The Grave Soul (15 page)

He took a few swallows of beer. “In the nineties, when I first took over, times were good. We did a great business, especially in the summers. I always had a second bartender working with me on weekends. But when the economy tanked in the mid two thousands, nobody had a dime to spend, so I ended up doing pretty much everything by myself. Eight months ago, I hired a Michigan State grad. He had a degree in finance, but before he started his real work life in earnest, he wanted to relax a little. He said he'd been in school for so long that he couldn't stand the idea of sliding right into a nine-to-five. He wanted to travel. He was here for six months. I trained him. After he left, I gave the job to my sister-in-law. I trained her, too. She worked part time, then up and quit two weeks ago. Really left me in a bad place, especially with Christmas and New Year's coming on.”

“I guess I showed up at the right time,” said Jane.

“Where are you staying?”

“At the moment, nowhere. Figured I'd find a motel room for the night.”

“My apartment is upstairs. There's also a separate room, has a separate entrance around the back of the building. The college kid stayed there when he worked for me. I charged him rent. I'd be happy to let you use it free of charge for however long you need or want. It's not much, but it's clean. There's a good lock on the door. A single bed. One of those tiny refrigerators. A small microwave. An old TV that still works. The bathroom is down the hall. I don't use it, so it would be yours exclusively. What do you say? You interested?”

“I can hardly turn that down.”

“Great. This must be my lucky day. So what do I call you?”

“Jane. Jane Lawless.”

“Had a friend in the army named Frank Lawless. You any relation?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So, Jane. Plain Jane. Except you're not plain. Doesn't hurt to have an attractive bartender behind the counter.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Not much good at that anymore. No, no flirting. No hitting on employees.” He lifted his beer glass. “Here's to a mutually productive relationship, for however long you decide to stick around. Please, God, let it at least be until after New Year's.”

 

22

Laurie opened the front door of her mobile home and stepped out onto a deck barely large enough to hold two small chairs. It was a crisp December morning, just the kind of day she loved. With Doug still inside, however, sitting mutely at the breakfast table, finishing his cereal and his third beer, it was hard to achieve any sort of Zen. Normally, he was gone by the time she went outside to the mailbox. He'd overslept this morning, most likely because he'd had too much to drink last night. He'd phoned the lumberyard and lied to his boss, telling him he was having car problems and would be late. It was an excuse he'd used before. One of these days, his boss was going to call him on it. And then what? Would he get fired?

Walking out to the mailbox, still dressed in her bathrobe and slippers, Laurie pulled the front cover down and found that her neighbor, Tanya Simpson, the woman who lived in the double-wide across the street, had stuffed yesterday's copy of the
Basaw County Independent
, the newspaper that was published twice a week over in Union, into the mailbox.

Laurie adored newspapers. It was one of the reasons she'd been so drawn to Doug in high school. These days, the over-fifty crowd—people like her—were the only ones keeping old-fashioned newspapers alive. Her morning ritual was pretty simple: She would brew a pot of tea, cut a sliver of lemon, make herself two slices of buttered toast, and then sit down at the breakfast table to read. It was also the way she kept in touch with what was happening locally. The
Independent
had a dedicated page of news for the five largest towns in the small county. Doug, of course, hated the paper on general principles because it was still going strong when his newspaper had tanked a decade ago. Laurie always hid the paper from him, and tossed it into the garbage, shoving it way down into the bottom of the plastic bag, when she was done.

When she came back inside this morning she simply wasn't able muster the energy to protect his tender feelings anymore. Working at Kevin's bar had become a turning point for her. As usual, nobody in the family had noticed. She was a known quantity—the quiet one, the workhorse, the good girl. She didn't make waves. She might lose her temper occasionally, though as an adult, she'd learned how to hide the worst of it. Her time at the Sportsman, however, had become her “road to Damascus” moment. Like Saul of Tarsus, soon to become Paul the Apostle, the scales had finally fallen from her eyes and she began to see clearly what she had to do. Habit had ruled her existence for almost as long as she could remember. The fact that Hannah was pushing for change at the farmhouse gave Laurie the strength to push for her own kind of change. If she actually did leave Doug, she would face even more difficult questions. Nothing was going to be easy.

