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Wednesday, March 31, 2021, 4:00 PM Eastern Daylight Time

Mike had gotten the call to go to the hospital from Pete’s daughter Cathy. He was surprised to hear from her; he did not know her well. He had been driving around the neighborhood doing errands, but pulled over when her call came in.

“My dad wanted me to call you, I don’t know why,” she said.

“Okay,” he had responded. “What’s happening?”

“I think this is it,” she said, stifling a sob.

“What?”

“I think he’s going,” Cathy said. “He asked me to tell you to come down and see him.”

“What happened? Oh my god.”

“It was sudden, overnight,” Cathy said. “The doctors called me this morning and said he had taken a turn. They said he suddenly started throwing off clot after clot, even while he was having internal bleeds elsewhere. They didn’t know how to stop the one without the other killing him.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Pete said, and hung up the phone.

When he got there, he realized he was too late even before anyone told him anything. He had had his temperature taken and a mask put on at reception. Cathy was in the hallway outside the ICU, crying in the arms of her mother, Sharon, who had apparently come back into town at last. Both were similarly masked as well as gloved; they wore MK medallions.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Oh my god,” Mike said. “Oh my god.”

Cathy continued crying.

“I’m so sorry,” Mike said. “I’m so sorry.”

He felt the oddness of standing away from the mother and daughter, but he also felt a hug was the wrong thing at this moment, both health-wise, and also for these women who had not been around earlier for Pete.

“You can go in, I guess,” Cathy said. “You already had the virus, right?”

“Did he have it? Was that what…?”

“They think so. They said it sometimes comes back, and it sometimes causes clots and bleeds like that.”

Mike sat down and put his head in his hands. He had had the virus, but could not bring himself to wear his medallion in public, so he could not enter the ICU. Farewell, old friend, he thought. I guess that’s it.

“You can’t go in?” Mike’s wife Sharon asked.

“I guess not,” Mike said. “No medallion.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s so stupid,” Mike said. “I mean I visited him just a few days ago. They know I have a medallion.”

“Why didn’t you bring it?”

“I came straight here. I was in my car when you called.” And I hate that asshole Maxfield King and the President’s son-in-law, he thought to himself.

“I guess you can’t go in,” she said.

“I guess not.” He got up from the chair.

“I called you here for nothing, then,” Cathy said.

“No, no, no,” Mike said. “Thank you for calling. I wish I’d made it here sooner. Your dad’s… your dad was some kind of guy.”

“I know,” Cathy said, tears leaping to her eyes. She leaned back onto Sharon.

“If you need anything, Sharon, or Cathy, please let me know…do you need anything?”

They both shook their heads.

“Are the kids…”

“They’re with their dad,” Sharon said. “Down in Georgia.”

“Okay,” Mike said, still dazed. “Okay.”

He had been holding his outdoor gloves in his latex-gloved hand; now he looked down at them uncomprehendingly.

“Okay.”

He turned and started walking slowly down the corridor.

“He did mention you before he…before he passed,” Sharon said.

He turned around.

“He did?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s why we thought to call you. It was so strange I didn’t know whether to mention it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said something like, ‘Tell Mike I would still have voted for Mr. Kay something.”

“Mr. Kay something?”

“Yeah. Kay-Fay?”

Mike thought for a moment. “Mr. Kayfabe, maybe?”

“Yes. I think that was what he said. Who’s he?”

Mike shook his head.

“Just a joke between us,” Mike said. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

I need a drink, he said to himself.

***

And so, by about 6PM, Mike had ended up at the Bank Street Bar and Grill, drinking alone.

He waited until Janet came over and they had a little space, and he told her the news. She began crying silently, and went into the kitchen.

Mike nursed his beer, staring at his bottle in silence. He could sense that word was spreading around the bar, because the noise level had noticeably dropped off. After half an hour, the bar was divided fairly evenly between those who knew Pete, and were therefore subdued, and those who didn’t, and were their usual raucous selves.

Mike didn’t mind their raucousness. The noise acted as an anesthetic. His eyes were dry, as befit a grown American male, but they smarted a bit. Out of habit, he had ordered some food, but had barely touched it.

Janet came over to serve him as his beers slowly disappeared, but they didn’t really talk; each of them, he thought, suspected that if they did, then neither might be able to control their emotions.

The evening both dragged and flew.

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian