Bunny Man's Bridge

by Ted Neill

  “Yeah, but my Tom Collins are some of the best. People say they can’t drink them at other bars after they’ve had mine, because anything else tastes like piss.”

  That was just like him to say something like that.

  “You must piss in them to make them so special,” I said.

  “Shut up.”

  I should have left it at that, but everything had just gotten under my skin.

  “Why do you think your Tom Collins are better than mine, Mitch? I mean, I actually worked as a bartender all through college.”

  “I didn’t say mine were better.”

  “You practically did.”

  “You’re just being oversensitive, Sidney.”

  “No I’m not. You make everything into a competition. Everything. You think you are better at everything. Usually I don’t say anything, but dude, I was a bartender. Stay in your lane.”

  “Man, what is with you tonight?”

  “What is with me? How about this Mitch, just say I make a better Tom Collins than you.”

  I had him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t physically say it. Unbelievable. Instead he picks up his keys and says, “Let’s go home man. We’ll mix drinks and then you can tell me if you think your Collins is better than mine.”

  “Yep. Let’s go,” that’s what I said.

  We went right to the liquor store and bought all the liquors we would need since Dad hasn’t had alcohol in the house for, well, fifteen years. We got all the basics you would have on the rail behind the bar: bourbon, brandy, whiskey, rum, gin, tequila, vodka, triple sec, sweet and dry vermouth, then a few extras, Crème-de-menthe, Amaretto, Crème-de-cacao, Kahlua, Drambuie. Then we bought some mixers, cranberry juice, lime mix, OJ, coke, sprite, seltzer, tonic and stuff, everything you’d have the in the soda gun. We didn’t realize we had forgotten pourers to top the bottles with. There weren’t any at home. Dad had thrown them all away after he dried up. We’d have to eyeball it.

  “No problem, I perform well under adversity,” Mitch said about the eyeballing.

  “What’s that, Mitch? You perform well under average, is that what you said?”

  He poured the gin and the sours mix into the plastic canister we were improvising as a mixer while I made my own Tom Collins. He shook his mix, poured it in a glass, then handed it to me. I tasted it. I took a few gulps.

  “It’s all right. I can do better. Try mine.”

  “Well if it’s not perfect, it’s because I have no real pourers,” he said before trying mine. He said it was average.

  “Proportions should be the same though, Mitch. Doesn’t matter what you pour it with,” I had him there, he knew it.

  I started on my next drink, a Margarita. Mitch went to the cupboard and pulled out another plastic container so he could mix at the same time. He was mixing a Margarita, too. I listened to him count out the pour time. He shook it hard. I shook mine. We exchanged. I drank his, he drank mine. His was good. Real good. But he liked mine, too.

  It was a tie.

  “Perfect Manhattan,” he said for the next drink.

  I took the dry and sweet vermouths and the whiskey—that’s what makes a “perfect” Manhattan, dry and sweet vermouths—then handed them to him when I was done. I put in a lemon twist.

  “You didn’t rim the glass,” he said after I dropped in the lemon peel. I got another lemon wedge, peeled it then rimmed the glass. We exchanged.

  “Smooth.” I said.

  “Dry.” He said.

  Next we made Sex on the Beach. Then Tequila Martinis. French 75s. Mine were far better than his. Rob Roys. Toasted Almonds. Sazeracs. I whipped out the cream for the White Russians. Mitch got all excited when I screwed up on the Black Russian and added Creme De Cacao instead of Kahlua. Then we made Moscow Mules, to complete the Russian Trifecta. We mixed Gimlets and Sidecars. Then we did the “girly” drinks, the ones girls always order, Cosmopolitans, Apple Martinis, Strawberry Daiquiris. By this time, we were getting pretty drunk from tasting the drinks. But we kept going. Next were Pimm’s Cups, Mint Juleps, and Mojitos. We knew we shouldn’t finish them, so we didn’t. Instead we started moving them to the other side of the counter. When we ran out of room on the counter, we moved them to the kitchen table. Soon, it was like every surface in the kitchen had half empty drinks on it.

  “We should have a party,” I said.

