Hi there!
First, thank you to everyone who read (and especially those who reviewed) the prologue. I initially wanted to get this chapter out a few days ago, but I have been incredibly busy lately and so have been chipping away at this as I've had time. I decided to stick with my original plan to write three central chapters—one for each day of the weekend—sandwiched between a prologue and epilogue. In that light, this story will mimic the film's structure, though, again, I have taken many creative liberties with the story. That being said, without further ado, I present Friday.
Happy readings!
TEPR
"There's one of them," Clyde says, pointing to the man intently directing traffic into the church parking lot. It is the first time the silence has been broken for what feels like hours. Red refuses to listen to anything on the radio that isn't NPR, and they lost the signal not long after they left the Savannah airport in the rental. "Oh, and there's another, of course," he adds when he notices a second person standing beside the other, smoking a cigarette and staring into the horizon.
"Ah, yes," his wife says, putting down her smartphone for the first time in twenty minutes. "Stan Marsh, lothario extraordinaire."
Clyde looks at her, a bit horrified. "You're not going to mention that tabloid crap, are you? Please don't be an asshole, not today."
She laughs dismissively. "Of course not. Exactly how crass do you think I am? If you want me to put on a show, I will."
"Just keep it civil," he says, putting the car in park. "I haven't seen these people in years, but they're my friends. I want them to remember me the way I remember them."
"Jesus. What does that even mean? Anyway, don't fret. I'll follow your lead, captain," she says, not waiting for a response before stepping out of the car.
A big grin comes across Kyle's face as he approaches the driver's side, lowering the traffic wand to his side. He gives Clyde a pat on the back and shakes his hand.
"Welcome to South Carolina," he says with a comical grandness, masking his sadness the best he can.
"Hello," Red says, approaching the front of the car behind a pair of tastefully oversized sunglasses.
"Kyle Broflovski, I'd like you to meet my wife, Ruby Rosenthal," Clyde says.
"Call me Red," she says, soliciting a purposeful handshake. "I'm so sorry about your loss."
"It's all of our loss," Kyle says, pulling Clyde into a side hug. "Kenny was—well, you know."
"Afraid not," Red replies. "Never had the pleasure."
"Great," Clyde says. "He was great." He begins to make his way toward the church, begging with a glance for his wife to follow. "We'll see you inside," he says to Kyle.
"Sure thing," the other responds, jogging back to his post as he notices a familiar sedan pulling into the lot. It is Wendy with Kenny's sister Karen, who had been so distraught this morning that she managed to leave the motel without shoes. (The McCormick family had insisted upon staying in a motel, they said because they didn't want to intrude, though Bebe and Kyle assume they don't want to sleep in the place where their son and brother had killed himself. Or perhaps it is because they want to spend as little time as possible around Tweek, enigmatic emblem of Kenny's final days that she is.) Wendy had volunteered to drive Karen back to the motel so as not to burden any of the other McCormicks, a gesture no doubt appreciated by the rest of the sullen clan nestled in the front row of the small Baptist church. As Wendy drops Karen off to the rest of the family—her parents, and her brother Kevin and his wife—she is glad to be rid of Karen, who she finds unbearably sad, even under the circumstances.
As she turns around and heads toward a secluded pew in the back of the sanctuary, Wendy's eyes scan the other attendees who have trickled in. Of those she recognizes, there are Tweek, whom she's already talked to; Bebe, who is chatting with the minister; Stan, who flashes her that winning, movie-star grin when she goofily wiggles her eyebrows at him; and Clyde, who is seated next to a neatly composed, sleek woman with striking red hair. Wendy waves at them as she passes, and Clyde returns the gesture, smiling solemnly. The sleek woman shoots her a confused stare and whispers something to Clyde, who whispers something back to her. The sleek woman nods slowly, suddenly appearing to understand.
Wendy settles into the pew she has been eyeing, two from the back, sitting a yard right of center. Nobody is behind her, and she likes that. She retrieves the small program from her jacket pocket, glancing back at the paragraph she has already committed to memory, a tidy summary of Kenny's life and accomplishments: born in the small town of South Park thirty-four years ago, middle child of three, graduated with honors from the University of Colorado Boulder in physics, Fulbright honoree, never married. She sighs at the thought of so much wasted potential before her attention is captured by whispers not far behind her. Kyle is speaking with Eric Cartman, whose face Wendy has not seen in person in nearly a decade. He has lost some of the weight he carried in college but still maintains a bulky frame, though now it appears to be predominantly muscle. Wendy would find him attractive if his personality didn't grate her. Despite his charisma and charm, Wendy always found Eric shallow and the most irritating of her college friends, by far. She thinks she spots a toupee and can only assume his hairline is receding. She understands, though: the balding whispers of early middle age do not suit his jazzy, jet-setting lifestyle.
"Could you sit with Tweek?" Kyle asks Eric, pointing out the blonde on the left side of the church, near the front. No one is seated anywhere near her. Eric nods, moving toward the front.
"May I join you?" he asks, gently resting his hand on Tweek's shoulder. She nods silently. "I'm Eric," he says, scooting in.
"Tweek," she whispers, moving over slightly to accommodate him. She then gives him a brief, curious glance before staring straight ahead again.
