My Event
"Consolation" by Ron C.
My Scene
Last Thanksgiving, my friend Bill and his wife Nancy came over for dinner. I had known Bill since college — some 20 years ago. He was an intense man, serious. An accountant. Nancy was petite, and when they stood together, she was a counterbalance to Bill’s burly physique. After eating, we ended up staying at the table. Two wine bottles had been emptied, and a third was heading that way. Before long, our conversation turned to their son Jacob. The previous summer, at age 12, Jacob had died after falling from his skateboard and striking his head on the concrete. I had known we would talk about him — I even scripted some comments for myself. I was afraid to betray the awkwardness I typically felt when discussing difficult subjects.
“Holidays are the toughest,” Bill said. He stared at his wineglass. “They say the first year is the worst, but honestly, I don’t know how it could get any easier.”
“I can’t even imagine,” I said. “It’s just so tragic.”
My wife Dawn shook her head. “My mother passed away two years ago and I’m still grieving. She had cancer.”
Nancy was openly crying at this point, and I had nothing to say to that. Dawn reached over and hugged her. She was crying too.
Bill bit his lower lip and kept staring down into that wineglass. Eventually, he took off his thick black glasses and set them on the table. He closed his eyes tight and put his fingers on the bridge of his nose.
“Bill,” I said, “I am so sorry this happened.”
Not long after, they went home.
As Dawn and I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, I realized how exhausting the evening had been. Dawn seemed to know.
“They’re our friends,” she said, “imagine the heartache.”
I nodded. “I think we helped. I hope so. At least they weren’t alone.”
Bill and Nancy had been gone for ten minutes when my cell phone buzzed. It was Bill. But when I answered, I heard only dead air. “Hello . . . hello,” I said to no response. Seconds passed. Then I could hear Bill’s voice; it was hollow-sounding as if coming from a distance; even so, I could hear his anger.
“Don’t be that way! I didn’t want to be there any more than you did.”
“Hello?” I repeated, and then realized Bill had made an inadvertent call—the kind where your cell phone, usually after you unknowingly touch the redial button, ends up dialing the last person you called.