  “You need friends first, Sidney.”

  “We probably don’t have enough alcohol here for all my friends.”

  “Anyone will be your friend for alcohol.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re real funny.”

  “No. I’m serious.”

  “You’re real funny.”

  I started laughing not with him, but at him, but spilled some rum. I was trying to make a Long Island Ice Tea but I was missing the glass. Depth perception is hard when you are drunk and have only one eye. We were so drunk we couldn’t do all the counts anymore. The counter was getting sticky form all the mixers we had spilled. It was also bubbly from all the carbonated drinks we had overpoured. We didn’t have bar mats or anything.

  Mitch was plastered. He knocked over his Long Island Ice Tea as he was trying to hand it to me.

  “You ready to admit you’ve lost,” I asked. It was clear the contest was over ‘cause Mitch couldn’t even pour straight.

  “I’m ready to admit I’m not always trying to over compensate.”

  It was a dig about my eye, I recognized it. I was out for blood after that.

  “Mitch, talk about overcompensation, Mom and Dad gave you all the breaks but you squandered them.”

  “Shut up, Sid. That’s not what I was talking about.”

  “But that is what I’m talking about. It’s always been, ‘Poor Mitch, we sure hope things are too hard for him. Must be hard having blinded his brother. Poor Mitch.’”

  “Shut up, Sidney.”

  “Why, because I’m right?”

  “I said, shut up!”

  He flung his hand out, backhand like, and knocked the LI Tea right out of my hand. It crashed into all the other drinks we had set up collapsing one after another like dominoes. Then he grabbed my shirt by the collar. There it was, the old anger coming back. He was grinding his teeth, hissing and spitting out of his mouth. I know a thing or two about defending myself though. I guess he had not counted on that. I did this Judo move to twist his forearms free and push him back. But I was still drunk and threw myself off balance. I tried to catch myself, missed the counter I was reaching for, and fell on the floor. Mitch stood over me, like he was going to stomp me. I kicked his weight bearing leg out from under him and he crashed to the floor. That alone spilled a couple more drinks that had not been knocked over all ready.

  I tried to get up and recover before Mitch did, but it didn’t matter. He was always bigger. He didn’t even need to get up. On just one knee he hefted me up and body slammed me on the floor then cocked his arm back to punch me. I could see all the tendons in his neck flexing.

  “Punch out my other eye, why don’t you, Mitch?” was all I really had time to say. But it was enough. His eyes were all wild, his face red, all his veins sticking out and spittle on his chin, but he didn’t throw the punch. Instead he got up and put his fist through the drywall in two places, then kicked the pantry doors until they came off their tracks and came crashing down on the kitchen table. I don’t think there was a glass left upright.

  He kicked a bottle on the floor. It exploded against the baseboards and left a splatter of whiskey on the wallpaper.

  “Fuck Fuck Fuck,” he was saying.

  He collapsed in one of the kitchen chairs. I was still on my back on the floor. His back was to me, his chest rising and falling. But I knew he was coming back to earth. He started talking without looking at me, “Don’t you see, Sidney.” He said. “Don’t you see, I’m not trying to—I’m just trying to . . . I . . .”

  But that was all he had. If I was about to get a confession of guilt, a profession of love, or just an apology, I’l
l never know. He was too drunk, stubborn, hateful, or all those things. He just sniffed like he was sobbing and wiped his face before making a break for the back door. Just like him to run. I wanted to get up to make sure he hadn’t taken his car keys, but I found that I couldn’t. I didn’t hear his car. That was good enough.

  I looked up at the counter from the floor. All the bottles of mixers, juices, and alcohol, in all their different colors, red, yellow, orange, brown, gold, green, they were beautiful, I was thinking. That was exactly what I was still thinking when I heard Dad and Mom pulling into the garage.

  “Shit,” I said.

  Both car doors slammed. Fortunately, Dad came in first and I heard him say.

  “Honey, let’s go next door to the Clays’. We’ll take them some of that plum cake you have left over. I’ll bring it and meet you over there. You go ahead.”

