Edward Lee - Succubi

“Hold up there, buddy,” one of the guys at the bar said.

And the keep: “You’re that writer fella. Gonna marry Ann, Josh and Kath Slavik’s girl.”

“That’s right,” Martin told him. “How the hell do you know—”

“Come on back, home,” the keep invited. “Just that we’ve had some trouble with outsiders. This here’s Wally Bitner, Bill Eberhart, and Dave Kromer.”

Martin didn’t quite know how to gauge this sudden change of attitude. What the hell’s going on? “I’m Martin—”

“Martin White, that right?” Dave Kromer said.

“You’re some kind of writer, huh?” Bill Whateverhisnamewas added.

First they’re practically booting me out the door now they know my name, Martin pondered.

“Yeah, we’ve heard about ya,” the keep said. “From Kath and Josh. You kind of help Ann out with Melanie, on account of Ann’s lawyer job, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Martin said. He wondered what else Ann’s mother had said about him. Probably nothing good. “We came up from the city today, to see Ann’s dad.”

They all nodded glumly. “Damn shame, it is,” Wally Whoever bid. “Josh is a great guy.”

“And Doc Heyd,” added the keep, “he says there’s not much hope. Poor guy. We’ll all sure miss the hell out of him.”

This was not cheerful talk. Before Martin could shift subjects, they did it for him. “Name’s Andre, by the way. Any friend of the Slaviks’ is a friend of ours. You drinking beer or hard stuff?’

“Uh, beer,” Martin faltered. Now came the dreaded question of any beer snob in a place like this. “Do you have any imports?”

“Nope. No imports. No domestics either.”

What else is there? Martin thought.

“We got LL,” the keep said.

“That’s one even I’ve never heard of.”

“Lockwood Lager. Can’t get any fresher—I make it right here, right in back.”

A local microbrew, Martin thought. This was unique. In a place like this he’d have expected the cheapest, and worst. “Pour me one,” he said.

“No bullshit here either,” Andre said. “I grow my own hops and barley. Age each keg about sixty days. And I won’t sell to the other towns—let ’em have their piss. I make our own vodka, scotch, and gin too.”

Andre set the mug down. Martin reached for his wallet, but Andre put his big hand up. “No way, friend. That there’s a tin roof.”

“A tin roof?”

“Yeah, man. It’s on the house.”

Andre and his three locals broke out laughing.

Martin took a sniff and a sip. A full, robust taste, very malty without being sweet or overpowering. “My compliments to the brewmaster. This is great. You ought to bottle it, you’d make a killing.”

“Not my speed,” Andre said. “Ann’s mom, Kath, you probably know she’s kinda like the mayor here, and none too keen on alcohol. That’s why there’s no package store in town. I been brewin’ fifteen kegs a month for the last fifteen years. That does us just fine.”

This beer really was good; Martin was amazed. A brewmaster of Andre’s skill could become a millionaire in today’s U.S. microbrew market. In the back, Martin noticed wooden, not aluminum, kegs, and an ice line instead of a keg cooler. When it came to authenticity, Andre didn’t fool around.

“Yeah, Ann, she’s a great gal,” Andre went on. “I knowed her kind of when she was growing up. Real smart.”

Wally Whatever offered, “She’s a real legend around here. Most Lockwood gals, they stick home. We’re all rootin’ for Ann out there in the big city.”

“We truly hope that things work out for yawl,” added Bill Whateverhisfuckingnamewas.

“Thanks,” Martin said. He continued to survey the bar as he drank. There was no falseness here: this was a place where the working class came to drink when they were done in the fields. There were no Bud Light clocks, no Beefeater coasters, and none of the phony bar eclecticism found in the city. The Crossroads was real. Just a roof, some stools, and a bar. Martin didn’t even notice a cash register in the place.

Andre looked about fifty but in good shape; in fact, all of them did—physicalities and demeanors honed by lifetimes of hard, honest work. Andre wore jeans, a black T shirt, and a buck on his belt. He had wiry hair and a big friendly face, but a hardness about him too, like you could sock a 20 sledge right into his barrel chest, and all it would do was piss him off. Martin set aside his first impression. He liked this place, and he liked these people.

“You guys all from around here?” he asked.

“Aw, no,” Andre answered. “We all just kind of found our ways here, and Kath, she gave us a break. Me, I had a little trouble down South”—he chuckled—”so Kath, bless her, she gives me the job right off, and a place to live to boot. Same story for all of us pretty much. Bill here, he does engine work, and Wally runs a thresher.”

This was odd, though. Martin couldn’t figure it. If they’d been local, that would be different—localities were adhesive. But why would men like this, with serviceable skills, come to a town like Lockwood? The farmland was small, and Martin doubted that Bill Whateverhisnamewas was fixing more tractors here than he could in a big farm belt.

“I work for Micah Crimm,” the guy named Dave said. He laughed. “He’s the fire chief, and I’m the fire department. Hang around awhile, the rest of the boys’ll be in shortly. We’ve all been wantin’ to meet ya.”

“I will,” Martin accepted. He finished his LL, and Andre poured him another. “I haven’t even been here a day, and already I’m starting to really like this town of yours.”

«« — »»

Melanie strolled the outer residential streets. This was so different from the city. Quiet, peaceful. The woods ran opposite Hastings Street; she could hear crickets, a sound like waves. Small, neat houses stood off the road; a few even sat up in the woods. There was no traffic, no commotion, just tranquil twilight.

Melanie couldn’t picture herself ever living here; it was too far away from things. But she liked visiting, she liked the change. Melanie never really understood why her mother didn’t like to bring her here. Lockwood was almost like a different world.

“Hi. You’re Melanie, right?”

Melanie stopped. At first she didn’t even see who’d said it. What were they doing there, standing in the dark?

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“We’ve heard all about you,” came another, younger voice. “You’re the Slaviks’ granddaughter.”

The darkness at the edge of the woods seemed misty. The two girls looked like slowly forming ghosts. “My name’s Wendlyn,” one of the shapes said. “And this is Rena.”

Melanie squinted.

Rena looked younger. She was willowy, slim, and nearly breastless, while Wendlyn had a bosom that made Melanie slightly jealous. They wore plain pastel-ish sundresses and sandals. Both had hair the same light brown as Melanie’s, but Wendlyn’s was short, and Rena’s hung perfectly straight down past her waist.

“Your mom’s a lawyer, right?”

“Yeah, she just made partner,” Melanie responded, though she still didn’t quite understand that. It sounded to her that partners made more money but did less work.

“Rena’s mom’s a nurse. She’s staying at your house to look after your grandpop,” Wendlyn informed. “My mom runs the general store on Pickman Avenue.”

“What do your dads do?” Melanie asked.

“Mine died,” Wendlyn said.

“Mine ran off,” Rena said.

“So did mine, but my mom’s going to marry—”

“Martin,” Wendlyn cut in. “He’s a novelist or something, isn’t he?”