Eric is not sure what proper protocol is in a situation like this, but he decides to play the comforting card, slipping his arm around her back. She does not seem offended by this and, in fact, scoots a bit closer, seemingly thankful for the physical connection. Eric studies her furtively, realizing that this is the first time he has been in such close proximity to a transgender woman. He had interviewed Laverne Cox a couple of months prior via telepresence, live on national TV, but there is something more real and visceral about being here next to Tweek that intrigues him. He knows he shouldn't be, that it is rude and probably insensitive, but he is fascinated by her body—the juxtaposition of her long, untamed blonde hair and smart black suit and skirt against her pale and bony frame, once considered masculine and distinctly male. Now she inhabits an in-between gender space that for a moment hypnotizes Eric, until he remembers who she is and why he is here today.
In the back of the church, Kyle looks at his watch and nods to the minister. It's time to start. He closes the rear doors and shuffles up to the second row, resting his arm behind Bebe's back as he joins her. The minister, a small man with parted blonde hair, presumably in his early forties, approaches the pulpit with sad but compassionate eyes.
"Good afternoon," he begins, introducing himself as the Reverend Leopold Stotch. "It is with great sadness that we gather today to mourn the life of Kenneth McCormick. I did not know Mr. McCormick personally, but I know some of you who did—his friends—and I have heard nothing but wonderful things about this man whose life was ended so suddenly and tragically."
The minister continues with a more personalized expansion of the biographical blurb from the funeral program before transitioning to a homily about the sanctity of human life. It is during this part of the service that he raises his voice for the first time, as well as when Kenny's mother is no longer able to hold back her sobbing, the sounds of which fill the room up to its vaulted ceiling, as if in competition with the sermon. It is while Mrs. McCormick's wails eclipse the room that Craig sneaks into the back of the sanctuary quietly, having arrived late in his old beater Camaro. He stops to squeeze Wendy's shoulder and kiss her lightly on the cheek before walking up a few rows and scooting in next to Stan, who shakes his hand firmly and smiles.
"Why did Kenneth choose to end his life in such a tragic way?" the Reverend Stotch ponders. "You may ask yourself this, and you would be right to do so, for it is difficult to grasp the reality of such an action from a man whose friends described as kind and brilliant and entirely generous of spirit. What do we make of the world when a man like Kenneth commits such a grave act? Are the satisfactions of being a good man among our common men not great enough to sustain us anymore? Apparently this was not the case for Kenneth, who for whatever reason saw fit to depart from this world prematurely and of his own accord."
The Rev. Stotch continues with his existential pondering for a few more minutes before offering a prayer of blessing for the assembled and for Kenny. As the minister exits, Kyle approaches the pulpit, hand shaking and wiping a tear from his eye. He cannot force himself to meet the gaze of any of Kenny's family members, but as he recites the brief speech he has committed to memory—about how much he will miss his friend and how Kenny was too damn good for this world—he scans the crowd, finding faces one by one: first Stan, who has also been crying; and then Craig, seated beside him, who Kyle is glad to see but who stares ahead like a frozen zombie; and finally to Wendy, who offers a weak, sad smile that propels Kyle to the end of his remarks. As he finishes, he takes a deep breath and glances to the right side of the sanctuary, meeting eyes with the final person who will take the mic.
"And now," Kyle says, "Clyde Donovan, a friend to many of us here, is going to sing one of Kenny's favorite songs." Kyle walks over the piano to accompany. He begins to play some opening bars, leading in to Clyde's cue to begin the vocals. A tear begins to form in Wendy's eye for the first time since the service began, and she realizes she can no longer hold it in. She starts to weep quietly, and Bebe looks back at her, sending a sympathetic smile her way. As she composes herself midway through the song, Wendy still finds herself overcome by emotion, the nauseous feeling in her stomach immediately souring to anger when she looks over to see Clyde's wife staring indifferently, almost icily. Wendy finds herself disgusted by the woman's stone-faced demeanor but is surprised when the thought flashes through her mind that Clyde deserves better.
"Your friend Clyde is a really good singer," Tweek whispers to Eric, almost inaudibly.
"Yeah, he's pretty awesome," Eric remarks, fondly recalling how he and Clyde and Stan used to do musical theater together in college. He suddenly remembers with startling clarity the day he met Kenny, when Stan drug him and Clyde along to meet his other group of friends, and how within no time at all, Eric and Clyde were part of the group, as well—how Kenny, particularly, welcomed them into the fold. Goddamnit, he's going to miss Kenny.
After the service, Kyle and Bebe greet people as they exit, inviting them to the repast at their house that will follow the trip to the cemetery. The McCormicks are first out the door and tell Kyle they are not sure they will come to the "party", that it will depend how they feel after the interment.
As he exits through the adjacent door, Stan nearly runs into Bebe, who stares at him intently, as though he is a ghost who might depart them, just as Kenny did, if she breaks eye contact.
"I'm so happy to see you," she finally says, crossing her arms against a sudden, frigid draft.
