He’s gripping his knee now, his knuckles white. “And his shirt was ripped,” Tex says. “Torn right down the back. I don’t know if they were trying to rip his clothes off or if it just got torn in the ruckus. I keep coming back to that though. What if they’d jumped him outside in the lot? In the dark? What would they have done to him outside if they were willing to do what they did inside a bar?”
“Why didn’t he yell for help? Sheila or someone might’ve heard him.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have a chance. There were four of them and one of him. He’s half their size and they had him on the ground and they weren’t going to stop. That’s what I understood immediately when I came around that corner. They weren’t going to stop. This wasn’t a fight. This was four grown men beating a man half their size because he was gay and they didn’t like him. In my fucking bar of all places.”
“They picked a helluva place to pull that shit,” I say.
Tex glances at me. “Yeah, they sure did. Motherfuckers. I grabbed the big one and put him into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall. I need to get somebody out to repair it. He slid right down the wall. The other two were trying tomove away after seeing that. And then you came barreling in having my back like you’ve always done. The younger one, he was standing by the bathroom door and he didn’t move. He just stood there. He seemed scared. His hand was at his side. Fuck, Mickey. I looked right at him and didn’t see the gun. It didn’t even occur to me that he might have a gun. I completely missed it.”
“It was a concealed weapon inside a jacket pocket,” I say. “I almost didn’t catch it and I’m trained to look. This is one thing you don’t get to blame yourself for, Tex. This isn’t on you.”
“I can’t help it,” he says. “I heard the shot. And I turned around and you were on the floor. And there was blood and I thought you were dead. I hit that guy so hard and then I slid the gun away. Then I went to you. I’ve never moved that fast in my life. It was horrific and this is the only time I’m telling this story because I can’t do it again.”
“I won’t ask you to,” I say. “What kind of shape was Benji in? When you got to him. After I went down.”
“He was under you,” Tex says. “Your blood was all over him. Soaking through his jeans, on his shirt, on his hands. His face was a mess from the beating and then your blood on top of it. He started freaking out and screaming, ‘what do I do?’ Sheila ran over and started applying pressure to the wound to try to stop the bleeding. She told him to do the same, then Stormy ran over too with his dishrag. They were all trying as hard as they could to keep your blood inside your body. God, Mickey, it’s a miracle you didn’t bleed out on the floor. There was so much blood. Then the paramedics came and they grabbed Benji and threw him away from you so they couldwork. They didn’t try that shit with me, though. My hand was on your shoulder and I wasn’t turning loose for nobody.”
Tex chokes up for a minute and stops talking.
“They loaded you up and I jumped in the ambulance with you. They let me ride because what were they going to do? Fight me? Hell no. I saw Benji at the ER waiting room later. They made him change into hospital scrubs. They wouldn’t let him sit in the waiting room chairs covered in blood. He’s a tough little shit. I’ll give him that. A whole lot tougher than he looks. And that’s the story. It’s all I’ve got. Is there anything else you want to know today? I turned over the surveillance tapes to the sheriff’s department. They’ve got everything.”
“No, that’s enough,” I say. “Thanks, Tex. Now hand me the coffee. If there’s any left.”
“There’s a sip,” he says, handing over the cup.
And just like that we put it away. We’re not going to talk it to death. Going over it again and again won’t change a single thing and we both know it.
At four o’clock Tex checks his phone and reluctantly stands up.
“I’d better head on out,” he says. “I need to get back to check on Sheila and Stormy.”
“I understand,” I say. “I appreciate you coming. You’re the best friend I could have, Tex. I know you don’t like leaving Stormy by himself for too long. You need to get on the road. I’ll be fine. They’ll take good care of me here.”
Stormy’s been alone at the bar all day and Tex gets a particular tightness about him when he’s away from Stormy.Stormy’s come a long way since the hurricane but too many hours alone and the quiet starts working on him.
“Yeah, I still catch Stormy watching the doors and double-checking the locks at night. He’s stopped sleeping with a knife under the pillow though, so that’s an improvement. I’m not fond of sleeping with a switchblade in the bed. And I don’t keep a gun on the nightstand anymore. God, Mickey. I hate leaving you here alone.”
“I know you do, but you’ve got things to take care of. Now go. You can call or text to check in. Stop worrying. You’re not a nurse and you can’t babysit me all day.”
He leans down and puts his enormous hand on the back of my head. He holds it there for just a moment. He doesn’t say anything because everything that needs to be said has been said for twenty years and doesn’t need words between us anymore.
“I’ll come back in a couple of days,” he says. “Stormy’s making a list of things for me to bring you, along with food. He’s already planning what to pack. I’ll go by your house and pick up whatever you need so text me a list.”
“Tell him I said thank you and hug Sheila for me.”
“Don’t worry about your house or your parents either,” he says. “Whatever needs doing, I’ll take care of it. I’ll call Mama Weaver on my drive back to give her a long update. Give her plenty of time to talk and ask all the questions. I’ll give her the whole two hours if she wants it.” Tex stops at the door and turns back. “One more thing about that guy, Benji.”
“What about him?”
“If he comes back knocking on the door, let him come in and sit for a bit. Won’t do you any hurt.”
He doesn’t say more than that and doesn’t need to. I’m going to be alone in this room for a long time and if someone wants to come in and be in it with me, I should let them.
He leaves and I hear his heavy footsteps in the corridor and the elevator chime. Then it’s silent and I’m alone.
A different nurse comes in, checks the monitors, asks me how my pain is on a scale of one to ten.
“Four,” I say, which is a lie. It’s a six. But four is the number that gets me left alone and six is the number that gets me a concerned face and follow-up questions. I don’t want to be fussed over. I want to be left alone with my own thoughts, which is a terrible place to be, but at least it’s mine.
