Philipp Meyer - American Rust

And now Billy is locked up and Virgil, well, who knew where he was. But Buddy Harris's son would not be in prison. One way or the other. They said Harris had killed people but she had always doubted it, she had been positive, really, that it wasn't true. Dopers, they said. It was just a rumor that Harris had let fly around for his own purposes, it made his job easier, but looking at him you knew it wasn't true, couldn't be. But what if it was? She wondered why she was thinking about these things. She wondered if it could be true that Harris had killed someone.

She felt shaken and went back inside, sat in front of the TV She flipped through all the channels, nothing worth watching, she would have to get more channels, she would have to remind herself to do that. It didn't help — she couldn't stop thinking about it. At first it seemed possible and then she was sure of it. Something in Bud Harris could kill a person if he thought it was best. He'd been in Vietnam.

You have to get out of this house, she thought. Harris had said he wouldn't come over tonight, that they should take it slow. She would have to be optimistic. It was just getting started, like Harris said. There was no way of knowing what would happen. And part of her was optimistic. Part of her thought it really was going to turn out fine. It was Friday night, a week now since Billy had come home half- frozen and all cut up. She would go to Rego's and have dinner. She called Ray and Rosalyn Parker but there was no answer, so she called Danny Welsh, who didn't answer either. She left messages for both — going to Rego's. She didn't know if she should be showing her face in public. But there was not much else to be done.

When she got there, the place was busy but she spotted an empty stool at the end of the bar and made her way to it. There was a pause as she walked in, people taking note of her, extremely brief but she noticed it.

Bessie Sheetz, the bartender, came over.

“Beer and a shot, I bet.”

“Just the shot,” said Grace.

Bessie poured her drink.

“How you holding up these days?”

“I'm fine.”

“You know you're among friends, don't you?” The woman slid the shot over and leaned on the bar. “I doubt you remember but I lost my son a ways back. You know I never stop thinking about him.”

“How old was he?”

“ Forty- six.”

“Young.”

“It was so quick. It might have been a year but it felt like bing bang boom. Of course he'd smoked since he was twelve years old, plus being in the war and all, that didn't help either.”

“This one?”

“No, the first one they had over there, in ’91.”

“I'm sorry,” said Grace.

“Wheel of life, that's what I tell myself.”

“Ma'am, we're interested in some counter service as well,” called a man from the other end of the bar. He was joking. He winked at Grace.

“You don't tip,” Bessie called back to him. “Wait till she gets to know you. She'll start tipping less, too.” “Yeah yeah, you spend five dollars in here. A dollar an hour.” “Don't let me keep you,” said Grace.

“Screw them,” said Bessie. She stood up straight and shook her head. “Ma'am. You believe that crap?”

— —

Half an hour later, Ray and Rosalyn still hadn't shown up, one of the women at the bar had caught her eye and smiled at her a few times, a bottle blonde, the wife of Howard Peele of Peele Supply, a company that sold pipes and tubes to the coal mines and one of the two biggest employers in town. She was a few years younger than Grace and maybe twenty years younger than her husband, tight black pants and a tight pink top, always wore heels. Grace tried to remember her name. Caught Virgil making eyes at her at someone's barbecue, that's why you never liked her. Heather. Real istically, of course, someone like Heather wouldn't risk that for someone like Virgil. Hard to admit that at the time. Right now, at the bar, two men were laughing at something Heather had said but Grace could tell they didn't really think it was funny.

She was getting up the nerve to leave when Ray and Rosalyn came in.

Ray smiled guiltily. “Sorry we're late — Pirates against the Cubs.”

“We're sorry,” said Rosalyn. “This asshole.” She pointed to her husband. “I'll get us some drinks. You guys want to get that table?”

Ray kissed her on the cheek and sat down across from her. “So how you doin, princess?”

“I guess I'm doing good,” she said.

“Well, I could understand that.”

Grace looked into her drink.

“What I mean is you know you got my sympathies, Grace. You know … Christ.” He shook his head. “I'm a bad talker.”

“Thank you, Ray,” she said. She patted his hand.

“Waiting on anyone else?”

“Not really.”

“I'm sorry I made us late.” Someone came up behind him and Grace looked up. The bottle blonde had come over.

“You two met?” said Ray.

“About ten times. I'm Heather, she's Grace.”

“I remember,” Grace said.

“I'm gonna sit down, you two mind? Need to get away from those numbskulls.”

Ray swept his arm toward the seat just as Rosalyn came back with three glasses of wine.

“Oh hi sweetheart,” said Heather.

“You need another,” said Rosalyn.

“Hell no. I need someone to put a stop to me.”

“Ray, why don't you get your ass up and help me carry the food.”

Ray followed Rosalyn back to the bar.

Heather smiled at Grace. “Your poor son. I was so sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, if there's anything you ever need …”

“We're fine.”

“I understand what you're going through, I really do.”

There was an awkward silence and Grace looked over toward Ray and Rosalyn, who were still at the bar, caught up talking to people.

“Remind me how you and Howard met,” said Grace.

“He hired me as his secretary. I was tending bar in New Martinsville and he came in and offered me a job. Which was pretty obvious but, well…” She shrugged. “I made him work for it.”

“You miss your hometown ever?”

“Hell, no. Howard had to spend ten grand just getting my teeth fixed. See?” She grinned. “I used to be bucktoothed, you should have seen me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Sad but true. But…”

Grace looked at her.

“I really mean that about your son. I just always thought there was something about you and I was so sad to see that paper the other day.”

“It's not over yet. Just getting started, really.”

“Probably the last thing you want to think about right now.”

“It's alright.”

“I'm always apologizing,” said Heather. “It's my special talent.”

“Manicotti,” said Ray. “Plates for everyone.”

“How'd you get that so fast?”

“Called from the road.”

“I can't even look,” said Heather. “I ought to use the restroom.”

Rosalyn checked to see that Heather was out of earshot, then leaned over toward Grace. “You ought to see their goddamn house. Every single piece of furniture is black. They got a big exercise room and there's art on every wall.”

Ray said, “You mean those pictures that look like a retard drew them?”

Grace rolled her eyes.

“I'm not kidding you,” said Ray. “Looks like someone drew them with their eyes closed. Then you hear what they paid for them.”

“Like you would even know.” She turned back to Grace. “She told me they've spent two hundred thousand dollars on those paintings. Said it's all doubled in price just in the past year.”

Ray snorted.

Heather was back, sniffling. She didn't sit down. “I'm sorry y'all, I really ought to get going.”

“Good to see you again,” Grace said.