened. The door closed lightly, finally.

Brian woke up. The reading lamp over his head was on, the TV off. The spotlights in the kitchen were on. There was a note on the table, held in place by an empty glass. The bottle! It was where he had left it. A shot - at the most - remained. Brian’s head was stuffy, hurting slightly when he moved his neck. It was 4:20am. ‘Oh Laura, how I wish you were here now.’ He spoke out loud; well, why not? He picked up his glass and the bottle. Glass clinked off glass. Even less than a shot sloshed into the glass. The scotch stung all over again. Laura wasn’t here anymore. He would mourn that until he died too but he had responsibilities and he owed it to her to carry on. He lit a cigarette, went to the window and looked through a gap in the curtains. It was still raining heavily under the streetlights glow. ‘Okay Laura, it starts from now. I promise I will look after this whole family while I’m still here. You were my love, my rock, my reason for living, but they are now, they are my reason now.’ Brian turned off the reading lamp but left the kitchen lights on. He climbed the stairs wearily. ‘I love you Laura. Continuation begins now.’

The End