Mattie told herself she had known it all along. In her gut she had known it. She should learn to listen to her gut instead of her heart. Oh Christ, she said to herself, swallowing the rest of her margarita. Thirty-eight years old and the broad’s talking about trusting her heart.
“Frank?” she called across to the bar. “Another one.” She held the empty glass up for the bartender to see. “Easy on the salt.”
Frank nodded back at her. Two men on bar stools, who had looked over at the sound of her voice, said something to him and laughed. Frank smiled, saying nothing. One of the men looked over at her again and nudged the other, and they both laughed again.
Frank wasn’t a bad guy, Mattie thought. At least he admitted he was married. Which hadn’t prevented Mattie from inviting Frank home once or twice after closing hours. Frank wasn’t like that bastard, Chris.
Mattie twisted to look at herself in the mirror beside the booth. Not bad, she decided. Ignore the chins, she told herself. The extra one’s going as soon as the warm weather’s here and I get back to salads and exercise. Check the boobs. They look good. Cost forty dollars each for those new French bras, but they sure lift ’em up and head ’em out, don’t they? She giggled. Long as the boobs stick out further than the chins, there’s nothing to worry about. She giggled again.
“You’re looking a little happier, Mattie.” Frank stood over her, carefully lowering the brim-full margarita to her table.
“I’m always happy when I’m drinking your margaritas, Frank,” she said. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Frank answered.
Poor Frank, Mattie thought. He was bald and his nose was too big and his ears stuck out like jug handles and he wasn’t any smarter than your average Martini shaker. But he was sweet. She watched him walk to the back of the bar. And well-hung, she recalled.
Chris arrived as Mattie was finishing the margarita. He entered the bar and stood in the doorway, letting his eyes become accustomed to the light, shaking the rain from his jacket. Mattie watched him from the corner of her booth, admiring the long sturdy legs, the muscular flat stomach, the thick wavy hair. You good-looking stud, was her first reaction. Her second was, you lying bastard.
“Mattie!” he called out when he finally saw her. “Thought it was you there in the corner.”
She waved coyly at him.
He strode over to her, looking around and calling out to two buddies gnawing on fried chicken at a table at the rear. I’m going to miss those nice long legs, she thought sadly. And those big bear-paw hands on me. God, I loved those hands.
“Hi,” he said, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. “Been waiting long?”
“Three margaritas. You’re late.”
He motioned to Frank, then slid into the booth across from her and smiled to show his even white teeth. He was always proud of those teeth, Mattie remembered. Hell, he was proud of everything. The bastard’s got more vanity than a Miss America reunion.
“Had a problem over at the plant. Press broke down right in the middle of a run. Took a couple of hours to get it up and going again.” He reached out to touch her hand.
“You have a lot of problems over there, don’t you?” she said. She lifted the empty glass to her lips and with the tip of her tongue licked the salt from the rim. He watched her as he spoke, the smile growing wider.
“Yeah, well, the equipment’s getting old, and the guys aren’t all that careful with it.”
“How come it always happens at the end of the day?”
He shrugged. “End of the day-shift, you expect problems to crop up.”
Mattie set the glass down as Frank approached. “Another margarita, Mattie?”
She gave her empty glass to him and without lifting her eyes from the table said, “Make this one a Crown Royal. Double, no ice.”
Chris sat back in the booth and studied her. “We celebrating something tonight? A double Crown Royal?”
She looked up and smiled. “You don’t think I’m worth it?”
“Why, of course you’re worth it. It’s just not what I normally see you drink. You’re a mixed-drink girl. Margaritas, daiquiris, whisky sours . . .”
“Tonight I feel like good booze straight. What’s wrong with that?” She began fingering the top button of her blouse.
“Nothing, Mattie. Nothing at all.” He waved Frank away. “Make it two, Frank. What the hell.”
“After our drinks we can have some dinner,” Mattie said, trying to control her voice. “Then we can go back to my place for a nightcap.”
“Dinner?” Chris lifted his eyes from Mattie’s cleavage. “Oh hell, Mattie. I already ate.”
“At the plant, right?”
“Yeah. We had a couple of pizzas sent in while we got the press going again.”
She smiled and shook her head slowly. “Funny how the stuff at the plant always breaks down so you have to eat dinner there, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “It happens.” He leaned across the table and took her hand in his. “But listen, Mattie, I’d love to have that nightcap with you later anyway. Soon’s we leave here. All the time we were working on that damn press, all I could think about was you being here and me coming to see you tonight.” He winked. “You know what I mean?”
“Two Crown Royal doubles, no ice.” Frank set the glasses between them as Chris straightened up.
“Yeah, thanks,” Chris said, still looking into Mattie’s eyes. “Well,” he added after a moment or two. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” She reached down to hold the glass then looked into his eyes again. “I think you’re a lying, cheating, scum-sucking prick, Chris.”
The smile froze on his face. He straightened up. “Mattie, what are you talking about?”
“You weren’t fixing any Goddamn press at the plant, you son of a bitch!” She was shouting. “You were having dinner with your fat-assed wife and your three brat kids and your fucking hairy sheep dog.”
“Mattie, Mattie . . .” Still trying to smile, he glanced around the room and reached for her.
“Don’t Mattie me, you bastard!” She stood up, the drink in her hand. “You just left your whole dumb family back in your mortgaged ranch house, fifty-three thousand still outstanding, fourteen years to go on it. I looked it all up, Chris. They think you’re over at the plant fixing your fucking precious press right now, don’t they?”
“Mattie . . .”
