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“Sorry I disappeared,” I blurt out, awkwardly holding out the bottle of whiskey. Pastor Nick takes it with a gentle smile.
“You were with your sister.”
I mean… yeah. But not like he thinks. We weren’t exactly crying and hugging it out.
“And thanks…for everything.”
“Of course. You know where I am if there is anything else you need.”
His eyes drop to my second bottle of whiskey that I’m clutching tightly at my side.
“I’m…um…I’m going to go through her things,” I mumble, staring at his chest. His hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“I’m only a phone call away if you need company.”
Nodding, I flash him a smile, shuffling back out of his house. He watches me go with pity in his eyes. I know Pastor Nick’s parents are dead. He mentioned in passing one night at the hospital when I was having a freak out that the end was in sight for Mama. I wonder if he also needed a bottle of whiskey to go through their closet.
The house is still and silent when I get home. It’s weird. I got so used to hearing Mama’s labored breathing and small grunts of pain when she moved to try to get more comfortable that I think I forgot what a silent house sounded like. It sounds like misery. My misery.
Sighing, I kick the front door shut, cross to the stereo, and find Mama’s favorite radio station. It plays Christian rock and 80s anthems, interspersing everything with random sermons. I used to hate listening to it. Now, it’s all I want to hear.
I look at the water glasses in the upper cabinet and close it, snagging the whiskey and unscrewing it. Who needs a glass? I take a swig from the bottle, coughing and wheezing as it burns down to my stomach, sitting like a mass of lava. Right. Let’s do this.
Humming to the music, periodically swigging from my bottle, I work my way through the house, cleaning, boxing up stuff that can be donated and trashing stuff that can’t.
I leave Mama’s room for last, having a good, long cry in her closet. By the time the bottle of whiskey is empty, and I’m finding walking difficult, there is a stack of boxes beside the front door. They are full of clothes, shoes, hats, and knick-knacks. Ready for the charity shop.
There’s another box of things on the table for Joey to go through, to decide if she wants any of it to remember Mama by. I already took the trash bags out, stuffing them into the overfull trashcan, ready for the garbage collectors.
Mama’s room is empty apart from her furniture, the bed stripped. I can’t sleep there, but I can use it as a spare bedroom. I kept a few things in my bedroom. Mama’s Bible, things like that.
The only personal thing left in her bedroom is her wedding ring, lying on the vanity table. Picking it up, I roll it between my fingers. A fresh wave of tears threatens, and I slip it onto a silver chain, fastening it around my neck. It nestles between my breasts, and I flip off the overhead light, closing the door firmly behind me.
Dropping the empty bottle into the trash, I eat cold mac and cheese from a tray a neighbor brought over, sipping a glass of water. Dumping the empty tray in the sink, I pad through the eerily silent house, curling up under my comforter and crying.
VIPER
Tapping on the door, I enter Holton’s office when he calls out. Striding in, I drop into the chair across from his desk.
“Everything ready in the chapel?” he asks, drumming his fingers on his desk. Nodding, I lean back in my seat, steepling my fingers in front of me.
“Yeah. All good to go. The boys are on their way now. Bullseye and Justice are shooting pool out in the bar.”
Holton grunts, hauling himself out of his chair. I wait for him to lead the way out of the office to the chapel. He’s starting to show his age. He’d be in his sixties now, and this isn’t exactly an easy life. He moves slower than he used to, but he’s still sharp as a tack.
The boys are all milling around the chapel when we arrive. As soon as Holton is through the doors, they start drifting over to the large, highly polished wooden table. There are thirteen chairs, though only ten seats are currently occupied. My eyes dart to the two chairs beside Buster at the foot of the table. By the end of this church session, there might be twelve occupied.
Holton drops into his seat, looking at me. Standing, my eyes move across the table as all faces turn expectantly to me.
“Not a lot on the agenda today, boys. A new girl is starting in the crèche with Shelley tomorrow. Joey’s little sister.”
That has some rumblings around the table. Bruiser turns his icy blue eyes on me.
“Wren’s letting a groupie look after Arianna? Big of her,” he rumbles.
I have no idea why, but hearing Naomi described as a groupie irks me. Tamping down on my annoyance, I flick my eyes over to him.
“She’s not a groupie. She’s not associated with the club in any way except she’s a new crèche teacher.”
