"Right. Nothing against your folks or Volkswagens in general, but I don't give a shit if I ever I see the interior of one of these again."
"All in favor."
We both raised our hands. I reached over and squeezed his arm. "It's gonna be fine, my friend, just fine. You're home."
"Not yet, I'm not… but damn, I never thought I'd ever be this close again. Do me proud, Mark."
"You know it. Look, it might take a while—remember how Thomas's dad reacted initially?"
"I know. I don't think you're in any danger of having me take off on you. Oh, that reminds me"—he dug around in his shoulder bag and pulled out a couple of twenties—"you might want to order some food or something. Nothing irritated my folks more than someone who took up bar space without ordering."
I pocketed the money, checked myself in the mirror one last time, then climbed out into the rain, which was starting to grow heavier.
I stood beside the bus with my door open, staring at the restaurant.
"What is it?" asked Christopher.
"I think I'm as nervous about this as you are."
"Not possible."
I looked at him. "Maybe not, but I'm running a close second."
"Which is just doing oodles to ease my anxiety, thanks so much."
"What are you parents' first names? It might be helpful."
"Joseph and Ellen."
"And Paul's your brother, right?"
"Right."
"Any other names I should know? Sisters or anything?"
"Not that I know of—but, then, it's been a while. Are you still here?"
"I am now going." I closed the door and began walking toward the front porch. I kept thinking about what Trevor—the security guard at Muriel's—had said to me: I actually feel like I'm making a difference today, you know? How often does a guy get to say that?
As I hit the top of the stairs and reached for the screen door I felt, for the first time in years, like a worthwhile human being once again.
If I had any doubts about myself at that point, Arnold's words—You gotta be the one to finish this for us, Mark—erased them.
They were all depending on me to do the right thing.
Maybe, after all of this, Tanya could depend on me for that, as well.
Odd, to believe your life has a purpose, after all. Good—but odd.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
15. A New Life
The bar, on the left, was mahogany with a marble top, long and shiny and narrow. A series of small, round tables to the right and several booths against the walls were half-filled with truckers and other tired denizens of the road, all of them enjoying their drinks, their meals, their time outside their vehicles; a comfortably-scuffed, polished wood floor covered most of the front half of the place, giving way to carpeting in the back where three pool tables sat, each with its own cone-shaped light above: shadows moved outside the perimeter of the lights, phantom cues dipping into the glow to make the balls clack and clatter as they spun across the tables and sank into pockets. Gleaming brass horse rails braced the wall opposite the bar, as well as the bottom of the bar itself, while old-fashioned electric lanterns anchored on thick shelves just barely wide enough to hold them kept a constant air of twilight regardless of the time of day outside. The place smelled of cigarettes, pipe tobacco, beer, burgers, eggs, coffee, and popcorn, all of these scents mixing with the lemon oil used to polish the wood. It smelled somehow safe and welcoming.
I took a seat at the end of the bar nearest the door—right next to a rotating rack of maps (DON'T GET YOURSELF LOST IN THESE HILLS, read the sign)—and examined all the framed photographs hanging on the wall back there; young men in uniforms from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and even a few showing a young man in desert gear from the first Gulf War. None of the faces looked familiar. I was hoping there'd be at least one family photo back there and that I'd be able to spot Christopher—I'd looked at his false face enough to know what the general shape of his features must have been like—but there was no little boy in any of the—
—hang on.
One black & white photograph, hanging down at the far corner, showed a boy of perhaps ten or eleven standing on the front porch of this place with a burly man and a stout, attractive woman. I was too far away to make out the faces.
"What can I get for you?"
She was about thirty-five, forty years old, with startling red hair and bright green eyes and the kind of smile more gifted and creative men write poems or love songs about. I smiled back at her, then realized what I looked like, pointed to my face, and said: "It's been a very long drive."
"I was wondering," she said, not blinking or looking away.
I ordered a Pepsi and some onion rings. After she left, I grabbed a couple of maps from the rack, looked at them without seeing anything, then slipped them into my coat pocket.
When she came back with my drink I had the badge out, fingers and thumb covering everything except for my face on the license.
She looked at the badge, at my photograph, then at my face. "Wow. I don't know that I've ever actually seen one of those—my uncle would sure get a kick out of this. Is there some kind of trouble, sir? We don't want no problems."
I pocketed the badge. "No, God, no, not at all. But I need to speak to either Joseph or Ellen Matthews, preferably both."
She looked at me and shrugged.
"The owners?"
"My husband and I are the owners of this place, sir. Have been for almost four years."
"Then you bought this place from them—from Joe and Ellen Matthews, right?"
She shook her head. "No, sir, we bought this place from my uncle, Herb Thomas—well, we didn't exactly buy it from him, not outright, we bought in. It was getting to be a bit much for Uncle Herb, running this place all by himself, especially after he put up the motel, and Larry and me—Larry's my husband, I'm Beth—we bought a two-third's share of the whole business. I—is something wrong? You look… kinda sick."
I could feel something trying to shake loose inside, but I wasn't about to panic now. "I need to know… your uncle—Herb? How long had he owned the business before you and your husband bought in?"
"Oh, Lord, Uncle Herb must've run this place… jeez, let me think… two, three years."
"So it's been in the family for about seven years?"
"Yes, sir."
I picked up my drink with a trembling hand and emptied the glass in three deep swallows. I slammed it back on the bar with more force than I'd intended, making Beth jump and at least one pool player lean over for a better look.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"That's okay, mister—uh, officer. What is it you need, anyway? I'll do everything I can to help."
"Is your uncle around?"
"Not right now, but I expect him and Larry back any minute. You need to talk to him?"
"Unless you can tell me who he bought this place from."
She smiled and shrugged once again. "Sorry—I mean, I know he did buy it from someone… name might have been Matthews. I'm just not sure. But you can bet he'll remember. Uncle Herb remembers everything. Personally, I always thought that was part of what made him sick in the first place, him always remembering everything and the type of job he had before he retired. A person who remembers everything, they're always worried about something, you know?"
I nodded. Beth went back to the kitchen to check on my onion rings. Someone put some money into the jukebox and played Marshall Tucker, "A New Life." Another song I always liked.