Murmuration
“Oh, Mrs. Richardson will make sure of it,” Calvin. “If she had her way, Mike here would be in a suit and tie every day.”
“That woman,” Mike mutters. “She’s—”
“Boys, good to see you.”
Mike’s hands shake. Just a little.
“Doc,” Calvin says, a wide smile splitting his face. “Long time, no see! How the heck are ya?” He stands and shakes Doc’s hand, pumping it furiously.
“Good,” Doc says, sounding amused. “Thought I could use a night out, so here I am.”
“Here you are,” Donald echoes. “Well, pull up a chair. Getcha a cup of tea? Happy’s got the beans and weenies cooking in the Simmer Crock. Should be good to go soon.”
“That sounds lovely,” Doc says.
“Get you served right up, Doc,” Happy says as he and Donald head for the kitchen.
Doc says, “Mike. How are you?”
Mike hears, What do you know about schizophrenia, Mike? What do you know about being fucking insane? What do you know about losing your goddamn mind?
“Good,” Mike says. “Everything’s good.”
It’s not good, he thinks. Because I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what’s happening. Events are happening, Doc. They’re happening, but I’m the only one who knows. I’m the only one who knows that something’s wrong. And gosh, doesn’t that just sound paranoid? Isn’t that what you told me? “There are subsets to schizophrenia,” you said. “Did you know that? It’s not all the same. There are types, Mike. There’s paranoid schizophrenia, which causes you to question things that you didn’t question before.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Doc says. He pulls out the chair next to Mike and sits.
Mike just downs the rest of his beer.
The night passes. It’s loud and raucous, and maybe Mike’s a little quieter than he normally is, and maybe he catches Doc watching him curiously every now and then, but that’s the only thing that’s off. Happy’s drunk again, and goddammit that’s… amore.
“I really do love that song,” he says, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly glazed.
“We know,” Donald and Calvin groan at the same time.
Doc laughs.
Mike thinks, Do you know more than you’re saying? Do you know anything about this? You seemed awfully quick to point out schizophrenia when you did. How did you even think that? Why didn’t you ask me about my family’s medical history? I don’t know it, I don’t know where I came from, but why didn’t you ask?
“It’s late,” Mike says. “I gotta get home. Shop will probably be busy tomorrow since I’m closed Saturday for Harvest Festival.”
“You sure, Mike?” Happy asks. “It’s still pretty early.”
“Next week,” Mike promises.
He stands, as do the others. He shakes hands with his friends and they smile and promise to see him in the morning, even Happy, who’s probably going to have one hell of a hangover. He’s thinking of just ignoring Doc altogether, but then he’s saying, “I may as well head out too. Gotta make sure my medicine bag’s packed and ready for Saturday. Mike, I’ll walk with you.”
Mike grows cold at that.
The others bid them farewell, with only Happy stopping Mike at the door, hand on his arm. “You okay, buddy?” he asks, and Mike thinks, Bucko, bucko, someone used to call me bucko. Right? Or was that—
“I’m fine,” Mike says, even though he wishes Doc hadn’t shown up at all tonight.
“You’re a little drunk.”
“Happy, that’s you.”
“Damn right it is. I’m pro’bly gonna go pass out. Ain’t that somethin’?”