"Yeah. I wish it was under different circumstances, though," Stan replies. He realizes as they continue to chat that even though he has often spoken to Kyle over the years, this is the first time he has seen Bebe or heard her voice in a long while, which fills him with a fleeting, inexplicable melancholy. He momentarily wonders how long it has been since he has seen the rest of his assembled friends and acquaintances as each of them shuffles out of the church individually, away from the memory of their friend who is no longer alive.
The last to exit the building, Wendy jogs over to Craig, who is sifting through the glove compartment of his car. When he hears her voice behind him, he jumps, slamming the compartment quickly.
"Can I bum a cigarette? I know you're holding," she laughs.
"Jesus, Test, you scared me," he replies. "I thought you gave it up in law school."
"I did," she says. "I just really need one right now, you know?"
He nods. "I know." He pulls her into a hug and whispers, "I have something better if you'd prefer."
She blushes and glances around to make sure no one's heard. "Just like old times?"
"Just like old times. Craig Tucker always comes prepared."
A few minutes later, as they are crouched on the other side of his car, flanked by the expansive field behind them, Wendy admits that she can't remember the last time she smoked a joint, that the justice system has turned her into a square.
"A square, Test? What are you, ninety years old? The only people I know who talk like that are your parents."
"What about your parents?"
"You kidding? They're not hip enough to talk like that. Fucking squares."
She laughs loudly at that, glad that the pot is mellowing her out so quickly. Her dull edges are immediately re-sharpened, though, when she spots Clyde and Red making conversation with Kyle and Bebe after the McCormicks are gone. She lets out a low, irritated groan.
"What's the matter, kiddo?" Craig asks. "Don't care for the frigid bitch?"
"How did you know?" Wendy asks, rolling her eyes.
"You always were an easy read, Test. Play nice, though. God only knows whose funeral we'll have to attend before any of us see Clyde again."
She laughs. "Because we've all seen so much of you lately, Mr. Nomad."
"Hey, at least I'm not shacked up in some millionth-floor Seattle penthouse, looking down on the rest of the world. She's a rich bitch, you know. And Clyde's completely lost touch as a result of it."
"That might be a bit harsh," Wendy says. "I think she's some kind of executive at Microsoft."
"And how do you think she got there? Fucking silver spoon. I assumed that's why you don't like her."
"No, I just think she's uppity. And from what I've heard, she's not very nice to Clyde. He's so sweet. He deserves better."
Craig scoffs. "Please. He's living in the lap of luxury. Someone like him's never going to get it any better than that."
As Kyle begins to round everyone up for the gravesite caravan, Stan jogs over to Wendy.
"Do you mind if I ride with you?" he asks. "I, uhh, took a cab."
"From the Savannah airport?" Wendy asks incredulously. She shakes her head, handing him the keys. "You can just drive mine. I'm feeling kinda out of it. I'm just going to ride with Craig." Stan jogs off, thanking her and polling the rest of the parking lot to see if anyone else needs a ride.
"A bit presumptive, aren't you?" Craig asks, getting into his car.
"I figured you'd pull through, Tucker. You always do." She grins at him, and as she sits, feels something under her. "What the hell is that?" she asks, lifting her ass.
Craig glances under her and sees an assortment of pills that he quickly brushes off the seat. He couldn't remember the exact cocktail he'd taken before walking into the church, but he had been soaring until Clyde started hitting those low notes.
"Just some rocks," he says. "I was hauling pea gravel last week. I don't have a lot of passengers. Sorry."
"Pea gravel?" she says. "Well, aren't you just a jack of all trades."
She stares out the window as Craig drives, wondering how many of the landmarks she sees were frequented by Kenny. Did he ever eat at that restaurant, she thinks, or split a pitcher of beer with friends at that dilapidated bowling alley? After a few blocks, she takes a breath and mutters, "The last time I talked to Kenny, we had a fight."
"That's probably why he killed himself," Craig deadpans, not taking his eyes off the road.
Wendy chuckles, thankful for her friend's brand of humor. She needs a good laugh at a time like this.
"What did you fight about?" Craig asks after a moment.
She sighs and looks back out the window. "I told him he was throwing his life away." Craig's free hand slips over and grabs hers tightly, and they don't say another word until they reach the cemetery.
Three places ahead of them in the caravan, Stan pilots Wendy's ancient Ford Taurus, with Tweek riding shotgun and Eric sitting between them in the backseat.
"I can't stop thinking about that song your friend sang," Tweek says, swaying lightly as she looks out the window. "It was so beautiful and seemed kind of familiar."
"Well, yeah," Stan says. "Don't you remember when it—" He experiences a moment of clarity as he glances at Tweek. "Just how old are you, anyway?"
"Nineteen," she says, crossing her arms. "How old did you think I was?"
"I don't know," he says. "I mean, I hadn't thought about it. Nineteen just makes me feel old, is all."
"How old are you guys?" Tweek asks, suddenly curious.
"Too fucking old," Eric says, shaking his head.
"Kenny's age?" Tweek replies.
"Kenny's age," Stan whispers affirmatively, a lump catching in his throat.