She looked over at the bar. The two men on the stools were staring, smirking at a half-drunk broad giving hell to a husband caught cheating. Others were watching and listening, too. Big smiles on their faces. Lots to talk about at coffee break tomorrow. Bastards. They’re all bastards. Grinning and smirking, elbowing each other, saying, let this be a lesson, and the lesson is, you don’t get caught.
Only Frank was solemn-faced, watching her from behind the bar.
She wavered a little, and Chris reached out a hand to steady her, saying “Mattie, for God’s sake sit down and we’ll talk about this.”
“Frank!” she called over. “What’s a double Crown Royal worth?”
“Six dollars, Mattie,” Frank said quietly.
“Send the check over to asshole here,” she yelled. “He just had one.” She turned and threw the contents of the glass in Chris’s face. “Enjoy it, you bastard,” she hissed at him through clenched teeth. “Because you’re lucky it’s not a glass of lye, like I had planned to use.”
Mattie walked to the door in long strides, feeling the stares of the men in the bar on her as she left. Her eyes began to sting, and she told herself, don’t cry. That’s what they want to see right now is you crying, tears running down your cheeks like a baby. Well, fuck ’em. They’re not going to see this broad bawl.
They didn’t. She stepped outside and into the cool, wet mist, walked past three stores, stopped in the doorway of a discount shoe store, and leaned against the metal grill on the door.
Finally, she cried. She dabbed at the tears with a tissue from her purse, hiccupping a few times, and slammed her clenched fist against the door frame. Then, as quickly as they began, her sobs faded. Wiping her tears fiercely from the corners of her eyes, she walked across the darkened parking lot towards her car.
Once or twice she stumbled, feeling the effect of the margaritas. Gotta be careful, she told herself. It’s nearly ten miles home, darker than the ace of spades, you can barely see across the road in this mist. She found her car and after fumbling for the keys got the door open and slumped behind the wheel.
A few straggling tears flowed as she sat with her head resting on the steering wheel. With a sudden and unladylike sniffle she started the car and began pulling out of the parking lot in the direction of the highway.
I showed him, she told herself, as a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. They’re all laughing in there now, the bunch of drunken studs. But I made a fool out of him in front of his buddies. She reached the highway and looked to the left, waited for a truck to emerge out of the gloom and roar past, then swung the wheel to the right and pressed the accelerator. Bastards will lie and cheat just to get a fast lay.
Jesus Christ, what was that? She applied the brakes. The right front corner of the car had struck something. Something soft and yielding.
Mattie opened her door and wrapped her arms around herself against the dampness. Unsteady on her high heels she ran to the front of the car, then stopped abruptly and leaned against the hood when she saw the young man.
“Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .” she said.
He was lying on his side, one leg pulled up in pain as he rubbed his calf with his hand.
“I didn’t see you, I’m sorry,” she repeated and ran to crouch down beside him.
“I’m all right,” he said without looking at her. “I’m okay. It’s all right.”
“Stay there. Don’t get up.” Mattie restrained him as the young man tried to rise. “Your leg could be broken.”
“I don’t think so.” He lifted his face and looked directly at her for the first time. Angelic, Mattie thought immediately. That’s what he looks like. Like an angel. Blond and delicate and almost pretty. And sensitive, look at all the sensitivity in his eyes. Leave it to me, the only time I have an accident I have to hit an angel. I can’t run down a prick like Chris.
“You just caught me with the front bumper,” he said, letting her help him stand. “It hurts, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“We should get it looked at,” she said as he leaned his weight on her.
“No, it’s all right,” he assured her. “Honestly.” But as he tried to walk, he stumbled in pain and fell against her. “I don’t want to go to a hospital,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Do you live around here?” Mattie asked. She was glad he didn’t want to go to a hospital. With two drunk-driving convictions on her record, enough alcohol in her to pickle a goose, and now an injured pedestrian, she stood to lose her licence for sure if the police investigated. Her eyes stung with tears for the third time. Goddamn that Chris, she thought, biting her lip. Because of him I’ll lose my licence. Then how the hell do I make a living selling real estate?
“No, I don’t live around here,” the young man was saying. “I’m just passing through.”
“Well, where are you staying? Do you have a motel room or something?”
He shook his head. “No. I have no room.”
I just might get out of this thing with my licence intact and my tits out of the wringer, Mattie said to herself.
“Listen,” she said gently, leading him to her passenger door, “come home with me and we’ll look at your leg. We’ll put some heat on it to help it heal. Then I’ll make you some nice hot tea and put you to bed in my guest room. How does that sound?”
“No, honestly, it’s all right,” he said. “I’ll be okay.” He turned away from the car, but when he leaned his weight on the injured leg, he winced in pain and almost stumbled.
“You’re not all right,” Mattie said firmly. “You’ve got a bruised leg, and you’re cold and wet with nowhere to go. You’re coming home with me.”
Her firm attitude worked. He looked at her, smiling shyly in the harsh glare from the headlights, and let himself be led back to the passenger door. Just as they reached it, he said, “My bag,” and started towards the front of the car again. Mattie followed his gaze, nodded, and said, “Hop in. I’ll get it.”
When he was settled in the passenger seat, she retrieved the heavy black athletic bag emblazoned with the name of a line of running shoes, walked to door on the driver’s side and tossed the bag roughly in the back seat before slipping behind the wheel.
“I’m Mattie,” she said as she pulled away from the plaza again. “Mattie O’Brien. What’s your name?”
He was staring directly ahead into the darkness, his face lit by the flashing lights of oncoming cars and from the glow of neon signs at gas stations and roadside bars.
“Bobby,” the blond young man replied. “My name is Bobby.”