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Patrick settled Gregory on a stool. Then, in an imitation of Roger’s confidence, he threw “Pond, with Mud” on the bar. This was a cavalier and companionable gesture. There would be time later to compose formal impressions regarding the experience of chucking his literary work around. In the meantime, he felt in his coat pocket for the fountain pen. There it was, clipped to the pocket’s lining.

The bartender came over. Roger asked for a beer.

“Sure thing, Roger,” the bartender said to him. “How’s it going today?”

“Money!”

“Good for you.”

This short conversation emboldened Patrick to order a drink suitable for the occasion. What was the occasion? And never mind that Scotch had been his father’s drink. In memory, Patrick could see the old man with a drink in his hand, inhaling from his cigarette in the night. Frankly, there came a point in each and every day when Patrick saw this image of his father.

“May I have a Scotch and soda?”

“Anything for the little guy?” the bartender asked, and, for a moment, Patrick was not sure what the man was talking about. He thought the bartender was referring to him — to Patrick. Little guy? Patrick caught on and said, “I’m carrying juice.”

He hauled the juice out of his coat pocket. He shook the bottle. He reached back into his pocket, got the miniature straw, and wiped it with a bar napkin. While wiping, he said, “Roger, I like your playing.” Where were those drinks? Patrick looked at Gregory and said, “How are you doing on that stool, Bunny? Comfortable? We can move over to a booth as soon as one opens up. Please don’t cry.”

“Bunny?” This from Roger.

“We call him that. Actually, we don’t call him that. I call him that. Right, Bunny? Are you my Funny Bunny?” Patrick had the juice ready. He held the bottle for Gregory to drink. Gregory, somehow managing to keep his balance on the elevated barstool, leaned over between the two men, took the straw expertly in his mouth, and, with his hair falling forward over his ears, hiding his face, began to suck.

Patrick said, “Yeah, good boy.”

“Yeah! Boy,” Roger exclaimed. Who was submissive now?

The drinks came, and Patrick put his money on the bar. Roger got his beer, and Patrick his Scotch; Gregory worked on his miniature juice; the three of them drank together. It was a moment of harmony produced — in that cosmic darkness that made the forlorn station bar a place apart from the world — by alcohol, the absence of women, and, Patrick thought, love.

“Shall we have another?” he asked.

“Another,” Roger answered.

“Here’s to being here,” Patrick said, hoisting his glass; and he had the feeling, as he made this toast, that there were all manner of things he wanted to say (and had for some time needed to say, now that he thought about it) to Roger. For instance, Patrick suddenly couldn’t wait to assure Roger that he and Caroline had been very upset when they’d discovered that he had lost his job teaching at the conservatory. But how to say this in words that would not be hurtful to the man’s pride? Also, was it a good idea for Patrick to let the deposed husband know that Caroline still cared for him? Was it wise for Patrick to mention Caroline at all? He felt himself on the verge of telling Roger that he was sure that he, Patrick, might be able to persuade Caroline to overlook a few of those child-custody legalities. Bury the ax. No one ever need raise his arm and strike anyone in anger again. Roger could drop by Patrick and Caroline’s apartment, have a beer or a glass of wine, play a lullaby on his fiddle, and hold his son for a few minutes. Roger didn’t look like a person who wanted to hurt a little boy. Did he?

It wasn’t Patrick’s place to make promises to Roger. It wasn’t his place to say anything to Roger.

Nonetheless he said, “Do you want to hold him?”

Patrick drank from his drink. In that instant, he felt at peace with himself — he could understand drinking. Caroline did not like Patrick to drink. Correction: Caroline didn’t like him to drink too much. It occurred to him then that the anniversary of their engagement was coming up in three days. Jesus! He had to think about a present.

The train-station bar was emptying. Patrick supposed that the men in the bar were leaving to catch trains to the suburbs. Either that or heading back to their jobs. Every now and then, the door to the bar would open, and light would flood in, briefly. The person leaving might stand silhouetted in this bright light, waving a hand at the drinkers left behind.

“So long. See you tomorrow,” the bartender called toward the door as it closed. The light disappeared, and the bartender brought Patrick and Roger one beer and one Scotch. He counted out money from the pile in front of Patrick. The money was wet, and there was tissue paper mixed with it.

“Do you want to hold him?” Patrick asked Roger again. “It’s all right if you don’t feel like it.”

“No,” Roger said to him.

“No? You don’t? Or you do? Want to hold the Bunny?”

The bartender came back carrying change. He put the change on the bar. “Will you be wanting anything for your little boy? Will you be wanting a glass of milk?”

Was the bartender addressing Patrick? Or Roger? Gregory had stopped drinking from the juice bottle and was leaning over against the rounded edge of the bar, his head pillowed on arms crossed beneath him, in the manner, and with the posture, of a child slumbering at a school desk. His eyes were closed. The juice was empty.

“He’s doing fine, we’re all fine, we’re great, thank you,” Patrick said. Patrick was drunk. Being drunk, he wondered why he was not more often drunk. Was that right? Grammatically speaking? Not more often drunk?

“You let me know,” the bartender said.

To Roger, Patrick said, “Gregory is tired. We should let him rest a minute. You can hold him later.”

Gregory’s real father had already finished his beer, Patrick noticed. How many did that make? In all? As for Patrick, he was not, when he spoke, slurring his words, though he feared he might slur his words were he not careful not to. Something like that. Between the two men, the boy slept. These two grown men gazed at each other through the dark, across the boy; and Patrick found himself wondering how old Roger was. Caroline had told him, but he couldn’t remember. In Roger’s eyes, Patrick saw the boy’s eyes. Roger’s face might or might not have been a predictor of the face Gregory would one day show to the world. Roger was unshaven, with hair growing down his neck, past the top of his shirt collar, which was unbuttoned to the third button, and lay open beneath the pea-green coat that needed cleaning, and which was either too large or too small for Roger — it was hard for Patrick to say which. The effect was tacky. No, “tacky” wasn’t the right word. Roger’s chest was white and skinny, the chest of a man who’d begun drinking before he was a man. And the tip of his nose was red — a red nose! Like Gregory, Roger had a rashy mouth. Whiskers went this way and that. His hair looked lifeless.

He could play the violin, though. Boy, could he! That was a hell of a lot more than Patrick could do!

Was it time yet to relocate from the bar to a booth? The barstools weren’t the most comfortable things.

“Bartender!” Patrick called. “Hit us!” And to Roger he said, “This is going to have to be it. I’m about out of cash.”

The men looked sadly at the money. It was true, there wasn’t much left. Would Roger offer to spend the money that Patrick had dropped in his case? It was not likely.

And, hey, where was “Pond, with Mud”? Had the bartender taken it and stashed it behind the bar? Had one of the miserable drunks walked off with it? No, there it was, next to the violin. It was safe.