She flapped the paper in front of her as she sat down at the table.

“What's the hell do you have there?” demanded Doug, finishing his beer.

“The
Basaw County Independent
.”

“Where'd you get it? If you paid money for that rag—”

“Tanya puts it in our mailbox. It's a kindness, Doug. I asked her to pass it on when she's done with it.”

“I will not have that trash in my house.”

“It's mine and I'm going to read it.” She got up to pour herself a cup of coffee, then sat back down and turned to page five—the New Dresden news page. She did her best to ignore her husband as he stomped out of the kitchen. As she skimmed a piece about a local man who was turning field grass into an alternate fuel source, Doug, who was acting like a nasty four-year-old with a bad hangover, returned to the kitchen, yanked open a cupboard, stuffed his cereal box back inside, and banged the door shut.

“Don't you want to hear about a new form of fuel some local guy's developed? They think it will really boost the economy around here.”

“Laurie, if you buy into the bullshit that paper pushes, you're as ignorant and terminally gullible as the rest of the people in this town.”

“You think they're making the story up?”

“For once in your life, use the brains natural selection gave you. Crap like that sells papers. The
Independent,
” said Doug as he made himself his usual three peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches for his afternoon snack, “prints fake stories all the time—and liberal garbage. Lies that support their political agenda.”

“I'm
not
talking politics with you, Doug.”

“Well maybe you should. You might learn something.”

He spoke the words with such venom that she twisted around to look at him. “You get so worked up that I'm afraid you're going to have a coronary.”

“Just what you'd love, right?” He pointed the knife at her. “If I died, you'd be free.”

“Doug, please.” This was a new low.

He came closer, the knife still in his hand.

“You're scaring me.”

“Good. You should be scared.” He stood staring down at her, his fingers working at the wooden handle. “People hide, Laurie. Behind their job title. Behind their religion. Behind their good looks. They use words to obscure their real feelings. You do that all the time. Hell if I ever know what you're thinking.”

Instinct told her to defuse the situation. Fast. In all their married life together he'd never hit her—not technically. His preferred method of control was to hold her down in bed, making it impossible for her to get up. A few times he'd thrown her against a wall and then used his weight to keep her there, all the while spewing venom into her ear. Afterwards, he was always contrite, begging her to understand the pressures on him, saying that he loved her and nobody else. She told herself that this wasn't the same thing as domestic abuse. “I want to be honest with you, Doug, but when I try, you twist what I say into something I don't mean.”

His eyes dropped to the knife in his hand. “
You
do this to me. I'm never angry like this when you're not around.”

“Then maybe I should leave.”

“We always get back to that, don't we. One way or another.”

“What do you want from me? I never quit on us, never stopped trying. Can you say the same?”

Turning back to the kitchen counter, he mumbled, “You have no idea how much I hate myself sometimes.”

“You do?” That was news to her.

Running a hand over his balding head, he said, “I don't want to be like this.”

The comment should have reassured her, but it was too late. She'd spent her life feeling sorry for him, making excuses for him, soothing his feelings, pumping up his sagging ego, trying to ignore or rationalize away his growing bitterness, and always, every moment they were together, doing everything in her power to avoid setting off his anger.

“Look, I'll rent a movie in town,” he said. “Bring home a pizza and a six-pack after work. Maybe we can, you know, just try to have a nice evening.” He slapped the peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches together, dropped them in a plastic sack, and kissed her cheek before grabbing his coat and keys.

Laurie listened to his car roar to life. After he'd driven off, she propped her elbows on the kitchen table, dropped her head in her hands, and cried.

