Coral

This micro fiction piece was written as a story companion to the day 20 drawing prompt Coral from the 2020 Inktober prompt list. Click here to see the drawing.

“How do I make this feeling go away?”

“You can’t.”

“There's gotta be a way.”

“After half a life spent at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, I can tell you there isn’t.”

He shoots his double bourbon in response.

“When did you hear?”

“Just this morning.”

John gestures toward the barman and he sloshes whiskey carelessly over both he and Carl’s shot glasses, splashing some on the bar top. They shoot it simultaneously before the barman barely has a chance to put the bottle back. He wordlessly holds up the Jack and they both nod. What’s another shot?

“What happened?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m askin’, aren’t I?”

“They found his trawler run aground. Bottom was chewed nearly clean through by the reef.”

“And he wasn’t on the boat?”

“No trace.”

“So he …?”

It wasn’t the first time a boat had come back without its fisherman in this village, and it wouldn’t be the last. No one ever said the word out loud, but it was always the topic of much indirect gossip whether it was an accident or a choice that he ended up in the sea.

“No way to know.”

“Didn’t the Guard say his radio was smashed to hell?”

John stares daggers at Carl for daring to mention it, so Carl shoots his bourbon and doesn’t press him. They’ll say it was an accident. Maybe he ran into a squall and a powerful wave knocked him off deck. Maybe he ran out of water, passed out too close to the bow and went overboard. Officially, they’ll say what John said: there’s no way to know, and the guard will classify it in their official report as an accident. But the people in the village will whisper about that smashed radio for years.

“How’s Sarah holdin’ up?”

“How do you think?”

“Thank God there weren’t any kids.”

John stares at his whiskey glass with hollow eyes.

“Wait. Sarah’s not …”

Carl’s unfinished question is answered only by silence and then the sound of John’s swallowing and his shot glass hitting the bar top.

“Huh.”

“Yep. Three months along. Just found that out, too.”

They sit in companionable, if sorrowful, silence for the next few minutes. Carl has no idea what to say. Other patrons come and go through the tavern door, cold nor’easter wind blowing in each time it opens. Some of them have heard John’s story by now and look the other way when they see him sitting at the bar.

“What’s next?” John wonders, his voice cracking.

All Carl can give him is a calloused hand clapping his shoulder.

“I don’t know, John. But we’re all here with you while you figure it out.”