Jarrie’s Place had only one customer. Martin could sense Teresa’s disapproval and he made it his goal to head straight for the bar, his eyes never veering. But he had seen. A young woman in a low cut tangerine dress sat alone near the video golf game that all sporting alcoholics seemed to thrive on. The dress was expensive and overflowing with this woman’s endowments, and a shrill warning inside suggested that Martin ignore everything about her.
He hadn’t addressed the honey blonde. So far so good. He brought his elbows up on the scuffed bar and hoped for the best. He and Teresa weren’t married or anything. And could a common law marriage even exist on the road? He was his own person; he wasn’t bound, but knew the real answer. A sign over the bar elaborated: You can ask for the man in charge. Or you can ask the woman who has all the answers.
He’d read that sign somewhere before. No, someone else had—the bizarre feeling of displaced déjà vu continued.
A wall of black and red flannel moved toward them from behind the bar. The Paul Bunyan-looking bartender limped a little from going too fast, at first not noticing them coming in. He put his thick hands down on the counter and tried on a weak smile. “So what can I—?”
“Djarums?” asked Teresa.
Martin tried to contain his scowl.
The brown beard vibrated. “Crackles.”
“How about something with extra tar?” Martin suggested.
“I have a few packs of cloves.” The man opened a large cabinet full of cigarette varieties. Teresa eagerly took the black box from him. He slid over a matchbook.
“Yes, I’m buying them, so don’t ask, Martin.” Teresa tore off the plastic. “Are you going to get on me if I have one?” she asked the bartender.
“No, ma’am. It’s not a problem. Is it a problem for you Mabel?” His eyes pointed over their shoulders to the vixen.
Martin turned around. Not turning would make the whole avoidance seem as fake as it really was. He hadn’t been with another woman for more than ten years. Many romantic bonds had been forged before his and Teresa’s and some during as well, but he didn’t like to think about those days anymore. Teresa, on the other hand, must have remembered all of Martin’s other women, from their names down to the shoes they wore. She probably wanted to forget but couldn’t put it out of her mind. Martin just hoped she realized he wasn’t that man anymore.
“Do you want one, hon?” Teresa lifted a clove. “They’re quite crackly.”
“No thank you, ma’am,” the woman named Mabel answered. She had a strange cadence to her voice. It wasn’t a neutral sounding Californian accent, but more of an attempt at it.
“What are you two drinking?” The bartender folded up his rag.
“Nothing for me.” Teresa blew out a dragon billow of smoke. She suddenly looked more at ease and more alive. Times like these made Martin think those doctors were full of shit.
“Dark Heineken?” Martin asked.
“We have Newcastle.”
“Sure then.”
Teresa’s dark cigarette crackled like a sparkler. Shadows moved over the bar like restless ghosts. It didn’t feel right. The bartender pushed over a cold, wet bottle of Newcastle with one hand and an ashtray with the other.
“You got sandwiches or something to eat?”
“Only bags of chips,” said the bartender. He halted on the last word, as though chips had been a word he’d had difficulty with at one time, perhaps with a speech impediment.
Martin wiped a bit of beer off his lip. “We’ll take what you have.”
Red-gray ash sprinkled into the pewter tray as Teresa gave her clove cigarette three solemn taps. She stared into the rows of bottles. Martin watched her closely. “You going to Mars again?” he asked.
“Remember the shooting range last week?”
He finished the beer. Softly burped. “Okay.”
“When you were filling out the forms the TV was on. There was a commercial.”
The bartender spotted the empty bottle, pointed at it and Martin hummed an affirmative.
“I thought it was a commercial for a tampon at first.”
“I hate those,” Martin admitted, “so much.”
“But this wasn’t about tampons. There was this woman, actually about your age, who went about her daily routine: she played with her dog, went to the movies with her friends, took in an art gallery, went tanning, laughed at something a handsome guy said to her at a coffee shop—then the commercial narrator reveals the woman has cancer. See, that wasn’t really a tanning bed I saw her in, she was getting radiation therapy.”
“Teresa—”
“Hold on. Whatever insurance company or drug company it was—they made it seem like this woman had penciled in her radiation appointment like another entry in her planner, put there between the coffee shop and buying groceries—like going to do something like that is just another check on the to-do list, because you don’t want to get too gloomy. Oh hell no. Don’t let a tumor get in the way of all your fun.”
“I want to see your point.” Martin cranked back his new beer.
She took a deep, trembling breath. “I can’t even have the dignity to die like a normal, self-absorbed American. I’m too damned worried we’ll have another bad October 31st.”
“They’re all bad.”
“You know what I mean. Tony—”
He sighed. “Teresa, I was enjoying myself just a second ago.”
“I saw—got a whole eyeful back there.”
The beer tasted sour now. “Don’t start. Come on. Look, you have to take care of yourself. For a change. I can’t help a woman who refuses to be helped.”
She slid out another clove. “You’re fooling yourself, kid. I can’t help her either.”
He grasped her clove hand. “Just stop,” he whispered.
Carefully, she wiggled her hand free.
“The gateway might open forever this year, so let’s knock off the foolishness and talk strategy,” he said. “Last year we set mantles on a perimeter that the Church never even crossed. It was a wasted effort. We could have saved our energy.”
“Your idea.”
Martin cleared his head for a moment and nodded. “Yeah, I got Tony killed.”
The bartender glanced over but they ignored him. Teresa lit the end of the new clove with a splintered match. After several generous draws, she went sideways on her stool. He almost grabbed her arm to yank her back but didn’t get the chance. Mabel, the woman in the orange dress, stood a foot away now, completely changing the subject.
“Are you taking Route 66 all the way through Arizona?” Mabel asked.
Teresa and Martin, knocked off guard, shook their heads in synchronization.
“A lot of people try to go as far as they can.” Mabel presented all her perfect teeth. She is something else, thought Martin. Had he seen her before? What had brought them here? A flat tire, or something unseen?
“Good luck on your trip. Don’t forget our little bar next time you travel through this township.” Mabel stuck out a hand. Martin took it and consumed it in his own. She brought her other hand over and pressed her thumbs into his wrist, gently rubbing circles there. Her eyes caught his for a moment before she released. Mabel shook Teresa’s hand in the same fashion. When their eyes unlocked Teresa’s gaze looked degaussed.
Mabel gave the bartender a peck on the bearded cheek. “I’m going back to study, daddy.”
It was only too apparent. The bartender loved being called daddy. His eyes never left Mabel’s slight sashay until she was out of the miserable little bar. With her going Martin had a sick feeling that he’d never see this woman again. But Mabel was a stranger, after all, so why was that disturbing?
Two beats passed and the bartender said, “Another Newcastle?”
Martin indulged another beat and then nodded.
“Give me one too,” Teresa added.