“Cripes, what’s she, Halloween out there?” asked Hooker. “Going dancing or hauling wood, my sons?”
“Hauling you in a minute, proddy dog,” said the taller one, Todd. “Slide over, help a man get a drink. Hey, bud, couple of Blackhorse!”
“What’s that smell?” Skeemo made a face towards the brothers. “Gawd-damn, ye still smearing motor oil behind your ears? Women likes cars, ya effing baywops, not timber jacks.”
“Shaddup!” said Todd. “Last woman you had was greyer than her roots down south. Here, Snout.” He passed a beer to the shorter brother with the wide flaring nostrils. “How’s she going, Kyle, man. Heard your mother was sick?”
“She’s fine, b’y.”
“What do you mean, grey down south?” asked Hooker.
Jaysus. Kyle grunted. The brothers snickered through mouthfuls of beer, one of them bent over, spraying his boots.
“What’s so funny? They goes grey down there?”
Jaysus.
“Never seen your poppy pissing?” asked Snout.
“Heard Syl went after Clar Gillard,” said Skeemo.
“Naw, just his truck.”
“Fuckin’ arsehole.”
“Sick fuck.”
“Cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” said Snout. “Here, have a smoke.”
“Naw, quit.” Kyle drained his whisky and rapped his emptied glass on the bar for another.
“Where’s Syllie this evening?” asked Hooker.
“He’s home, b’y.”
“What happened anyway—Clar blocked the road or something?”
“Yeah, he was pissin’ around with his dog.”
“Heard your mother told Bonnie to call the cops on him,” said Todd. “That’s enough to get him going.”
“Suppose, b’y.”
“Keep your eye on that sick fucker.”
“Hey, Kyle, man, heard your mother’s not well?”
Kyle drank deep from his whisky and felt the heat spreading through his chest and ordered a double. Todd pulled a flask from his inside pocket and Kyle took a mouthful of tequila that burned his tongue and distorted his face and singed tears from his eyes. He nearly blew it across the room but managed it down his gullet and shoved the flask back at Todd.
“What’s, you gone pussy?”
“Give it here,” said Snout.
“Take it to the can, wanna get us kicked out?”
“Hey, Kyle, man, they’re saying it might be bad.”
“I’m sorry man. Gawd-damn!”
Julia walked past. Julia. Chris’s girl. Straight blond hair sliding across a willowy, slender back, a sideways glance at him. Hooker hung his arm around his neck.
“She’s home early from university. Starting work with Roses at the truck stop in on the highway.”
“Should brighten the place.”
“Ask her to dance, b’y, when the band starts.”
“Shove off.”
“She never went out with him, you know. Just graduation.”
“Piss off, Hooker.”
“Hey, just saying. What’s she at, Snout, b’y?”
“Nothing, now. Crab plant’s closing for a week. Listen, Ky, your old man need help with Jake’s house? Me and Father can give a few days.”
“I’ll come,” said Todd.
“Can’t tell a screw from a nail,” said Snout.
“Screw you, arse!”
“I’ll give a hand,” said Hooker.
“Thanks, b’ys. I’ll tell the old man.”
“Come on, let’s grab a table,” said Sup. “Whoa, who’re those girls over there?”
“Whoa, look at that tall one, butt like two clenched fists.”
“From Springdale—stay the fuck clear. Their men are on the highway by now with ball bats.”
“Ball bats! What the fuck’s a ball bat?”
“They bats balls with ’em, don’t they?”
“You talking about a baseball bat?”
Jaysus.
“Do bats got balls?”
“Sure, b’y. Big ones. That’s why they calls your old man batty—he got big balls.”
“Is a bat a bird?”
“Yes, b’ye, like you. That’s why we calls you Big Bird.”
“Always wanted a big bird.”
“Go sit with Alf Pittman’s wife. She likes a big bird, twat on her.”
“How’d you know about her twat?”
“Borned Edgar, didn’t she—fuckin’ head on him.”
“Ever hear of stitches, low-life? I had a tumour in my belly twice the size of Edgar’s head. Nothing there now but a pretty seam.”
“Shoulda left out a stitch, you’d have your own twat.”
“For you, arse, you gets any closer.”
They scraped back chairs, settling noisily around the table. The boys kept putting drinks in front of him, and Kyle kept drinking them. The band started up with their bass and guitar and electronic drummer and its beat pounded through his head. He got up for a piss and staggered. Passed Julia going to the can and looked away. Kept walking.
Found his way back to his chair. Pushed aside somebody trying to haul him onto the dance floor. Rose called his name and he faked not hearing. He watched the horde of dancers shaking and twisting and Rose stood before him, too-tight sweater and a saucy grin. She grabbed his hand, yanked him to his feet and onto the dance floor. He caught a scowl from Hooker and winked and pushed away from Rose and staggered into Julia and her arms folded around his neck and his body folded around hers, soft, sweet . . put a candle in the window . . and he swayed with her and Creedence and his dick started swelling against the tautness of her belly . . I feel I’ve gotta move . . and then he pushed her away, Chris’s girl, she was Chris’s girl, and he was starting to sweat and he took long swaggering strides across the bar and made it outside and stood in the cone of yellow from the overhead light above the door. Fresh air caroused through his head. Fast. Too fast. He staggered off the steps and onto the road. Someone whispered near his ear and he startled sideways and was met with a meaty fist cracking against the side of his jaw and pain splitting through his head. Last thing he saw before hitting the ground was Clar Gillard’s nice rounded face smiling at him.
He woke up to a pounding head and Creedence’s final guitar lick. He saw the cone of light through a scraggly screen of dead timothy wheat. He was lying in a ditch across from the bar. His back was sore and his shirt hauled up, bared skin against rough, cold ground. He sat up—jaw aching, head splitting. He tried to clench his teeth but couldn’t from the pain. Mouth tasting like rust. Jaysus. It was bleeding in there.
He spat and got to his feet, reeling towards the bar. The young ones had gone off; there was no one about. He thought of going back inside and getting the boys and tracking down that fucker Gillard. But his feet were already embarked upon the road, weaving towards Bottom