Page 9 of Unhinged

When I went into the establishment one day to touch base with Rod, Monty informed me he had the day off. From there, I sparked an interesting conversation with the owner, Amelia Rodwell. With her business floundering, I offered my assistance and investment money, a silent partnership primarily, which also bought her silence from telling Rod anything. She was an agreeable accomplice to this arrangement.

Setting down my beer, I watch Rod helping customers. Maybe helping is a strong word. Mostly, he refilled drinks and stole liquor from behind the bar.

His hair is bushier than before he left, and he’s gained more muscle in his arms from unloading trucks at his day job, Home Depot. Otherwise, he appears relatively the same. But his actions speak volumes because he keeps to himself when he’s not arguing with me. Though he’s around family.

Hadley. I believe she’s the key to this. However, she won’t speak of him, which is a major red flag.

As I nurse my beer, I steadily observe him slowing down and tripping over himself more. For as long as I’ve known Greg Rodwell, I’ve not known him to be a drinker, including work-related social gatherings.

When he stumbles into the counter for the third time, I sigh, watching his defeat.

“What, Vaughn?”

Not having the words, I only shake my head. But if there’s one thing in which I excel, it’s revealing truths. And I know Rod is hiding one or two.

He frowns at me, now somewhat pale, with his hair sticking to his forehead. Rod looks over at me, and for a moment, shame is evident. Over his drinking? Something with Hadley? Unsteady, he turns in haste and exits the bar for the kitchen.

Pushing my beer bottle away from me, I notice business is sluggish tonight, even for this place. I tell Harold, “Let Monty know Mr. Rodwell wasn’t feeling well and went home.”

He nods, watching me with uncertainty. I suppose it’s warranted since I’ve only recently acquired a stake in the bar. It will take some adjustment. For all of us.

Proceeding through the kitchen, I notice the back door open as the cold air blasts the room. Stepping through the threshold, I check the vicinity when movement catches my eye next to the dumpster. I see Rod hunched over upon closer inspection, swaying back and forth until he falls over. When he doesn’t stand, I go to him, seeing him lying on the ground. “Rod, come on.” I reach down and pull on his arm, but he’s dead weight. Exerting more effort, I pull him to his feet, holding onto him before he falls.

“What do you want, Amos? Haven’t you infected my life enough? Why here? Why now? Why ever?”

“Hold on to my arm,” I instruct as I slowly turn him toward the side of the bar, not inclined to parade him past the other patrons. “Take small steps.”

“Take a hike!” he objects but continues to walk. “I don’t need your help. I’m not a damsel, and you’re no prince.”

“Keep walking.” He’s surprisingly quiet after that, and when I reach my Land Rover, Rod doesn’t fight me when I help him into the back seat. I let go of his arm, and he falls over, sprawling out. Forgoing the law and safety tonight, I shut the door and drive the six miles to his mother’s house on Medford Road.

Pulling into the driveway, I turn off the car and, twisting in my seat, I watch Rod for a few moments, contemplating if I did the right thing, coming here. He’s a grown man, but from what I’ve seen tonight, I arrived just in time.

I open the rear door and shake his arm since he’s apparently asleep. I try whispering, “Rod, wake up,” but he doesn’t stir. Therefore, I take the initiative, go to the passenger side, open that door, and pull on his legs. He kicks at me and irritably sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“What the fuck?”

Without an answer, I again grab his arm, and as before, he doesn’t fight me until we reach the front porch. “Are you out of your idiotic mind?”

“Yes.” Though it’s late, I ring the doorbell, realizing I should have called Lizette to warn her of our arrival.

As Rod jerks his arm away, the porch light illuminates, and the door swings open. “What happened?” Dr. Abramson’s brown eyes scour Rod, searching for injuries, handcuffs, or a weapon, perhaps? Recognition falls upon her, and her spirit slumps. “You’re drunk, Greg.”

His grin is sloppy, and his eyes dazed. “And you’re boring, Lizzie.”

I thrust my body into his side, making him lose balance somewhat, which is deserved for his disrespect. “I’m sorry, Dr. Abramson. Your son had a few drinks, and it hit him harder than he anticipated.”

“Well, thank God you drove him home. And please, it’s Lizette.” She steps back, still watching Rod like he’s an unstable patient. “Please. Come in. He should go to bed.”

“Not tired,” he argues, but I push him toward the doorway, which again, he stumbles.

Shutting the door behind us, Dr. Abramson clasps her hands together, holding them close to her chest. “Drinking? On the job? Really?”

“Perks.”

“Would you like anything to drink, Amos? Coffee? I can make some.” She glares at Rod. “Some of us need it at one in the morning.”

Rod swats at nothing as he giggles. “I don’t like your coffee.”

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