Tweek changes the subject. "I've never ridden in a limo before," she says forlornly, looking ahead past Kyle and Bebe to the front of the caravan, where the McCormick family is riding. "Bebe said I could ride with them if I wanted to, but I thought it would be weird. I mean, I know they don't like me, and they don't approve of our relationship. It's just sad, I guess. I'm sad about it."
"You know, I do a lot of my work in limos," Eric says, leaning forward. "They're pretty overrated, in my opinion."
"Are you a chauffeur?" Tweek replies genuinely. Stan giggles at that.
"No, I'm a journalist," Eric says, which elicits a derisive snort from his friend in the driver's seat. "Are you really still mad about that?" he asks Stan in response. "I don't know how many times I've told you, but that story we did on your affair was not my idea. I just got roped into it."
Tweek leans toward both of them, shifting her eyes back and forth, intrigued by this new drama.
"Yeah, well, you didn't exactly butt in to stop them, either," Stan says. "You have any idea how awful it was to be grilled about that shit on live TV by you, of all people? My agent told me beforehand that it was supposed to be a puff piece. I was fucking humiliated, dude."
"It certainly didn't hurt the sales to that action movie you were promoting," Eric says, crossing his arms. "As I recall, you made a pretty penny off that one. In fact, maybe you should be thanking me."
Stan looks in the rearview mirror with fire in his eyes, suddenly reminded of all the reasons he finds Eric occasionally irritating. He bites his lower lip, glancing at Tweek, who now looks equal parts fascinated, amused, and concerned.
"Let's just drop it, please?" Stan says. "This isn't the time or place."
"I will if you will," Eric replies, sliding back into his seat and smugly cocking an eyebrow.
Tweek looks to both of them and breaks the tension after a moment of silence. "The last night Kenny was alive, we had sex four times. It was fantastic." Eric looks horrified, but Stan shoots Tweek an amused grin.
"He went out with a bang and not a whimper," he says, turning the wheel to follow the caravan into the cemetery.
After the burial, which affected Bebe much more than she anticipated, she and Kyle welcome their visitors quietly. Neither has much to say as they remove the chilled sandwiches and dips and vegetables from the refrigerator, and the solitude is a welcome comfort. Bebe wonders why did not tear up at the funeral or even on the way to the cemetery when her husband lost his composure again. Instead, she felt most deeply moved after the Rev. Stotch muttered his prayer for the deceased, in the dead silence before the blackbird on the tree behind them started to sing and Mrs. McCormick let loose the waterworks again. The silence, Bebe reasoned in that moment, is the essence of Kenny. It is nothing, yet it is tangible, and it surrounds all of them. It follows them back to their cars and will follow them through the weekend and the rest of their lives. He will follow them—a specter of cherished time, forgotten time, quashed opportunity.
An hour later, as she refills an urn of decaf coffee for her guests, Bebe meets Clyde's glance from across the room, unaware that she is the moment's topic of conversation.
"She's really great," Tweek tells Clyde as she nibbles on a Triscuit. "So is Kyle. They both are."
"Yeah," he says, sipping his beer. "The memorial service was really nice. I can't believe they organized it so quickly, as busy as they are. Did you help them?" he asks, hoping not to sound anything more than curious.
"I wanted to, but they didn't let me do much. Can I tell you something?" she asks, finishing a glass of Chardonnay she's been working on for the last ten minutes. "It's hard not to feel a little unwanted sometimes, you know?"
"Why do you say that?"
"I mean, I'm obviously on the countdown now. I know they're going to kick me out in a few weeks after it's no longer inappropriate to do so. I'm not paying any rent, so why shouldn't they? I'm just some stranger who was living with their old friend in their vacation house."
Clyde's face flushes red, unsure how to respond to the suddenly personal admissions of this person who he has only known for fifteen minutes.
"I'm sure that's not true," he says reassuringly, unsure whether he believes the words himself.
"I hope you're right," Tweek replies, taking a deep breath and looking two steps away from a panic attack. "I mean, I don't know where I'd go. I don't have anywhere else. It's too much pressure." Clyde puts his arm on hers to calm her and tries to lock eyes with his wife across the room, desperately wanting a conversational out without seeming like a jackass.
Unfortunately for Clyde, Red's gaze never meets his, her piercing eyes instead locked on those of her host as he tries to engage her in polite chitchat.
"So how old are your boys now? Clyde's told me all about them," Kyle says, dragging a thin carrot through a runny pool of hummus.
Her lips pursing into a wry smile, she retorts, "He must have neglected some very basic information if you have to ask that question." She pauses for a moment before punctuating the air between them with a single unexpected guffaw. "They're seven," she adds, finishing a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.
"That's a great age," Kyle says, unsure whether he should proceed.
"I suppose," she says. "How do you ever really know, though? They only get older, becoming more like real people and less like needy little sponges as the days pass." Red pours herself another glass of Cab, this one nearly overflowing. "I adore that, by the way," she continues, deliberately sipping. "Little ones can be such a bore. Once they have a personality, everything changes. Ari seems to have an almost preternatural business sense for someone so young. I couldn't be prouder, really. Ira, on the other hand, has taken a decided interest in the performing arts. I think the boy's going to be gay, which bothered me a bit at first, until I realized the advantages such a thing offers in today's increasingly competitive world. What about you? You have children, I take it?"