  Dad was all calm like, not betraying that there was chaos waiting for them in the kitchen. I heard mom say “OK” then her heels receding towards the Clays, our next-door neighbors. I was sorry I couldn’t get up. I was sorry Dad had to see all that, it being his sobriety birthday and all. I was cold. I realized Mitch had left the back door open. A breeze was blowing through the house. It was December after all. Dad went over and closed the backdoor. I thought he would explode, just fly into a rage, knock all the glasses and bottles off the counter and table, them cascading and shattering on the ground. Maybe he’d scream, “What the hell is this. . .”

  In a way that’s what I wanted. That’s what I wanted him to say. I wanted someone to finally just say how fucked up it all was. How unfair it all was. But instead he just went over, picked each bottle, one by one and poured what was left in the sink, then set them down gently in the recycling bin. He sort of surveyed the rest, looked down at me. I was not sure how to read his face. He was distant, cold sad. He just stepped past me, emptied all the glasses and the liquor mixers next. When he was finished, he ran his hand over his head. That was when I noticed his hands were shaking a bit. He ran them under hot water and soaped them up good—likely to get any smell of alcohol off them. He didn’t want to . . . he couldn’t afford to smell it later.

  When he was done drying his hands on a dishtowel he went to the fridge, pulled out Mom’s plum cake, stepped over me again. I was at least halfway up at that point, leaning up against the kitchen island. Mitch wasn’t back yet. I was watching the brown sunburst of a whiskey stain he had left on the wall weeping down into the baseboards.

  Dad stopped at the door to the garage, turned to me and said, “You know where to find the mop, Sidney. Clean this up before we get back. I don’t want your mother to see it,” then he added. “I don’t want to see it.”

  That was all he said, not another word. I was sorry he had to see all that, all those drinks, on his fifteenth sobriety birthday of all days, but I felt like it had to be done. I felt like something had to be let out, something needed to be said, and now it had been.

  14.

  Something We Had To Do

  Emilia went to America and became a Christian. She was there for the summer as an au pair taking care of the Greski’s triplets. The Greskis lived next door to the Hernandez family. Mrs. Hernandez, Elizabeth, became a substitute mother for Emilia; she was only seventeen, after all, and it was her first time away from her family. Elizabeth was a devout Catholic. She had been so shocked to learn that Emilia, from Italy, had not been raised with any faith whatsoever.

  When Emilia went back to Italy, she told her doggedly secular family that she wanted to join a convent. It was the last thing her family expected, having prided themselves on their defiant atheism and all-out rejection of “superstitious” religions for so many years. The Catholics had ruined Italy, they often said. The Pope and Cardinals were sexist, homophobic hypocrites.

  But after arguing, crying, and praying (on Emilia’s part), her parents, while they did not approve, agreed not to stand in her way. But even then, Emilia had been certain that they were hoping that her entire interest in taking vows and becoming a nun was just a form of rebellion that would end up being a passing phase.

  But Emilia knew it wasn’t. She had grown up feeling as if she had been missing something her entire life. She remembered visiting historical sites throughout Italy on school field trips. Her favorites had always been the tombs, retreats, and chapels of saints—St. Francis of Assisi, St. Pudentiana, St. Margaret, St. Valentine, and St. Veronica. She remembered looking upon the nuns at the tombs and shrines, with their rosary beads and their devoutly bowed heads. Emilia saw in them the same mysticism as Tibetan monks. She read about these women, who had committed themselves to Christ, who would travel to the worst hellscapes in the world to provide service, love, and compassion to the poor and forgotten. They were unsung heroines, working in modesty, humility, and courage—of course, courage.

  Emilia soon left for Our Lady of Sorrows Convent. She ministered to Albanian refugees in the former Yugoslavia. She read to blind pensioners. She journeyed to Rome to see the Holy Father himself. She even went on missions to Chad, Sudan, India, East Timor, and Madagascar.

