I dial Brody’s number, waiting for him to pick up. It’s my day to get the girls from school, so I’m sure he’s at the warehouse with Pops. “Yo, bro,” he says, answering the call.
“Hey, how do you want to handle the arrangement with the girls tonight?”
“I’ll come to your house so Parker can get to bed at a decent time. Hannah doesn’t see the point in sleep lately, so it doesn’t matter where we are. I can be at your house at five-ish if that works for you?”
“Don’t you think this whole thing is a bit weird?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been dying before.”
“Bro, come on,” I say. Brody acts like he’s tough as nails, and nothing affects him, and most people wouldn’t know the truth by listening to the way he speaks sometimes, but I know him better than that.
“I don’t get why he wants a party, but if the man wants a party, he should get one, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, do you want me to call that sitter I’ve used a couple of times? I can see if she can come last minute and watch the girls, so you can go tonight too?”
“No, no, I’m good. I’m not going to a death party. Sorry, I can’t.”
“Brody,” I comment.
“Nope.”
“You’re a little heartless, don’t you think?”
My brother goes silent, as always. He’s learned to manage his anger over the years, but it took awhile for him to control his every thought and not run his mouth as he’d prefer. “Dude, don’t push—” he sighs. “I know you’re the big badass hero of the family and can handle everything like a damn superhero, but we’re not all cut from the same cloth, okay?”
“Okay, whatever you need. I’ll see you at five, or whenever,” I tell him.
Brody hangs up without saying another word, but I’m not surprised. He’s a man of few words.
I think I do a great job of acting like nothing bothers me but walking into the hospice center is making me feel sick throughout every inch of my body. I wonder how many people have walked into this place with dress slacks and a button-down shirt for a party. I’m betting there haven’t been many. I look like I could be going to a funeral instead than a party. Harold preferred class. He was always dressed to the nines when at The Barrel House. He insisted on top notch fashion from the good-old days, a style that unfortunately faded with time.
The Quinns are all here, a few other faces I don’t recognize, and Mom and Pops look like they just arrived within the last minute since they’re taking their coats off a few feet to the right of the entrance. I’m not sure who else is coming, but at the moment, it appears to be a small gathering. Harold is sitting in a chair, upright, dressed in business casual clothes, and looking healthy and happier than the last time I saw him in the hospital the other night. It’s nice to see him this way. “Oh, hi, sweetie. Good, you brought the bottle. I completely forgot to mention it when we spoke on the phone earlier,” Mom says, walking toward me to kiss my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’m always fine. It’s what I’m supposed to be without fail. I’m a machine with walls around my heart, unbreakable by anything tragic. It’s how my family sees me.
It’s not the truth.
I remove my coat and hang it on the hook by the door. Melody is across the room, clutching her arms around her body as if she might fall to pieces if she releases her grip. Harold calls her over and begins telling stories, instantly causing Melody’s cheeks to redden. I can’t hear much of what is being said until my name is mentioned.
“It was Brett’s doing,” Melody says.
“Well, of course. I gave the guy my best bottle. I figured if there was a way to make you enjoy the fine taste of bourbon, it would be that bottle.”
During the conversation I had with Harold just after I arrived home from my trip to South Carolina, he told me to take a bottle of the Quinn Pine from 2009 and bring it to Melody when and if I found a good time to do so. He said to me: “If there is any hope of my daughter, who intends to take over the family business, ever enjoying the taste of bourbon, it will be with this bottle and that year.” I guess he was right. I knew to grab that bottle for her last night with the hope it would buy me a few minutes of conversation with her. I didn’t know if we would have the opportunity to have any of it, but we did, and it was perfect.
Melody seems somewhat mortified to be in the spotlight of Harold’s story, and even more so when he asks her to tell everyone about the Quinn Pine 2009.
She sweeps her hair behind her ear and stares at her dad for a long minute before finding an empty wall to stare at. "I—ah—the caramel notes, they were strong and sweet. It was delicious," Melody says.
"Listen to my girl, using the right terminology," Harold says with pride.
“And the smokiness from the barrel—perfect blend," Melody continues, this time glancing over at Pops, knowing he is responsible for the barrel the bourbon was distilled within.
“Brett, do you have the bottle with you?” Harold shouts over to me through a weak rasp.
Everyone turns to look at me in the back of the room. “Of course, I do.” I grab the bag I left by my coat and pull the bottle out.
“Grab a few glasses, son,” Harold says.