 

23

After cruising around town looking for a place to have breakfast, Jane settled on a cafe two doors down from the Sportsman's Tavern. Millie's Kitchen was small but clean, with red gingham curtains and old-fashioned gray formica-covered tables. A lunch counter ran across the right side of the room, which was where most of the customers were seated. After ordering coffee and the breakfast special—two eggs over medium, three slices of bacon and two blueberry hotcakes—she settled in with her coffee, ready to think about the day ahead.

The small room Kevin had given her, especially the bed, had been surprisingly comfortable. The only downside was the lack of Wi-Fi. Even her cell phone would register a few bars, only to lose them a second later. After breakfast, her first order of business was to drive around the area and see if she could find a spot where her electronics connected, assuming there was a tower somewhere in the vicinity.

When the food arrived, Jane took out a notebook and, while she ate, went over the notes she'd made. There were three columns: What she knew; what she suspected; what she needed to find out.

“I see you discovered my favorite cafe.”

Jane looked up to find Kevin smiling his crooked smile down at her.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Have a seat.” She closed the notebook.

The waitress came over with a mug and the coffee pot. “Same as usual?” she asked, pouring him a cup.

“Thanks, Peg.” Taking a sip and then holding his large, calloused hands around the mug, he watched Jane for a few seconds, then asked, “How'd you sleep?”

“Great.”

“And the food?” He nodded to her plate.

“It's good.”

“It's the best place in town, which I suppose isn't saying much.”

“I love small-town cafes. You never know what you're going to find.” Breakfast was her favorite meal when she was on the road because a cook had to be uniquely incompetent to screw up eggs, bacon, and toast.

“Listen, I was wondering: I'm heading over to my mother's house after I'm done here. She makes up batches of seasoned popcorn for the bar. Cheese flavored, and sour cream-and-onion flavored. It's real salty, you know? Makes people thirsty.”

“That's a great idea.”

“And sometimes, if I'm real lucky, she bakes me a few pies. They go like crazy. I suppose if I figured out a way to serve more food, I could add to my bottom line. I'm not much of a cook, so that's probably never going to happen. But anyway, thought maybe you'd like to come along, help me load the food into my van. I could use an extra pair of hands. And also—I suppose this is the real reason—if you're there, I won't get stuck talking to my mother for an hour.”

“I'd be happy to,” said Jane, amazed again at her good luck.

“You'll also get to meet my daughter, Kira. She staying with my mom for a few months to help out.”

“Does your whole family live in New Dresden?” asked Jane.

“Pretty much. My grandfather began the local paper, which he passed on to my dad, and my dad passed on to my older brother.”

“You didn't have any interest in it?”

“Wasn't really an option. Doug got the paper and I got the bar. Worked for me. 'Course, I've still got the bar and he had to shut down the paper. He was a good journalist—really enjoyed researching stories, writing opinion pieces. He's a talented writer and photographer. He used to always travel with a camera, took most of the pictures for the paper. I love my brother, but … when it comes to managing people, he's hopeless. No business sense at all. My dad never saw that. Or maybe he did. Who knows? Doug ran that newspaper into the ground. Kept losing his best people because they didn't like the way he treated them. He works at Vaughn's Lumber now.”

“I would imagine the job base around here isn't that strong.”

Turning the salt shaker around in his hand, he said, “You got that right. Once upon a time, his wife, Laurie, had a great job. Taught English at the middle school. But when they shut it down in 2007 and started busing our local kids to the middle school in Pine River, she lost her position. Couldn't find another one—too many teachers out of work”

“Last night you mentioned that she'd been bartending for you. Why'd she stop?”

“Oh, you know. This and that. The next few months are some of my busiest. It's cabin fever. People get sick of being cooped up at home because of the cold, so they brave the weather and go out to a bar.” He leaned back as the waitress set a big stack of hotcakes and a side of hash browns in front of him. “Looks perfect, Peg,” he said. “Thanks.” He smeared butter around the top cake and then poured syrup all over it. “You married?” he asked.