Just another cashew in a town of mixed nuts.
Six
Kate looked around the living room, then leaned her head back on the sofa. The gentle swoosh of her grandfather's rocking recliner and the sound of a Golden Girls rerun filled the small house. It was Saint Patrick's Day, and she was spending it watching television with her grandfather. She was half Irish. Usually this time of year, she and her friends were out drinking and singing "Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra" off key.
Her grandfather also had some Irish blood, and he should have been out living it up. Maybe she should suggest that he call a few of his buddies and at least invite them over for green beer, although the last time she'd pushed him into doing something, he'd forced her into going with him to the poetry reading. That night had turned into a disaster.
Growing up, she'd always known Gospel was a little odd, but after that night, she was convinced it was more than odd. She now knew that she was living in an alternate dimension, one that looked fairly normal on the surface but was freaky as hell underneath. Four nights ago, she'd glimpsed the craziness that hid behind normal faces, and it was scary. The only person who hadn't acted like a nut had been Rob Sutter. He'd looked more angry than insane.
"Why don't you go out, Katie?"
She rolled her head to the left and looked at her grandfather. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"Yes. You're wearing me out." He turned his attention back to his television program. "I love you, Katie, but I need a break from you."
She sat up. She was in Gospel to give him a hand in the store and to help him over his grief. Sh
e needed a break from him, too, but she wasn't so rude as to tell him. Obviously, he didn't suffer under the same restraint.
"Go have a green beer somewhere."
She didn't want to drink in a bar alone. There was something a little sad about it, and besides, it hadn't worked out for her the last time. She'd drunk too much and was still paying the price.
"Play a little pool and meet young people your own age."
Pool. She could play pool. That wasn't sad and pathetic, and if she didn't drink too much, she wouldn't do anything stupid. "Which bars have tables?" she asked.
"The Buckhorn has a few in the back. I don't believe Rocky's Bar has any, but the Hitching Post might still have a couple." While Kate tried to recall which was closest to her grandfather's house, he added, "Of course you should probably stay out of the Hitching Post on account of the restrooms are a little rough."
Kate looked down at her sweats and Tasmanian Devil slippers. "Isn't the Buckhorn a little rough?" she asked. She'd driven by the bar several times and thought it looked about a hundred years old. Not falling down, just very rustic.
"Not this time of year. It only tends to get rough when flatlanders come up for the summer."
"Why don't we go play some pool together? I'll bet some of your friends are there."
He shook his head. "I don't want to go anywhere." Before she could argue, he added, "I'll call Jerome and see if he wants to come over for a beer."
She stood. If her grandfather had a friend over, he wouldn't need her company. "Okay. Maybe I will go play some pool," she said as she moved into her bedroom. She changed into her strapless bra, then pulled on a black-and-white-striped boatneck sweater and a pair of jeans. She shoved her feet into her black boots and shot perfume on the insides of her wrists. After she brushed her teeth, she combed her hair until it fell in a smooth, blunt line across the middle of her shoulder blades. She didn't waste a lot of effort on makeup, just a little mascara and soft pink lip gloss. Then she grabbed her coat and her small black Dooney & Bourke backpack and headed out.
"I doubt I'll be late," she told her grandfather as he walked with her past the kitchen table set with Tom Jones place mats.
"You look lovely." Stanley helped her with her coat. "If you drink too much, promise to give me a call."
"Thanks. I will," she said, but she didn't have any intention of drinking much at all. She fished her keys out of her backpack and reached for the door.
"And Kate."
She looked up into her grandfather's eyes. "What?"
"Don't beat all the boys at pool." He laughed, but Kate wasn't sure he was joking.
The outside of the Buckhorn Bar looked like a lot of the businesses in Gospel, made of split logs, with a green tin roof. But unlike the other establishments, there were no striped awnings or planters to soften the rough appearance. No wooden Indian or gold leaf lettering on the blacked-out windows. The door handle was made from a horn, and a big neon sign with an elk on it hung over the worn porch. Cement patched the holes in the old logs, but slices of dim light and the whine of steel guitar slipped through a few cracks and into the darkness outside.
Walking into the Buckhorn was like walking into a hundred other small-town cowboy bars. It was a second home to the regulars, and anyone new was eyed with suspicion.
The owner of the bar, Burley Morton, weighed in at about three hundred pounds and stood just over six-feet-five. He kept a Louisville Slugger and a sawed-off shotgun behind the long bar. He hadn't used the Slugger since '85, when a flatlander had attempted to rob him of a case of Coors Lite and a pack of beer nuts. He hadn't had trouble of that nature in years, but he kept both items handy just in case. Occasionally, one of the locals got riled up and developed beer muscles, but it was nothing he couldn't handle with a call to the sheriff's office or his own two fists.
The door to the Buckhorn closed behind Kate, and she was reminded of a lot of the older hotels and casinos in Vegas. The bar smelled of alcohol and old cigarette smoke that had seeped into the wood like varnish. The owner's attempt to cover it up with cherry deodorizer didn't help.