As Kyle begins to respond, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns to see who it is attached to.
"Sorry to interrupt," Eric says, "but can I talk to you?" Kyle nods, so Eric adds a "follow me" before waving half-heartedly to Red.
"What's up, man?" Kyle asks as he follows his friend into the hallway.
"Huh? Oh, nothing. I could just tell that you wanted to blow your brains out listening to Clyde's bitch of a wife."
"What are you talking about? She's perfectly pleasant."
Eric snorts.
"You never change, you know that?" Kyle asks, clearly a bit amused.
"Neither do you, asshole," his friend replies, a grin flashing across his meaty face. "While I have you alone for a second, I was wondering if I could shoot you a business proposition."
"A business proposition?" Kyle asks skeptically.
"I'm thinking of opening a nightclub in the city."
"A nightclub?" Kyle crosses his arms over his chest.
"Yeah, in Manhattan. I've talked to some folks, and they agree with me that it's a perfect idea. The location is amazing, and it'd be a great way to extend my public persona beyond the airwaves, Kyle. It's a no-brainer, really. All I need is a bit more startup funding."
Kyle shakes his head, walking away.
"Come on," Eric says, quickly stepping in front of him. "At least have the decency to shoot me down properly."
"You're out of your fucking mind," Kyle whispers. "First, I'm a small business owner, not some corporate investor. I have a family to help support. Second, this is not the time or place. What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Jeez, sorry. It was just an idea," Eric replies, backing off. Kyle rolls his eyes and strolls back to the living room, gravitating toward his best friend, who is sipping a beer in the corner, partially obscured by a potted tree.
"Are you hiding?" Kyle asks, chuckling as he approaches.
"Nah, just trying to blend in with the scenery," Stan says, chugging.
"I see," Kyle replies, propping an elbow on his friend's shoulder. "The life of a movie star never sleeps."
"No kidding. What I wouldn't give for a moment of peace every now and then."
A young boy with a bowl cut and ill-fitting suit approaches them slowly, eyes glistening. "Are you Commander Kamikaze?" he whispers, looking around conspiratorially.
Stan rolls his eyes at Kyle, who grins in amusement.
"That's just a character I played in some movies. My name's Stan Marsh," he says.
"Well, can I have your autograph… whoever you are?" the boy asks, retrieving a rolled up comic book and marker from inside his jacket pocket.
"Don't you think you should be thinking about Kenny today?" he asks.
"Oh, come on," the kids whines. "Please?"
"You should be a good sport, Commander," Kyle says. "He did say please."
"I guess I can't argue with that logic," Stan says, scribbling his signature on the comic book. "Now go find your parents and grieve," he tells the kid, who wanders off in a starstruck daze.
"You know, you'd make a good dad," Kyle says, patting his friend on the back. "You should consider it if you ever get married again."
Stan's expression suddenly turns sour. He starts to speak but then doesn't. "I think I need some air," he says. "I'll see you in a bit."
"Yeah, okay, man," Kyle replies as Stan slips out the door, hoping he hasn't upset his friend with a simple offhanded remark.
For the next fifteen minutes, Wendy watches Stan through a kitchen window as she chats with Bebe at the island, gently fingering the grooves of a cutting board as she reflects on the day. She watches as he paces the lawn at first, occasionally checking his phone and running his hands through his hair before plopping onto the lawn and staring into the empty street. She watches as Craig appears from nowhere and joins Stan on the lawn, tousling the back of his friend's head before retrieving a joint from his pocket. She watches as Craig smokes first before offering some to Stan, who accepts. She sees Craig say something and then laugh uproariously before Stan socks him in the arm, laughing himself as he draws in a cloud of smoke. She wonders for a brief moment what would have happened if she and Stan had stayed together, what might have been different.
"Oh, Jesus," Bebe says, noticing what's caught Wendy's eye. "You'd think they'd do that behind closed doors, or at least in the backyard. Our neighbors might see them."
Wendy laughs. "Oh, lighten up."
"Hey, we're in the South," Bebe says. "People are different down here."
"Please," Wendy replies. "I live in the South."
Bebe rolls her eyes. "I would hardly consider Atlanta the South. It might be geographically, but it's also a real place. Not just a bunch of coastal yokels."
Wendy snorts. "You told me this place was a 'charming little getaway' and that you would love to have me up here more often."
"I say that so you'll come visit me so that I'm not stuck here alone with these people when I'm on vacation. Kyle's fonder of the place than I am. Then again, I think anything can charm him."
"You have a good one, you know," Wendy says. "I should be so fortunate to get a catch as good as Kyle. You lucked out."
"Yeah," Bebe whispers. "I really did."
"Speak of the devil," Wendy says jovially when Kyle pops into the kitchen.
"I thought I felt my ears burning," he says, planting a casual smooch on his wife's lips. "I just wanted to let you know that Clyde and Red are staying the night. I couldn't tell them no. Clyde said they had planned to fly home tonight to relieve the nanny, but Red seems to be feeling ill. I think she's wasted."
"Oh, Kyle, where are we going to put them?" Bebe asks. "Wendy's in the other master, Stan is in the guest room, and Eric's in the kids' room."
