Page 43 of The River We Remember

“Why am I glad?”

“No, why are you so happy?”

“Maybe it’s because I know how blessed I am.”

“That must be something,” he said.

She put her hand over his on the counter in the pool of light they shared. “You’re blessed, too.”

“No, what I am is broken.”

“We’re all broken, Felix.”

“Broken but blessed, huh?”

“That’s what I believe. You want to know one of the things I love most about you, Felix? There’s not a vindictive bone in your body.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a hell of a fondness for Wild Turkey.”

“The drinking never makes you mean.”

“You’ve forgotten I tried to burn down the water tower?”

“I haven’t forgotten. And I’ve always wondered why.”

“You know, I still wonder that myself.” He grinned for a moment, then got serious again. “Why do you suppose he was?”

It was a leap, but she thought she understood. “Jimmy Quinn? Why was he so unhappy?”

“He was the richest man in Black Earth County. Hell, maybe all of southern Minnesota. Had himself a fine family. Two of ’em, when you think about it. Marta is such a decent soul. I mean, that man had every reason to feel good, but all he ever did, every step he took, was to sow seeds of discontent.”

He finished the last of his coffee and stared into his empty cup.

“You want to know something, Angie? Every so often, I get it in my head that I’d be better off dead.”

“Oh, Felix, no.”

“Mostly it’s the Wild Turkey talking. I never made a move to go through with it. I probably never will. But hasn’t everyone thought about it at one time or another? Or am I just odd and pathetic?”

“I believe it’s something people think about sometimes, some of them, when life is really hard.”

“But Jimmy Quinn went ahead with it. What makes a man take that final step?”

“I don’t know, Felix. You’d have to feel awfully alone, I think.”

“Alone.” He thought about that, then looked at her and smiled again, though there seemed a shadow of sadness over it. “Jimmy should have spent more time at the Wagon Wheel. Who could ever feel alone with you around?”

“For a German, Felix, you sure have a lot of blarney in you. Come on,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

She walked him the three blocks to his small one-story on Gilbert Street. The homes of his neighbors were all unlit, the citizens of Jewel long ago abed. Felix stood on the walk staring at his own dark house.

“It’s haunted,” he said.

“No, Felix. That would be you.”

She took his arm and urged him gently to the door. She lingered with him at the threshold. “You’re on your own from here. But promise me something. No more Wild Turkey tonight, and you’ll go straight to bed.”

He held up three fingers in a sign that she recognized. “Scout’s honor,” he said. He smiled at her a final time that night, his face peaceful. “Angel. It’s in your name. Evangeline.”