“Was everything okay? With him.”
“Sure, Mike. I suppose. I mean, every now and then he seemed down and whatnot, I guess. But he got better. And then you came and everythin’ was right as rain. Darnedest thing, love is.”
He refuses to blush at that. “How was he down?”
Happy shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, I guess. More a feelin’. He didn’t seem… happy. Just goin’ through the motions. Gettin’ up every day and comin’ into work and then goin’ right on home. Nice to everybody, always was, but you could see it. In his eyes. And it was….”
“Was what?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah. I just… sorry. Got to thinkin’ about somethin’. He used to….”
“Spill it, Happy.”
Happy rolls his eyes. “Ain’t nothin’ big, hold your horses.” He says it like hawsus, and Mike thinks about a ho
rse walking across the road, hooves on pavement, and he doesn’t know whether it was a memory or a ghost. “Just… everyone’s got their tics, you know? Weird little things they do.”
“Okay?”
“I touch my nose. Know I do it. Don’t know why I do it. I just do it. It’s a thing. You scratch your wrist a lot.”
He does. Maybe he’s always done it. “Okay,” he says again.
“I’d look over sometimes, and Sean would be standing up there behind the lunch counter, you know? He’d be talkin’ or laughin’ or some such, but he’d always be standing there, left arm out in front of him. He’d be usin’ his other hand and he’d rub a couple of fingers right there in the crook of his elbow. Like where Doc takes blood. Always with the couple of fingers, always just touching right there, like he didn’t even know what he was doin’, but doin’ it anyway.”
Mike… doesn’t understand. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Probably nothin’. You asked. Only thing that stuck out. He didn’t do it no more after you’d been here for a while. That’s all. Only other thing that changed was how happy he was. That’s it.”
“You’ve known him a while?”
“Sure. Forever, probably.”
“What was he like? As a kid?”
Happy squinted at him. “How’s that now?”
“When he was a kid. Was he—”
“Look, Mike. Are you sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. Swear it.”
“Okay, then. I believe you. But shouldn’t you be askin’ your fella this stuff? Best comin’ from him, don’t you think?”
Mike doesn’t know what to think. Or maybe he’s just thinking too much. Maybe it’d be just easier to let all of this go. It’s hurting his head, and all he can hear is Doc asking, What do you know about schizophrenia?
“Anyways, bud, I gotta get to the store. Poker tonight my place?”
“Yeah. Sure, Happy.”
“Beans and weenies already in the Simmer Crock, you know.”
“All right.”
Happy salutes him and walks away, whistling a happy tune. It sounds like Donald’s love shack song.
Mike watches after him, only aware a minute or two later that he’s scratching his wrist.