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He put his head down and rested his face against the edge of the hospital bed. The sheet was crisp and cool against his sunburned cheek. He was incredibly weary. After he’d come back from overseas just after the war, he hadn’t had the will or the strength to return to farming. He’d taken a series of jobs, most recently with Union Sugar. He’d missed so many days of work because of Mary Hairl’s illness, he’d been fired. Now money was impossibly tight, and if it weren’t for her father’s financial help, they’d be out on the street. He hadn’t understood how much work his wife did. Now that he was essentially sole parent, he was in charge of the meal pla
Jake was scarcely aware that he’d fallen asleep. He’d been thinking about the night in early May when Mary Hairl was admitted for the second time in as many months. She’d made sure her father and the kids were fed before she finally, reluctantly, agreed to call the doctor, who’d met them within the hour in the emergency room. Steve had stayed at home to look after Ta
He retrieved his truck from the hospital parking lot in Santa Maria and headed straight for the Blue Moon, the only place in Serena Station where a fella could buy a beer. It had been raining intermittently. The May evening was chilly, and he cranked up the heat until the cab felt like an incubator. The roads were dark, and the lighted houses in Serena Station seemed as isolated as campfires. He needed to drink.
He needed to unwind in an atmosphere that carried no suggestion of blood, suffering, or impending loss.
The Moon was close to empty. Tom Padgett sat at the bar, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, chatting with Violet Sullivan and the bartender, BW McPhee. BW was a stocky fellow, barrel-chested and tough, who doubled as a bouncer when the occasion arose. Jake took a stool at the bar, glancing idly at the two sitting four stools down. Violet’s eyes were puffy with tears and her hair was disheveled. Clearly something had gone on. Tom was trying to talk her out of whatever funk she was in. Jake was inclined to ignore Violet, minding his own business, but while BW uncapped his bottle of Blatz, he told him she and Foley had gotten into a shoving match that ended with her slapping him square across the face. Foley had gone berserk, overturning a table and breaking a chair. BW’d given him one minute to clear out or he was calling the police.
By the time Jake arrived, Foley was gone. While Padgett’s comments were too low to hear, Violet’s responses were audible. She was talking about her money in a tone that was half braggadocio and half aggrieved. He’d heard the claim before, usually when Foley’d just popped her one and she was threatening to leave. He didn’t know if it was true or not, the bit about her personal funds. She never mentioned an amount, and it struck him as odd that she didn’t simply take the cash and get on with it.
For a while, Padgett dropped a steady stream of coins into the jukebox, and he and Violet danced. The dress she wore was an emerald green, cut low in the back. Behind the bar, BW was watching them as they moved around the floor. Now and then Jake would turn, looking over his shoulder, following their progress with a shake of his head. He and BW exchanged glances.
“That’s what got Foley raging in the first place, her dancing with him,” BW remarked.
“Just about anything sets him off. Piece of shit,” Jake said.
BW studied him. “I don’t suppose you want to talk about Mary Hairl.”
“Not especially. No offense.”
“None taken. You tell her we’re thinkin’ about her, Emily and me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“How’s that beer coming?”
“I’m fine for the moment.”
Violet and Padgett settled at the bar again, but he’d no more than sat down than he glanced at his watch, startled at the time. Jake watched as he threw some bills on the bar and said his good-nights. Once the door shut behind him, Violet turned her head, looking down the bar in Jake’s direction. He made a point of looking the other way to avoid her gaze. She was the type who went to bars intent on conversation, while he was the type who went in hopes of being left alone. Dimly he was conscious of her crossing the room behind him, heading for the ladies’ room. He ordered another beer and was in the process of lighting a cigarette when she appeared at his side. Her hair was now combed and her green eyes assessed him with curiosity. She was holding a cigarette and, well-ma
“No.”
“That’s fu
He had no reply to that. Jake probably hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with Violet in the six years he’d known her. There’d been that business about the dog, but that was about as far as it went. He’d heard the rumors about her. The whole town of Serena Station buzzed with stories about the Sullivans-Foley’s drinking, the fisticuffs, her screwing around. Quite the happy little pair. Jake despised Foley. Any man who raised a hand to woman or child was the lowest of the low. Violet, he wasn’t sure about. Mary Hairl seemed to like her, but his wife was a good-hearted soul, who’d put out a bowl of scraps for any stray cat that wandered up on the porch. He put Violet in that camp-hungry, wary, and needy. “You still mad about the dog?”
“I got my money. Not that it was mine for long,” she said. “How’s Mary Hairl?”
“He just asked me that,” Jake said, indicating BW with a wave of his cigarette.
“What’d you tell him?”
“Said I didn’t want to talk about it, thanks all the same.”
“Because it’s painful.”
“Because it’s nobody’s business.” he was quiet for a moment and then surprised himself by going on. “They’ve got her on a drip. Morphine, most likely. The doctor won’t tell me anything and what he says to her, she keeps to herself. She doesn’t want me to worry.”
Violet said, “Well, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It has nothing to do with you.” He glanced off across the room. He could feel tears sting his eyes. He’d made a point of not discussing his wife’s illness. Acquaintances would ask, but he tended to cut them short. He didn’t like the idea of exposing the intimate details of Mary Hairl’s condition. He couldn’t talk particulars with her father, even if he’d known. Hairl had been a surly son of a bitch ever since his wife died. He was burdened enough as it was, knowing he was on the verge of losing his only child. Which left who? Jake certainly couldn’t talk about her sickness with the kids. Both he and Mary Hairl had agreed early on to spare them. Steve, at sixteen, was aware of what was happening, but he kept himself detached. Ta