"Eric's not staying," Kyle says, giving her a look. "There's no way."
She shrugs. "His editor called and said his plans changed. He's on a flight to Dallas Monday afternoon. What was I supposed to tell him, that he should find a hotel in the meantime?"
"A bed and breakfast, a homeless shelter, it doesn't matter to me. I just can't deal with him all weekend."
"Oh, honey, stop being melodramatic. One of us is dead, after all." Bebe is surprised by the words as soon as they leave her mouth. "I'm sorry," she says. "That was shitty."
He takes a breath. "No, you're right, actually. I was being insensitive. This isn't easy for anyone. I'm glad he's here. I'm glad all of us are here, together." He pulls Bebe and Wendy in for a hug.
After a few seconds, Wendy pulls away. She says, "Let Clyde and Red have the second master. I don't need all that space. I can crash on the futon in the study."
Kyle smiles. "Nah, we'll put Stan in there. It'll do him some good—knock him off his high horse a little. You take the guest bedroom."
"I think that's a good plan," Bebe says, stepping behind her husband, and wrapping her arms over his shoulders. "Wendy, would you mind stepping out for a sec? There's something I need to talk to Kyle about in private."
"Ooh la la," Wendy says as she leaves the kitchen, blowing them both a kiss.
"I think Craig is dealing drugs," Bebe says once the door is closed. "It's just a hunch, though."
Kyle nods. "I thought I saw him picking up pills outside his car earlier. I'm not even sure that he has a permanent residence. Did you see how grimy he looked today? At first I thought it was hair gel, but I'm beginning to think he might be in trouble."
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Bebe asks, resting her forehead against his.
"Yeah," Kyle says. "He can sleep on the couch in the basement for the weekend."
"Why are there two twin beds in your second master?" Clyde asks Kyle as he drops his overnight bag on the carpet, shortly after the sun goes down. Kyle places Red's beside it.
"Once Xavier is old enough to sleep in his room alone, we figure we'll let Sophie have this one," Kyle says. "The twins are in case she ever wants to have a friend over, I guess."
Clyde nods, carrying his toiletry bag to the adjoining bathroom. "No, don't bother with that," he quickly says to Kyle, when the latter starts to push the beds together.
"Okay…" Kyle replies, pausing mid-push. "Would you prefer further apart?"
Clyde blushes. "No, I mean… we'll only be here one night, is all. We're not going to do anything. I mean… never mind. You can put them however you'd like."
"Why don't I let you worry about furniture later, buddy?" Kyle asks, slinging an arm over Clyde's shoulder. "How about we grab a drink now instead?"
"I like this plan," Clyde says, now grinning and a bit less embarrassed.
Down the hall in the other master bathroom, Bebe stares at herself in the mirror after the mid-evening shower she randomly elected to take. She knew she needed to clear her mind, and for some reason, burying herself in the seclusion of water seemed like her best option. It wasn't until the jets were cascading down that the reality of it all came crashing upon her—not only the fact that Kenny is gone and never coming back but also all of the shortcomings his death represents in her own life, both directly and indirectly. The knowledge of Kenny's death, the permanence of it, the seeming inevitability—all of it was too much for Bebe to handle, and so, in the privacy of the shower, she let it all loose, sinking down to the cold tile wall as the warm rains embraced her. She must have cried for a good ten minutes before she felt the need to stand and compose herself, shutting off the water and turning herself back on for the remainder of the weekend.
As Bebe continues to stare at herself in the mirror, a towel around her midsection and another over her hair, Tweek passes Kyle and Clyde on their way downstairs to grab a beer. She is thankful that no one else is upstairs to see her slip into Kyle and Bebe's bedroom, after which she creeps to the adjoining bathroom door and knocks lightly with her knuckles.
"Is that you, honey?" the voice from inside asks.
"No," Tweek mutters. "It's me."
"Wendy?" Bebe asks, opening the door as she towel-dries her hair. "Oh, Tweek. What brings you up here?"
"I'm sorry to intrude," the other says. "I was hoping I could talk to you in private, and I wasn't sure when I'd get another chance."
"Is everything okay?" Bebe asks, ceasing the drying.
"This is kind of hard for me to say, but… I don't want it to hang over us anymore. I just want to make sure, you know, there's nothing weird between us—you and me."
"Weird? Tweek, what do you mean?"
"I mean about Kenny."
"Oh." Bebe pauses. "I don't know what he told you," she begins cautiously, "but the truth is that there was nothing between us."
"He talked about you an awful lot, Dr. Stevens. He clearly liked you."
"Tweek, cut the formalities, please. You may be a guest in our house, but you're practically part of the extended family now." She resumes drying her hair, hoping no one else is within earshot of this conversation. "As for Kenny, I don't think he knew what he wanted. The two of us went way back, but we were friends. You know this. Besides, you were the one he was crazy about those last few months. I don't want you to be confused about that."
"I know," Tweek says. "I guess I just wanted everything to be out in the open now that he's gone. I didn't want to be dishonest."
"Dishonest about what?"
"I know about the two of you."
