The table was hauntingly full. In this room, the air was uncomfortably thin and dry. Perhaps, it was a subtle sign of the nonexistent winter or the unspeakable fear.
I claimed the seat on the other end of the table without asking. Lizzie sat to my right, nervously twisting the rim of her woolen beret in her hands, while Emma had her arms crossed and head lowered to my left. Next to her was the man she was to meet at the altar, who sat straight shouldered in his unwavering seriousness. On the contrary, Laurie slouched across from Wesley, unhappy that he had to be here this early in the morning. Not to mention how much he hated the table. Beside Laurie was Clarence. After turning eighteen, he had earned himself a seat and decided to wear those hideous, round spectacles around all hours.
Thomas walked in at nine, precisely as the clock struck the hour. As he entered, the room turned quieter – not that there was any sound, to begin with. He opened the cabinet, reached for the gin on the top shelf, and placed it on the table right in front of me. He had to make the same trip twice to bring out enough glasses. No one offered to help. One by one, he circled the table and poured gin into those antique glasses his father had left behind. Not a single word was muttered, and not the slightest movement was observed. I focused my gaze on the painting on the wall but couldn't help but look to at Laurie while hoping nobody had caught my sinful misconduct. Laurie, however, didn't spare any attention to my direction. He knew the rules very well in this room. He was staring down at his glass of gin that was full to the rim. I didn't think he liked gin.
Smacking his lips to draw attention, Thomas stood and raised the glass. I followed the others, clueless about what or whom to drink for. He looked around. Seeing the glasses raised, he was satisfied and nodded. When the rim of the glass touched his bottom lip, a voice was finally heard.
"What's this for?" Lizzie asked. She side-glared at her brother in clear annoyance.
"Neil D. Ferguson," said the man at the front. I expected chatters and murmurs, but there were none. He stared into my eyes and asked: "What does D stand for?"
I didn't want to answer. It wasn't his business to inquire about that information. But I had to confess, as the other curious eyes were peering.
"Dennis," I said dryly.
"To Neil Dennis Ferguson," he raised his voice and his hand in synchronicity. Smirking, he said, "the man who lived at my mercy and died by my wife's hand."
He drank. The others did too. My hand remained in the air as I tried to stop it from shaking. Mockingly staring at me, he tilted his head a little, carefully observing my face in great interest to catch any change in my expression as soon as it occurred.
It didn't happen. I wanted to see Laurie's reaction, though it'd require me to look away. So, I didn't. Forcing out an unlawful smile, I brought the glass closer to my lips, swiftly examined the liquor, then back at the man on the other end of the table before taking the plunge.
"Now," said the merciless soul who finally sat down, "we should talk about happier things, like the upcoming wedding."
There was nothing there to talk about. All arrangements were made, and he merely reiterated the itinerary so everyone knew where to be and when to smile. I wasn't listening.
It'd be in the Bel Air House, a grand event with nothing spared. There'd be jazz, dance, and champagne. It ought to be the night I could drink enough to carry my life away.
And that day would be the day.