by Nicole James
In the living room, I unroll the rug and position it in front of the overstuffed floral couch, then add a wooden end table and a coffee table that have been left behind. I take one of the antique spindle-leg chairs from the kitchen table and place it next to the end table, then pull out the other lamp from one of the boxes and plug it in. With my hands on my hips, I survey the area. So much for the living room.
The fireplace has a nice mantle. A large painting would look great above it. I shake my head, reminding myself I’m not staying that long.
Moving on to the kitchen, I unpack a box with a coffeemaker, toaster, utensils, a pot, fry pan, and baking sheet, along with the few dishes Ma gave me.
I plug in the refrigerator and it hums to life. Now for the terrifying part … I bite my lip and dare to open it. The light comes on and I’m relieved to find it spotless.
I unload the box with the food staples Ma sent with me: coffee, sugar, bread, jam, peanut butter, canned soup, instant oatmeal, macaroni and cheese, and a tin of her homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I’ll have to make a run to the grocery store later for some milk, butter, and eggs, but for now, I’ve got enough that I won’t starve.
Moving on to the bedroom, I unpack my suitcase and put my things in the dresser. When I’m done, I know I can’t avoid it any longer. I’ve got to go downstairs to the bar and check things over so I’m prepared for tomorrow’s meeting.
I lock up and head down the steps to the bar’s back entrance. I slip the key in the lock and push open the big metal door. Searching blindly, I find the light switch on the right and flip it on, revealing the back hallway. My da’s office is on one side and a storage room is on the other, followed by a small kitchen and then the bar.
It’s been years since I’ve been here, but a slew of memories come flooding back. Like upstairs, there are hardwood floors worn from a century of customers who entered and sidled up to the bar, resting their shoes on the brass foot rail. This place has been a town fixture since my great, great grandfather opened up in 1903, and it’s been in my family ever since.
The long bar runs along the right side wall, its ornate bar back and mirror harken back to that era. The bottles of different-colored liquor and sparkling glassware reflecting in the mirror have always seemed magical to me. The ceilings are high with shiny pressed tin tiles. There’s just enough room for two pool tables up by the front windows, while a dozen tables and chairs take up the left half of the room.
I run my hand along the polished wood bar top. My eyes stop on the framed black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall. It’s supposedly my great-grandfather and his brothers the year they opened. Their white aprons and mustaches look funny, but I can see the family resemblance.
While I appreciate the family legacy here and the history of this old building, I also remember how much my father had to sink into the place to keep it running, repairing old wiring and plumbing, leaking roofs, and decrepit old furnaces.
It’s so quiet and still in the building as I wander back to his office. The room has an eerie quality to it and everything is exactly as it was that night—the night he killed himself. He was found in his car, right outside in the alley.
Da’s desk is piled with papers—forever a mess, just like I remember it, and tucked in behind it sits his old red leather chair. I pull it out and sit, gingerly at first, noting how it still swivels and rocks. I remember as a child spinning around and around in it. Now it creaks as it bears my weight.
Inhaling a deep breath, I swear I smell the lingering scent of his Old Spice cologne. A bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey sits off to the side; an empty glass that looks like it’s been drank from sits next to it. Did he have a drink while he sat at this desk and wrote his suicide note? Before he stood, went outside, and shot himself in the head?
I sense his presence, and my skin chills with goose bumps. A feeling swamps over me that this is all wrong. None of what they say happened that night makes any sense. I haven’t seen the suicide note—I haven’t wanted to—but now, suddenly I do. Though, I’m not even sure who has it. Ma? Aunt Kathleen? The police?
While I’m running both hands over the edge of the wooden desk, my pulse starts to surge as heat flashes through my body. I pound my fist on the desk and shove the papers to the floor, then lay my head down on it and burst into tears, tears that have been pent up since the day of the funeral. Grief mixes with a rush of anger like some horrible cocktail I’m forced to drink. I want to reach out and take his glass and smash it against the wall. But I don’t. I can’t. It’s one of the last things my father may have touched. Every item in this room that he touched—that bottle, that glass, those papers scattered on the floor—when they’re all gone, it’ll feel like the last pieces of him will be gone too—forever.