Bebe nods calmly. "I thought that might be where you were headed with this." She walks to the end of the counter and opens a deep drawer, burying her hand in the cluttered abyss. It emerges a few seconds later with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Here's another secret you can keep between us," she says, lighting one and taking a drag.
"I've never met a physician who smoked," Tweek says.
"I gave it up a long time ago, before med school. These are in case of emergency."
"I'm sorry. I just felt the need to tell you. I wanted you to know… that I know."
Bebe waves it off. "No worries. It's ancient history, anyway—years ago. If Kenny still wanted me, he knew he was barking up the wrong tree. Kyle is the one for me, just like you were the one for Kenny."
"That's what makes all this that much shittier," Tweek says, a tear forming in her eye as she begins to jitter. "I know we were only together for a few months, but I thought he was the one, you know? I loved him, and I thought he loved me, but then he had to go and fucking kill himself."
It is at this point that Bebe extinguishes her cigarette on the counter, glides over, and pulls Tweek into a hug, the younger of the two shaking and heaving through quiet sobs.
"It's going to be okay," Bebe whispers, hoping that she is telling the truth.
Two floors directly below them, Craig has settled into his makeshift home for the weekend, the couch in the basement living room. His sole neighbor on the floor is currently crying into Bebe's shoulder and splitting a cigarette with her, and Craig appreciates the quiet. He tries to focus his attention on the paperback copy of War and Peace he found sitting on the entertainment center, but his thoughts do not allow him to read. His mind is occupied by too much to make room for Tolstoy. What the hell had Kenny been thinking? What was his killing himself meant to accomplish—anything? Fucking shit, man.
Soon enough a figure appears in the doorway leading up to the ground floor, pulling the door behind her quietly.
"Is anyone else downstairs?" Wendy asks.
"Just me," Craig says. "Tweek's MIA."
"I see," she replies, locking the door behind her. She drops down beside him on the couch. "What do you have there?" she asks, glancing at the cover.
"Oh, you know, just a little light reading." He places the book on the coffee table and looks at her, now aware of a strange intent behind her eyes. "Is everything alright, Test?"
"You know I always liked you," she says, smiling. "The entire last two years at Boulder."
He nods. "I'm aware. But you were with Stan, if you recall."
"Not senior year. I was available, and you never took the bait. I always wondered why. I couldn't figure out if it was because you didn't like me or you thought it would be awkward between you and Stan."
"Stan was a friend, that's true, and I didn't want to jeopardize that. But there was more to it."
"Like what?"
"Oh, come on, Test. It would have been weird. You and I weren't a good match. We had nothing in common."
"What are you talking about? We were revolutionaries."
He snorts. "Kenny and I were revolutionaries. You and Stan had fun playing along."
She laughs, mock-offended, socking him in the arm. "I can't believe you, Craig Tucker. We were all in it together. We believed in things. We stood for something."
"Yeah, well, at the end of the day, Kenny and I were the ones left holding the banner. We were the ones who stayed."
She sighs. "I miss him, too, you know. We all do."
"Yeah," he whispers.
She scoots closer and rests her head against his arm. They sit like that for a few minutes, not speaking, before her hand begins to migrate downward, over his chest and stomach, finally resting on his crotch. She squeezes gently.
"What the hell are you doing?" he says calmly.
"Picking up where we left off twelve years ago. I need this, Craig."
He pushes her hand away. "No. Not here. Not tonight."
"Why not?" she asks as she sits up. "This will be good for both of us."
"I think it would be too weird, Test."
"But it wouldn't," she says, grabbing his hands. "You know how much I liked you, and I know that those feelings were mutual."
His face flushes red at that. "Maybe for a little while, but I knew we would never work out. You were too ambitious. I was practically aimless by comparison."
She shakes her head. "You always underestimated yourself." She whispers, "If you're not prepared, don't worry. I have condoms."
"I wouldn't need a condom," he says.
"That's kind of risky, don't you think?"
"I mean, I'll use them if it's someone I don't know because of diseases and shit, but I doubt I'd need one with you."
"I don't understand."
"I shoot blanks, Test."
Suddenly Wendy understands, aware that she will have to turn elsewhere for what she is looking for.
Four hours later, Stan can't sleep. His life remains surrounded by phantoms he can't escape, Kenny only the most recent and perhaps most sobering of them. He creeps from his resting place in the study and finds the house eerily quiet. He walks around, wondering how hard this must be for Kyle and Bebe and Tweek, to be here this weekend and see Kenny everywhere: in a recliner, at the landing on the stairs, in the bathtub. Eventually, he makes his way downstairs and finds Craig staring, wide awake, at the muted television across the room.
"Hey, man, whatcha watching?" Stan asks, plopping on the couch beside him.
"You know," Craig replies vacantly, gesturing toward the glowing screen. "The thing, with the guy."
Stan's eyes dart to the TV and find a notably younger Bruce Willis holding a gun and looking pissed off. Stan cringes, unable to sit comfortably through action films ever since he himself began dabbling in them a couple of years ago. He finds it more embarrassing than anything, reducing himself to mindless drivel when what he really wants is to make serious art. He wonders for a moment if Bruce ever feels the same way. It pays the bills, at least, Stan reasons. When he glances back to Craig, he notices that his friend's eyes are glazed over, and he does not appear to be all there mentally.
