Page 3 of As the Years Pass

“What time do you typically open?” I ask.

“Two during the week. Twelve on weekends. We have special events sometimes, and we’ll open earlier. Like Thanksgiving.”

I nod, following him through the door behind the bar that leads to the back room.

“First thing we’ll need is a swinging door,” I say, gesturing to the doorway that doesn’t have a door at all.

“Think that’ll be nice,” he says.

“Have you told anyone yet?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says. “Planned on doing it this week.”

I nod, looking around the small kitchen. There isn’t much here, just the basic stuff: big sink, grill, large fridge and freezer, and a fry-o-later that’s seen better days. From what I was told, they don’t do much in the way of food here, so I’m sure this stuff hasn’t been used in years, which means it’s probably caked in grease and will be a bitch to clean. Maybe I’ll save myself the trouble and get some newer equipment, too.

“I’ll be here every day this week, likely. Checking inventory, figuring out upgrades, stuff like that.”

“You’re going to redo this kitchen, I hear?”

“That’s the plan,” I say as I look around again, wondering if my ambitions are too high. For years this has been just a bar, but if anything goes well with drunk people, it’s food. “You think it’ll go over well?”

Pete shrugs, scratching the back of his head. “The guys like to eat. I think as long as it isn’t overpriced fancy shit, it’ll be fine. No caviar and shrimp cocktail.”

I laugh. “Good, because I was thinking pizza, wings, burgers. Stuff like that.”

“They’ll like that.” He clears his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. The office is through there.” He points to a door on the right, then turns to leave, but stops and looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Losing a parent is never easy.”

My chest gets tight, and I nod.

“Thanks,” I choke out, but I don’t think he notices. I could correct him and let him know she hasn’t died yet, but explaining what’s going on is too much work. There will be too many questions and too many bad looks. I’ll get the “If that was my mother, I’d go anyway,” and I don’t want to deal with that. I’m a nice guy, and I don’t like when I have to be mean. Purposefully going against a loved one’s wishes, especially when their life is almost over, for your own selfish gratification is something I am highly against.

My mother doesn’t want me there, so I won’t be there. I know her well enough to know that if she did want me around, she’d tell me. So when people get things mixed up and assume she’s died already, I let it be. It’s too much to think about, too much to handle. Not now, not today, when all this is still fresh and new.

I spend hours taking inventory, drawing up plans to remodel the kitchen, and pricing new equipment. I hide in the back for hours, listening to the patrons up front. They’re happy, and having a good time, which is comforting. I hope taking this place over doesn’t ruin anything for them. I hope they can accept me and support my decisions.

My phone dings with a text, and I pull my gaze from my laptop to grab my phone from the desk. My eyes are dry and burning.

Dad

Are you coming here for Thanksgiving?

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? It’s in a couple of weeks, and I’ve thought about it too much. Mom said she didn’t want to see me, and I have a feeling she doesn’t know he’s asking. But maybe he’s asking because he doesn’t expect her to be alive then. Or maybe he needs me there. None of this has been about him, or me, it’s been about my mother—rightfully so.

I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what to say or what the right answer is.Do I go or not?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard, trying to figure out how to respond.

“You good?”

I glance up to find Pete standing in the doorway.

“Yeah,” I say, pocketing my phone. “Just getting ready to leave, actually.” He nods. “I’ll go out the back door.” I get to my feet. “Oh, and there will be new office furniture delivered on Thursday. They gave a window of three to seven. If I’m not here, could you sign for it?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says.

Something in his tone makes me think he’s worried about something. I walk up to him. “I want to be welcome here, and I won’t do anything to ruin what you’ve all made. In the short time I’ve been here, I can tell this is a special place.”

His face softens slightly. “I appreciate that, and I know the guys will too.”