I’m so angry, so very angry with him that I can’t bear it. Why? Why did you do this to us, Da?
I sob until I’m exhausted and cried out, but then I finally straighten myself and take a few calming deep breaths. This isn’t why I came down here, but I must have needed it. I needed to let it all out.
After rubbing my sleeve across my face, I stoop to gather up all the papers, tamping them into a stack. As I lay them down in a neat pile, my eyes fall to Da’s black bound ledger. He’d always written everything by hand, never having mastered working on a computer. While I was in high school, I had tried to drag him into the twenty-first century, but it didn’t take. He’d given it a shot. He would hunt and peck with his index fingers and squint at the monitor until he’d growl, then he’d shove it away and stomp out of the office, cursing technology.
My hands run over the leather, again feeling my father and imagining his hands, so worn and calloused. When I flip it open, there’s a red satin ribbon marking the spot of his last entries.
I scan the columns and figures scratched out in his slashing handwriting. The daily totals of the cash register till are entered, and the cash and credit are separated out. I browse through the pages, checking the months further back, and am surprised at how much the bar pulls in each month.
Flipping back to the outgoing expenses, I’m able to make sense of most of them. Payroll, food, liquor, supplies, utilities—but there’s one entry marked simply KOC. I frown. What in the world is that? It catches my eye because of the four-figure dollar amount. I skim through the ledger, searching out and finding it listed every month for the same amount, going back all the way to the beginning of the book. I do the math in my head. It adds up to over twenty thousand dollars a year.
What the hell?
If my father had eliminated this one expense, I would have had money for college. I slam the book closed.
My skin flushes with heat. I storm out before I give in to the feeling of destroying the room and everything in it, then lock the door and stomp up the stairs. In the apartment, I pace back and forth until finally coming to a stop by the living room windows. With my arms folded, I stand and lean against the frame, staring down at the street, my mind a whirl.
Da always swore there was never any money. He hadn’t been able to help me out with a car when I was sixteen. I’d had to buy a dress from the resale shop for prom. But the most devastating of all was when he’d told me he had to use the savings account set aside for my first year’s college tuition. That had been the last straw.
I take a deep breath and study the street below, trying to rid myself of the negative thoughts. It’s over. It’s done. No sense reliving the pain.
Occasionally a car goes by. There’s not much open at night on this block. The pub has always been the main draw. Still, there’s a place a couple doors down called Sammy’s Subs and a diner a couple of blocks further. Other than that, it’s mostly businesses that close up at night like Stanfield Savings and Loan, an insurance office, and the new cupcake shop next store that, judging from the grand opening sign, must have just opened. That spot has been a million different businesses through the years. None of them last long in this little Podunk town, but maybe cupc
akes will. I hope so. I like cupcakes. I’d buy some.
Hearing the distant thunder of something barreling up the road, I press my forehead against the glass and see a swarm of headlights coming. The unmistakable roar of a hoard of Harleys gets louder as they approach. They zoom by in a line, two by two, and the window rattles. As they pass, I count … two, four, six, eight … all wearing the patches I recognize.
Kings of Carnage MC.
And then it clicks and my eyes widen. Could KOC mean Kings of Carnage? I frown. But why would Da give them money? Extortion? Some kind of payoff?
Oh, hell no!
If they think they’ll be collecting that sum from me, they’ve got another thing coming. But then I remember the funeral. Is that why I saw that bike at the cemetery?
And suddenly a memory I’d long ago suppressed comes flooding back …
Da is cleaning the bar, and he’s let me come with him. I love to help sweep the floor, even though the broom is so much bigger than I am. Next year, when I start school, he says I can help him even more by counting the pennies. Once I learn to count of course. I’ve been practicing my numbers real good.
It’s Sunday night, the week before Christmas, and I’m so excited. I can’t wait to wear the pretty dress to Mass that Ma made for me. I’ve been extra good this year, and I hope Santa brings me the Sleeping Susan doll that I asked for.