  Somehow, thirty-five years had passed, and she had lost touch with Elizabeth, whose devotion had initially inspired Emilia. They had written letters for many years, but it had been a long while since Emilia had received a response. She often thought of those great big American meals she’d had at the Hernandez home. Elizabeth would always prepare things that Emilia was less likely to have in Italy. Sometimes hot dogs, with a rainbow of green relish, red ketchup, and yellow mustard painted on them. But it was the Mexican food she liked the most: tacos with spicy, steaming beef, melted cheddar, fresh tomatoes, and peppers; enchiladas; and quesadillas. Even now, at the convent, on her night to cook, Emilia would often prepare an American-style meal for her sisters. They had come to call her their “little American,” although she prepared Mexican-style meals as often as she did “American.” But Emilia’s English still had an American accent, so the name stuck.

  Emilia had some time off for a sabbatical and had decided to visit her friends in the States. She had written letters to old friends and acquaintances alike. Most had answered, except Elizabeth. This upset Emilia, because Elizabeth was the type to write back promptly. In her last letter, Emilia had given Elizabeth explicit instructions: Call me. I will be in my room between the hours of twelve and four, your time of course. I will do this every day until I hear from you.

  No call came on the first day, but Emilia was patient. On the third day, the phone rang.

  “Is this Emilia Ragazzi?” It was a deep voice, a man’s voice.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “My name is Ronald Seroli. I’m Elizabeth Hernandez’s brother.”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Seroli, I am so thankful—”

  “I’m calling because I got your letters, and I figured I should let you know that Elizabeth is now living in a home for people with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Oh, no. How long—”

  “She’s been in assisted living for about six years now. I’ve been taking care of her affairs. It was just something we had to do. She had become confused and was wandering out at all hours of the night. She’d get lost and turn up in the strangest places. You wouldn’t believe some of the places. We needed to put her somewhere she’d stay put.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t, since you hadn’t spoken in the last ten years—so I gathered from your letters.”

  “My letters?”

  “I am her legal guardian. It’s my responsibility to read all her mail.”

  “Oh.” Emilia took a breath, feeling a bit exposed. She swallowed, trying to rally herself through her discomfort. “What about her daughters?”

  “They’re all up to their own things. They sometimes stop in and see her. Only one of them is not completely caught up in herself.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “Lydia, the youngest. She lives alone still, not too far from where her mother is stayi
ng. We had Elizabeth in a place in Weehawken, but it was too far from the rest of the family. Plus, she just wasn’t happy there. ’Course she couldn’t express that, she just jibber-jabbers now, but we could tell. So we moved her three years ago to this place by Lydia. We knew at least she would visit.”

  “What about Elizabeth’s husband?”

  “Carlos? Well, then it’s been a little longer than ten years since you two talked, hasn’t it?”

  Emila was quiet.

  “Carlos divorced her about fifteen years ago. She remarried after that, a guy named Frank. But he died of a heart attack. It was real tough on her. Real tough.”

  “Well, I didn’t know. I was on mission.”

  “Of course, you were on mission. All sisters have to do that, I guess.”

  “Well, not really.”

  “Where were you?”

  “A few places: Sudan, India, East Timor, and the last was Madagascar.”

  “Madagascar. Lot of titanium mines there. Could be a rich country someday. Titanium is used in everything from house siding to tennis shoes; it’s the white coloring in them. Titanium is used for white dye. Isn’t that something? I bet you didn’t know that. But how do you know Elizabeth again. Wasn’t she your godmother?”

  “My Rite of Christian Initiation sponsor. She lived next door to the family I was staying with when I was an au pair.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I remembered your name right away.”

  “I believe Sister Jerold introduced you and me once,” she said.

  “Oh right. I remember. Sister Jerold. I’d like to know what came of her.”

  “She’s still living in Minnesota. I have received a few letters from her.”

  “She’s still alive! Well, there’s something. That’s really something.”

  “Mr. Seroli, what is Elizabeth’s condition now?”

  “Oh, well, she doesn’t remember her daughters. She remembers me for about half a phone conversation. She can still play the piano though. The doctors say she might retain that till the end. It’s amazing, the human mind. What about Father Greenhall? I seem to remember . . . wasn’t he a bit of a flaky guy? There’s no way he’s still alive.”