The Last Regular

When I was a kid, my mother and my two aunts worked at the Clover Leaf, a small, wood-paneled tavern on the edge of Millbrook. The place was run by a couple, Edgar and Mabel. Edgar was the kind of man who seemed to fill the room without trying. He was tall and gaunt, with a sharp jaw and a voice like gravel being poured into a tin cup. His hair was thin, combed back from a high forehead. He never walked; he darted, always in motion, always checking on the taps or the grill or the occasional rowdy customer. Mabel was softer, round and warm, always laughing, but it was Edgar I remember most. There was something about him, a quiet kindness that made you feel like you were the only person in the world when he talked to you.

They left the pub when I was fourteen. We saw them in town now and then, at the butcher’s or the post office. Edgar always had a smile and a question about school, and I always felt a little brighter afterward. Then, a few years later, I heard from my mother that he had cancer. I didn’t know how bad it was. I was angry that no one told me when he died. I found out three weeks after the funeral, standing in the checkout line at the grocery store. I cried right there, holding a carton of milk. I felt like I had lost a relative, not a man I barely saw anymore. For weeks, I kept thinking about him, the way he moved, the way he listened, the way he made you feel safe.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend, Jake, and I were driving back from a weekend trip. We took a detour to avoid highway construction, and the road wound through the old part of Millbrook, past the Clover Leaf. I hadn’t been there in years. The building was boarded up, the sign faded to a ghostly gray. I felt a pang of nostalgia, and I asked Jake to pull over. I just wanted to see it, maybe peek through the windows. He parked across the street, and I got out. The door was padlocked, but the window on the side was cracked, and I could see a sliver of the inside. There was a stack of chairs, dusty bottles behind the bar, and a faint light coming from the back, like a single bulb left on.

I felt a chill, like someone had opened a freezer door. I stepped closer, leaning in to see better. That’s when I heard it: a sound like a glass being set down on a wooden bar, a soft thud, followed by a low, gruff voice, just a murmur, as if someone was talking to himself. My heart jumped. I looked around, but Jake was still in the car, fiddling with the radio. I pressed my face to the glass, trying to see more. The light at the back flickered, and I saw a figure, tall and thin, moving with that quick, darting step I remembered so well. It was Edgar. He was wearing his old white shirt, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel over his shoulder. He turned, and I swear he looked right at me, and he smiled.

I stumbled back, my breath catching. I ran to the car, told Jake to drive, get out of here, now. He looked at me like I was crazy but floored it. I didn’t tell him what I saw. How could I? For the rest of the drive, I kept thinking about Edgar, how kind he was, how I never got to say goodbye. And then I thought: maybe he’s still there. Maybe he’s waiting for someone to give him a proper send-off. But I couldn’t go back. I was too scared. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him either. That night, I dreamt of the Clover Leaf, of Edgar behind the bar, polishing a glass. He looked up at me and said, ‘You’re late, love. I’ve been waiting for you.’ When I woke up, I felt a cold dread settle in my chest. I knew I had to go back. Not to say goodbye, but to find out why he was still there, and why he seemed to be waiting for me.

The next weekend, I drove there alone. The building looked even more decrepit, vines creeping up the bricks, the smell of rot in the air. I forced the back door open. The inside was dark, except for a single bulb hanging over the bar, just like I’d seen. The air was thick with dust and the sour smell of old beer. I walked to the bar, my footsteps echoing. I heard a clink behind me, and I spun around. Edgar was there, standing in the doorway, exactly as I remembered him, but his skin was waxy, his eyes sunk deep. He was holding a glass, and he set it on the bar with that same soft thud. ‘You came back,’ he said, his voice a low rumble. ‘I knew you would. I’ve been waiting for you. I have something to give you.’

I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. He walked toward me, slowly, not rushing as he used to. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph, a picture of me and him at the pub, when I was about ten, sitting on a stool with a soda, him leaning over, laughing. ‘You were my favorite,’ he said. ‘Always came in with your mother, so quiet, but you always had a smile for me. I didn’t get to say goodbye. But now, you can say it to me.’ He held out his hand, and I took it. His grip was cold, but gentle. I looked at him, and I felt a strange peace. ‘Goodbye, Edgar,’ I whispered. He nodded, and then he began to fade, like smoke, until he was gone. The light flickered and went out. I was alone in the dark. I drove home, crying, but not with fear. I had said my goodbye. But I never went back to that part of town again. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear that soft thud, a glass on wood, and a voice saying, ‘You’re late, love.’ But I know now it was just a goodbye, and some goodbyes take a long time to arrive.