The Harbour Pub

“…If I ever lose my faith in you, there’ll be nothing left for me to do…if I ever lose my faith…in you…”
-Sting

The Harbour Pub on Seaview Avenue is a lonely place. It’s where people don’t come to kill time, but where time kills them. The patrons of the Harbour Pub are mostly lonely, down-and-out losers, or people that have lost someone. People go there that have lost their faith in love, family, and, maybe, their faith in faith itself. The Harbour Pub sits alone as a monument to double bourbons mixed with tears, and, passion, in the truest sense of the word: suffering.

The rain fell fiercely, and the wind blew in from Bellingham Bay; it felt like a cold, wet gush of sorrow created by Nature herself. On the Sundays in downtown Bellingham, it was quiet and peaceful, except for the downpour, and a lonely man’s footsteps. The occasional student from one of the local colleges would hurry on their way from studying at a coffeehouse and rush back home to Fairhaven. A homeless person huddled in doorway to retreat from the constant assault of the rain.
Charlie stood, soaked to the bone, pausing before opening the heavy oaken door. Slowly, he stepped inside, and the warmth felt like love’s first touch.
“Can I get ya something there,” came a voice from behind the bar.
Charlie stood at the end of the bar and shucked off his trench coat and hat. He nodded.
“What do ya like,” the bartender asked.
Charlie didn’t say anything.
“Oh, I see. You must be one of those quiet types,” the bartender said.
Charlie pulled a pack of Parliament Kings from his shirt pocket. He lit it, and after a long drag from it, he sat the cigarette on the edge of a small black ashtray.
“Here ya go, Sir,” the bartender said. “This one’s on me.”
He looked up as the bartender sat a glass in front of him and dropped a few ice cubes in, and topped it off with some bourbon.
Charlie sniffled.
“I can see you wanna be left alone, so if ya want a refill or anything, lemme know.”
Charlie pulled a ten spot from the pocket where the Parliaments had been.
“Naw,” the bartender said shaking his head and putting his hands up, as if he were surrendering to a foe. “You just holler if ya want more.”
The ends of Charlie’s mouth seemed to form a smile, but not quite. His eyes moved down into the direction of the amber fluid in the glass, and he turned it slowly in his hands. He took a small sip of the drink. It felt like fire in his mouth and throat as it descended down on its way to his liver.
“Hey, you mind much if I put on some music?” the bartender asked.
Charlie looked up as a single tear slid down his cheek, and Charlie shook his head. The tear dropped into his drink.
A couple of seconds later, the smooth and creamy sounds of a blues guitar filled the Harbour Pub. It was just barely audible.
His thoughts were disjointed; broken, maybe.
Charlie’s eyes were vacant oceans of blue. The amber fluid before him now sat undisturbed as another tear dropped into it. His mind and heart seeped slowly into the past. His vision blurred.

Charlie stopped his old Ford on the pier in the rain. Barbara looked out the window watching a ferry chug out of Squalicum Harbor.

“…If I ever loose my faith in you…” the song ended, and the voice of the announcer came on the radio.
They had always loved that song. It had become something that more than symbolized the deep affection that ran between the two.
“A very special song for two very special people. We don’t normally do this, but on this occasion, we had to make an exception. Barbara, we have a message for you.”
Her head jerked around. In Charlie’s hand was a small velvet box, and his voice came over the radio. “Barbara, that song has always been about how much we love each other. Will you make me the happiest man ever? Will you marry me?”

Charlie took another sip from his drink. The rain outside pounded to Earth harder and faster as the storm came inland.

Barbara ground her teeth and moaned in pain. The anesthetic had not completely taken affect yet. She squeezed Charlie’s hand so hard that he was happy he was in a hospital in case she broke his hand. The small cloth screen blocked her view of her abdomen as the doctors began their work. Charlie himself was scared to look on the other side of the screen.
After they had finished, Barbara was taken from the operating suite, and then an earth shattering crying turned his attention to the newborn, Mark. His body and feet were black and purple as the oxygen around him started circulating through his body, as the doctors cut the umbilical cord. His body began turning a soft pink.
As the life-giving oxygen around him coursed into his lungs, a powerful love coursed through Charlie’s body. A love so strong it was indescribable.

Charlie finished the last of his bourbon, but continued to turn the glass in small circles.

“Mr. Jones,” the doctor said softy, obviously not enjoying his task. A hand rested on Charlie’s shoulder.
“How is she, Doctor?”
The doctor sighed heavily. “Mr. Jones, I’m afraid there were some…complications…”
Charlie cut him off. “Were?”
The doctor, still in a surgery smock, glanced over at the little boy on the other side of the glass as several doctors finished preparing Mark’s body to be sent down to the morgue for autopsy. They had not been able to figure out what had gone wrong.
“Mr. Jones, Barbara died…”

Charlie stared blankly into the glass. Wordlessly, the bartender came back and refilled Charlie’s glass. He shook his head as Charlie, again tried to pay him. Charlie watched the amber fluid, as if his entire life rested within the tiny bubbles on the sides of the glass.
Music played softly in his mind. “…If I ever lose my faith in you…there’ll be nothing left for me to do…”

The cemetery, adjacent to Whatcom Falls Park, was deceptive. Happy flowers grew around several graves, and the sun shone brightly. A soft breeze blew the in trees. Charlie could not stop blaming himself.
He looked down at the two gravestones that marked where Barbara and Mark would sleep eternally.
Both stones were black marble, and in a morbid way, each complimented the other. Their names were engraved into them. “Barbara Bronson Jones, beautiful wife, daughter, and child of God,” Charlie read aloud.
“Mark Luke Jones. A child after God’s own heart, that had passed before his time,” he read aloud.
Tears burned down Charlie’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, baby. I miss you,” he said to the gravestone and turned to walk back to the car sitting down the hill. The guilt of having killed his wife, or so he thought, was overwhelming. On the bottom of both stones were the words he had asked to be engraved on them. He had spent all his savings having it done. The words echoed in his mind.
“…If I ever lose my faith in you, there’ll be nothing left for me to do…if I ever lose my faith…in you…”

Charlie left the Harbour Pub, and walked down Squalicum Way with a piece of paper that was stained with tears. It sat in his pocket. He hoped they would find it when they found him. On it, he had written the words to his and Barbara’s favorite song. He stood on the pier looking out into the water on the bay that was black with the blanket of night. He wondered if Barbara and Mark were somewhere out there in the night, walking hand in hand, and keeping their eyes on him.
He hoped so.
Charlie stopped at the spot where he and Barbara would sit for hours and not say a word. They hadn’t needed to. He thought of her curly red hair and blue eyes. He missed her more than anything. He also felt like he had been given his son, just to have him taken away.
The last thing Charlie Jones did was sing a little song to himself as he put the muzzle into his mouth. A muffled shot rang out in the evening rain.
“…Let me say first, if I ever lose my faith in you…”