Claire and I got to Susie’s before five o’clock and took a small table in the front room, which housed the long bar and the little stage for the steel band.
“Weird seeing this place in daylight,” Claire said.
“Nothing’s cooking,” I said. “Literally.”
Afternoon sunlight lit up the ocher-colored, sponge-painted walls and street paintings of a marketplace in Jamaica. The steel band often played a tune about that marketplace. I softly sang, “‘Ackee rice, salt fish are nice. And the rum is fine any time of year.’”
Claire didn’t join in, but she signaled to the bartender. He went by the name of Fireman, and that was name enough.
He called out, “What can I get for you, ladies?”
Claire called back, “Vodka, rocks.”
I said, “Anchor Steam. And we need chips.”
I assessed how Claire looked and sounded, and determined that she was tired and sad and sobered by her medical experience.
She said, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not as bad as I look.”
“Tell me,” I said.
We had to wait for Fireman to set down the drinks and the bowl of chips, and after he’d said, “Can I get you anything else?” we shook our heads no in unison.
“Are you in pain?” I asked her.
“Not like you’d expect,” she said. “And I’m half a lung lighter, can you tell?”
I forced a grin. It was hard to do.
Claire sipped her drink, commented that they’d given her no alcohol at the hospital. She crunched on some chips as I tried to find a way to ask her, What’s the prognosis, girlfriend? What’s the deal?
“Have you met my replacement?” she asked. “Mary Dugan?”
“Temporary replacement. She’s nice.”
“Qualified, too,” Claire said.
“I’m going to kill you now,” I said. “If you don’t talk, this fork is the last thing you’ll ever see.”
She laughed, and God, it was a great sound. She looked happy for a couple of seconds and my heart expanded. Was she going to take her job back from the blonde in the ME’s office? Was she going to go to Napa with Edmund and have another life-changing meal at the French Laundry? Or was Claire stalling? Was she looking for a way to tell me very bad news?
“You know how much I like Mitchell Terk?”
“Dr. Terk. Yeah. I know.”
I swear I couldn’t help it. I was gripping the fork so hard my knuckles were white.
“He says the margins are clean.”
“This is true? You’re telling me the truth.”
She gave me a look like, This is me. I don’t lie to you.
“There’s a little more,” she said.
“Don’t stop now.”
“Put down the fork, Sergeant. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
I laughed, hard.
Then I said, “Will you please frickin’ tell me, Butterfly? Speak and don’t stop until I say so.”
She took a pause to sigh, then said, “Cancer’s a bastard, Linds. I’m good right now. But I have to go in for a checkup every three months for a while. Then every six months. And I have to take doctor’s orders. No problem. Terk said I’ll dance at my daughter’s wedding. He’ll be dancing, too.”
I stood up, reached across the table, and put my arms around Claire’s neck. It was not the most graceful hug in the world, but I couldn’t let go. Claire got an arm around me and patted my back and said, “I love you, Lindsay.”
I told her that I loved her, too, bent to kiss her cheek, and rocked the table, knocked over the drinks, soaked the chips, listened to the beer bottle hitting the floor.
“Oh, man.”
Fireman called from the bar, “Set you up again, ladies?”
“Please and thank you,” I said. “This time double chips and I’m having what she’s having. With a bow on top.”