"Dude, what are you on?" Stan asks. "I mean, no judging here. I could probably use some of whatever it is myself."
Craig shrugs. "A little of this, little of that. Grandmaster Tucker doesn't share his recipe book."
Stan nods, wondering if it's the drugs talking or if Craig typically speaks in such a bizarre idiom. "I could go for a drink, then," he says. "Wanna grab a beer?"
"A beer, yes," Craig replies slowly. "Beer sounds good right now."
"So this is all pretty sobering," Stan says as they ascend the stairs.
"What is?" Craig asks, following a step behind.
"Everything. Kenny, of course—but not just that. It's also being here, with all of you. I feel like I haven't seen most of you in years."
"That's because you haven't, dude." Craig playfully jogs past him to reach the ground floor first. "But don't feel bad. I haven't, either. I'm not sure that I would want to, really."
"What do you mean?" Stan asks, noticing that Craig is more coherent than he seemed downstairs.
"You and Test are cool, and Kyle and Bebe, I guess. Not the others. Fucking Eric Cartman, man? What a slick, slimy bastard. I mean, you are, too, kind of, Mr. Movie Star. But it's different with you. I know you're a real person under all that money. Not Cartman, though. Jesus."
"What about Clyde?"
"Fucking pussy-whipped loser. I never had much respect for the guy, but come on. That corporate frost queen is too much. I mean, does Clyde even work?"
"He's a stay-at-home dad," Stan says as they cross the living room. "They have twin boys, so I don't think it's exactly a walk in the park."
"Fuck that," Craig begins as he crosses the kitchen threshold, Stan two steps behind. He stops speaking, though, when he sees Red seated at the table, a pour of whiskey at her side and a Wall Street Journal splayed out on in front of her.
"Good evening, gentleman," she says, folding up the paper and motioning for them to sit. "Glad to see I'm not the only insomniac in the house." She seems a bit distracted, and Stan doesn't think she heard their conversation in the living room. He sits in the chair opposite her.
"Anxiety got you, too?" Stan asks Red. "That's what's keeping me up, I think. Everything's just so weird."
She smiles warmly, and it is the first time Stan thinks he has actually seen her humanity. He wonders if maybe he just hasn't been looking for it. Or maybe, he thinks, her guard is down because of the late hour, or maybe the whiskey—or both.
"Oh, no," she replies. "I often have trouble sleeping. Clyde has no idea. It started right after I had the boys, years ago. I assumed it was something postpartum that would naturally go away after a while, but it never did. So two or three nights a week I get up and make myself a drink, or if I'm hungry, a sandwich or scrambled eggs. Usually, that will do the trick. Some nights I feel like reading, though," she says, gesturing toward the Journal. "I was considering going back to bed, but it's nice to have some company. Makes me feel less alone in this cold, dead house." She blushes. "Forgive me. Slip of the tongue."
As she talks, Craig grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck from the counter. He doesn't bother with a glass, just takes a gentle swig from the bottle before screwing the lid back on. He sits between Stan and Red and places the bottle among them on the table.
"No worries," Craig says. "There's nothing natural about any of this—not about grieving, and especially not about suicide."
"You don't think grieving's natural?" Red asks, throwing back the last of her pour before helping herself to another.
"Nah. I mean, humans are social animals. I get that. And I understand grieving for a spouse or a parent or something like that. But Kenny? I loved the guy, but I haven't talked to him in probably five years. I wasn't even all that sad when I found out. I'm not sure what compelled me to make the trek out here, honestly."
"Dude, are you serious?" Stan asks.
"I can appreciate that," Red says to Craig, ignoring Stan's interjection. "You grew apart, became different people. It happens. That's life. It doesn't always go how you plan."
Craig snorts. "That must be easy for a hotshot like you to say," he retorts.
Her eyes pierce through him as she downs her whiskey and shoots him a sly grin. "Did you know I'm the youngest executive vice president in Microsoft's history? It's even more impressive because I'm a woman. Even more impressive, I didn't suck a single cock to get where I am. Not that I haven't had to sweat. You have all these big ideas when you're young, and then you find yourself doing things you thought you'd never do, all in the name of success. Ultimately, you set your priorities, and that's how it goes. I wonder if your friend Kenny knew that. If so, he couldn't live with it. I wonder what he expected to get out of this life. He must have had higher expectations than the rest of us, or maybe he was just naïve. Regardless, no one ever said it was going to be fun. At least, no one ever said it to me."
Stan stares at her, unsure what to say. Craig grins and toasts the bottle in her direction before taking a liberal swig. Red stands and nods slightly to each of them.
"Good night, gentlemen. I hope you find what you're looking for this weekend," she says before exiting the kitchen. The room remains silent, and Craig follows not long after. When he's alone again, Stan finally grabs a beer from the fridge and reclaims his seat at the table. As he drinks, he wonders what it is that he's looking for, what it is he's really lost.
Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed Friday! It is my goal to continue to update this story bimonthly, since I imagine the Saturday and Sunday chapters will be relatively the same length as this one.
In the meantime, I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback.
Cheers,
TEPR