6.7.1
Michael doesn't like funerals. Granted, that's not a terribly
unique sentiment. It's not like most people love a good funeral.
But he hates wakes.
And the wake for Nate is trying to kill him.
The only good thing about it is that his mom is talking to
Fi. At least, he hopes that's a good sign, 'cause she certainly isn't talking
to him.
Apparently, Nate had a rather large cohort of buddies who
think the point of a wake is to get free drinks. They're circling the bar,
sucking down booze like it's the day before Prohibition went into effect.
They're loud, drunk, and laughing. And for some god-forsaken
reason they keep coming over to him, patting him on the back, and wanting to
tell him stories about Nate in action. Most of these stories involve gambling,
stealing cars, hookers or cocktail waitresses, and getting really drunk. Two of
them have involved all four.
He's trying to hide. There's a booth in the back of the bar
his mom rented for this, where he can see her and Fi. His mom is crying and
drinking, probably not a good combination. Fi's petting her hand, and pouring
her more to drink.
Whiskey and tea, the Irish remedy for heartache.
He sees Sam and Jesse head his way, and while he's much
happier with them nearby than a random collection of Nate's drunk friends, what
he really wants is to leave here and be alone. Or maybe with Fi. But, really,
alone sounds awfully good right now.
Sam's holding a bottle of scotch. It's not cheap stuff. But
it's not the good stuff, either. It is, however, Nate's favorite.
Michael realizes this is probably the best scotch Nate ever
had. Best he could ever afford.
Sam and Jesse sit down. Jesse puts down four glasses.
Michael's wondering if the fourth is for Fi, but it doesn't look like she's
about to join them anytime soon.
Sam pours. And gestures for all three of them to drink.
He does, feeling it slide down. Not liquid fire, but not hot
silk either. Not much flavor one way or another. It's just sort of there.
"To Nate." Sam holds up the fourth glass to the
sky, and then puts it back on the table. He refills the glasses, and they drink
again.
Sam looks at Jesse, and Michael can see Jesse doesn't want
to talk, but feels like he has to.
"Look, Mike, I want you to know, this wasn't your
fault."
He can understand why Jesse doesn't want to say that. Lying
to a friend is never fun. Of course it was his fault. He brought Nate along. He
ordered him away. And he told him to go find Anson.
"Stop that." Sam knows him well enough to know
what he's thinking, has been thinking since he got home. "Mikey, it was
not your fault. Look, we all love Nate, you know that. But you also know he
didn't do what you told him to. If he had just kept his eyes on Anson and, like
you told him to, not approached him, he'd be fine."
"I was there Mike, and it was not your fault. Yeah, you
were hard on him, and I know you wish you could take that back, but you didn't
pull the trigger, and you weren't the one who got him in position to get shot.
He did that himself."
"And brother," Sam says, pouring another drink for
them. He downs it fast, not really tasting it. "If you keep blaming
yourself, then you take away the last thing Nate ever did. Either he owns that
moment, it's entirely his, his decision, his love for you and Fi, and his
desire to be the hero shining through, or he's not really a person. He becomes
just a thing, bounced around by fate and luck. And Mike, no matter what else
Nate might have been, he wasn't just some helpless thing.
"Now, one last drink, and then I want you to get off
your ass, stop blaming yourself, and put everything into finding Nate's killer,
because we owe him that."
Sam pours one more round. "To burying the son of a
bitch who killed Nate!"
Michael takes a deep breath, downs his fourth shot in ten
minutes, and remembers why he loves Sam.
An hour later, when he's in the men's room, throwing up
because four shots on top of the double scotch he been nursing through the
first hour of the wake is way more alcohol than anyone his size should try to
ingest in two hours, he remembers that Sam outweighs him by at least fifty
pounds, and letting the guy with the cast-iron liver pour the drinks is an
awfully bad idea.
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