One long multicolored fingernail tapped commandingly against the bar's surface. "Something to eat? Before I turn this off?" Indicating a Crock-Pot with a wave of her hand, the barmaid blew smoke to the side, dropping the unfiltered cigarette into a clamshell. "You all right?" She waved politely at the cloud, then used her nails to daintily peel a fleck of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. "I roll my own."
"Sorry." He nodded. "Give me a minute to catch my breath." But when he asked for a draft beer, she just looked annoyed.
"Bottles only. One brand. Did you say you wanted a sandwich, hon?" She plucked a match from a box on the counter. "So what brings you to Edgeharbor?"
Good--let her do all the talking. But he thought she seemed to be watching him too closely, smiling over at him while she fixed a hot roast beef sandwich. The fatty odor made his head swim. Can't seem to manage anymore. She chatted on, raising her voice above the television set that no one appeared to be watching, most of the patrons preferring to keep their attention on him. He tried to look around without seeming to, attempting to draw individual features from the pervasive gloom. Across the bar, a lighter flickered, and a man's face became a goblin mask, then receded.
Various attempts had apparently been made to decorate the bar. A fake ship's wheel hung against the paneled wall, but he could detect no other evidence of a nautical motif. Covered with cowgirl decals, an unlit jukebox stood silent, a Styrofoam snowman perched atop it. Plastic garland twisted around sections of the bar, and on a shelf, pink lights blinked from a tiny white tree effigy, the branches of which resembled bottlebrushes.
"I always get so depressed when I have to take it down." She shrugged, noticing his stare. "Maybe this year, I'll just leave it up permanent. What do you think?" Her husky laugh might have been sexy if she hadn't started coughing. "So what did you say brings you here? Business? You don't look like you're from anywheres around here."
He started to thank her but caught himself and just smiled instead. Okay, she likes that. There'd been a time when people had often complimented his smile. Keep working it. With a faint, detached amazement, he watched the flush rise in her cheeks. At least I can still do something right. Sort of. She smoothed her sweater, pulling it tight over her breasts. Shy little thing. He grinned appreciatively, feeling nothing but disgust with himself. This could be a break though, and he needed one: somebody had to answer his questions. "Pretty quiet tonight," he began.
"Off-season." She shrugged vaguely. "You need a glass?"
Off-season--he'd heard that up and down the coast, in every little shore town he'd been through, as though these people lived only for the few months of pounding sun, the rest of the year declining into a kind of stupor. The barmaid clicked away on incredibly high heels, and he noticed that, behind the row of bottles, a greasy fog had settled on what might once have been a tinted mirror. Between a fifth of Jack Daniel's and a bottle of something with a bat on the label, he recognized the smear of his own reflection.
My Lord. Of all the transformations, of all the damaged and aching spots within, nothing showed. It seemed shockingly wrong. He looked the same, exactly the same.
Without quite intending to, he lifted the beer in a silent toast, and his teeth clenched. Doesn't he look natural? Between yellowing blotches on the mirror, a handsome man raised his glass, and he studied the image. A lie. It sickened him. Even my appearance. As he wondered if anything about him had ever been honest, his grip tightened on the beer.
Here I am, alone. As usual. Gradually, he began to peer about more openly. Funny, how nothing ever changes. He found he envied even this muttering crowd their dreary camaraderie. At the far end of the bar, the barmaid looked almost glamorous, and the customers in the dimness might be lively, congenial. Who could tell? Sipping his beer, he returned his attention to the mirror, and the handsome image began to melt. The ears stood out red as blood, and the unshaven cheeks bristled. He downed the beer in uneven gulps. Years ago, in another lifetime it seemed, hadn't women liked his eyes?
They looked frozen now. Like filthy ice at the bottom of a well.
Flanks trembling, the cat tried to slink back under the fence but crumpled before it reached the hole. A cardboard box with a burst bottom lay on its side nearby, amid the jars and cans.
"It's all right." Kit approached cautiously. "Don't be afraid." She reached out her hand. "No, no, don't move." The cat dragged dark smears behind it on the concrete. "Ssh. Have you been in a fight or something, huh? Poor little guy." Actually, the cat struck her as unusually large.
I don't even like cats much. In the past few minutes, the animal had twice followed her out onto the sidewalk, circling her while making that terrible noise, then had dragged itself back into the alley.
"You tangle with a dog, kitty?" At the sound of her voice, the wounded feline crept closer, only to twist unsteadily away. "You're a size all right. I'd hate to see the other fellow. There now, cat. It's all right." Its legs tremored.
What the heck color is it anyway? Scant illumination floated into the alley, and she leaned closer. Great. Orange tail, one white ear, gray face: it looked as though it had been stitched together from parts of other animals. Frankenstein's cat.
The next time the animal fell on its side, it failed to get up. Gingerly, she stroked the fur, but the beast didn't twitch. Four streaks of blood glistened on its flank.
Suddenly, the broad head tilted, straining in her direction. Then the green glimmer of the eyes sealed shut again, and the head dropped.
Oh hell. It just died. She pulled off her glove and touched the cat's ribs with her fingertips. The fur felt like frost, but underneath warmth throbbed. Anyway, it'll be dead soon on a night like this, that's for sure. Suddenly, green gleamed up at her again, and the mouth opened in a silent bleat.
Great. She put her glove back on and tried to lift the creature without hurting it or getting blood on herself. Now, what am I doing? Am I nuts? Stiffening, the cat arched and bristled, hissing like a ruptured steam pipe. She almost dropped it as claws dug frantically into the arm of her jacket. "Hey, cut that out!"
The cat went limp. Oh hell, I killed it. But it squirmed feebly as the wind keened around her. Now what? Hell hell hell hell hell.
"Is one of these going to be enough, hon?"
One eye in the mirror, he watched his own smile erode...then rebuilt it, grain by grain. When he considered the image convincing, he turned to find the barmaid studying him, her lips slightly parted, a sharp line creasing her forehead. Nodding at the mirror, he made a show of raking his fingers at the windblown mess of his hair.
"...have noticed if you'd been in before." She watched him gulp the messy sandwich. "Guess you were hungry." Dragging delicately at her lipstick-smeared cigarette, she plucked it from her mouth and dropped it back in the clamshell. "This bother you while you're eating?"
"Sorry?" The food actually tasted of nicotine. "I mean, no. Fine."
"The way you downed that--you sure one's enough?"
Nodding, he wiped at his face with the paper napkin. "So, you from here?"
"Who me?" She practically gurgled. "I lived here all my life. This place was my dad's, but I run it myself, since me and my husband split." She blew smoke out of her mouth and sucked it back in through her nostrils, an action that made her look bizarre, dragonish. "Bar's about the only business that makes money in this town, especially in winter. What did you say you were doing here?"