“Brent, you up yet?” I like to annoy my younger cousin. He tends to sleep in on Saturdays.
“Brock… it’s eight in the morning.” Then he mumbles something about leaving the phone unplugged.
“Come on let’s get some breakfast.” Been up since five, I feel ravenous.
“Whaa…?” I think he fell back asleep.
“How about some spectacular pancakes and sizzling bacon at Moulin Rouge?” As kids, we always liked that place for the pancakes, though the coffee sometimes offered more jolt than expected.
“…” Whatever dreams I broke him out of, have managed to win him back.
The phone sits back in the cradle, and it starts ringing.
“What is it?” Slightly annoyed, I think about the sweet maple syrup at Moulin Rouge.
“Brock?” A quivering female voice, though not distinct enough to recognize.
“Yeah, who is this?” Pulling on socks, I have become properly attired for the pancake attack.
“It’s Jennifer, Jennifer Trudeau?” Brian Trudeau was a closes friend in high school; I hope he has not disclosed my childhood crush for his older sister. Lately, Brian’s email messages have become less frequent.
“Oh… Hi Jen, how’s Brian?” My head racing, ‘Please don’t mention the time you walked in on me doing number two in the basement bathroom…’
“Brian’s dead.” She sounds empty, and her eyes probably staring through everything.
“What?” My heart skips a beat, “What the hell happened?”
“They killed him Brock, they killed him!” She starts to sob quietly. I listen, voiceless as the darkness swims at the corners of my vision.
“Can we meet?” She asks softly and breaks the deafening silence…
Moulin Rouge. I ordered two cups of coffee for the both of us, my appetite has vanished. They came on a silver platter with plenty of cream for Jennifer. Besides the dark hair dye, she put no make up on and looked just as I had remembered.
“Brock! Is that you, boy?” Johnny Dockery, the owner of the establishment once played football alongside my dad.
“Hi Mr. Dockery, yeah I’m back in town.” I manage a strained smile, with Jennifer sitting across the table. He sees and perhaps noticed her watery eyes, and softens his tone.
“If there’s anything you two need, just let me know alright? Welcome back, son,” he smiled and walked off.
“Are you alright, Jen?” I take a few meaningless swirls with the black coffee, not sure if I wanted eye contact immediately.
“It happened last night.” An image of Brian holding a handgun flashed before me.
Her voice flat and weary, she continues. “A neighbor heard the shot, and the sheriff found him inside.” A string of tears begin to trickle down, as I listen intently.
“Jim Sanders said it’s unquestionably a suicide…” Small town, everyone knew each other by name, especially the police chief. (He hates the nick “Colonel Sanders”.)
“What do you think?” I ask attentively. Feint laughter emerges somewhere, but soon drowned out by the other patrons.
“He has changed, Brock…”
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