I skip and twirl, not really paying attention to what I’m supposed to be doing.
Suddenly, there’s a loud roaring sound outside. It sounds like thunder, and I’m scared. It’s already dark out, even though it’s just after dinner. I drop the broom.
“Da,” I call, my voice shaky. “What is that noise?”
He runs to me and bends down, taking both my arms in his hands. His face is right in mine. “Michaela, sweetheart, you know that game we play where you hide and I come find you?”
I nod, wondering why he seems upset.
“I want you to go and hide in the storage room and don’t come out until I tell you, okay?”
I nod.
“Don’t come out, no matter what you hear, okay?”
I nod.
“That’s a good lass. Quickly now.”
I run and close the door, but I can’t reach the light string. I’m afraid of the dark so I leave the door open a crack. I peek out. I can see the bar down the hall. I’m scared for my da. I watch him open the front door and then he backs up. Some big men come in. They are scary looking, and I want them to go away.
“You got your payment, old man?” one of them says, and he shoves my da in the shoulder.
“I have most of it. We had a bad week. I can make it up next week. Things always slow down before Christmas, but it’ll pick up again. There’s New Years and I—”
“Fuck New Year’s. That’s next month. You owe for this month and last month. How generous do you think I am?”
“Please, I swear I’ll have it …”
“Oh, you swear, do you? Show him what we think of people who fall behind on payments, Bates.”
“Sure thing, Vic.”
Then he punches my da. I cover my mouth tight with both hands, and my eyes fill with tears. I want to run to my da, but the bad men scare me.
One of them moves to the register and hits a button. A bell rings and the drawer pops open. He takes all the money and stuffs it in his pocket. “Ain’t much in the till, Prez.”
“You got a safe?” the mean man asks my da. But Da looks sick. He’s all bent over funny. He nods his head and the man pulls him up, grabbing his shirt. He yanks my da’s face up to his and yells at him again. “Better be a lot of money in it, ol’ man.”
They walk this way, and I move back until I feel the shelves against my back. I hear their boots on the wooden floor and then they go in the office. I huddle in the dark, trying not to cry. After a long time they leave, smashing glasses on the way out. I hear the front door slam and then something breaks the front window.
I’m crying now and can’t hold back the sobs.
I hear my da call me from far away.
“Michaela, it’s okay to come out now.” His voice sounds funny, like he’s sick.
I peek out, shaking. I’m afraid of the bad men. But my da needs me. I run across the hall to his office and see him lying on the floor.
He reaches out a hand to me. “Baby, it’s okay. Come to Da.”
I run to him, crying, and he holds me.
“I d-didn’t come out. I hid like you told me, D-da.”
“Yes, baby. My good little lass.”
“I w-want to go h-home.”
“Yes, baby girl. We’re going home. Can you reach the phone, my good little lass?”
I haven’t thought of that night since I was a child. I guess I’d half convinced myself I must have misunderstood, that maybe they were just unruly customers or something. Now it’s all clear to me. They were shaking down my father for money. This month, they’d said. They must have come every month. I was just never around when they showed up, except that one Sunday before Christmas when I was four years old.
Well, that seals the deal.
I dig my phone out of my back pocket and walk into the bedroom, then leaning against the headboard and pillows, I curl up with my feet tucked under me.
I dial Bethany and listen to it ring.
“Hey, Michaela. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better. But that’s not why I’m calling. I want to talk to you about the bar.”
“Mooney’s? What about it?”
“You any good at that real estate stuff?”
Her laughter tinkles over the speaker. “Well, I know I’m new, but I have my license, and I was one of their top sellers last month. Why? You looking to buy a house here?”
“No. I want you to help me sell the bar.”
Five
Michaela—
Bethany walks through the kitchen area, making notes on her clipboard, then she moves to the bathrooms.
I wait by the bar, tearing a napkin to shreds; anticipation is not my strong suit. Finally, she returns. The look on her face isn’t encouraging.
“Well, what’s the verdict?” I snap, my patience gone.
“It’s a lovely old building, don’t get me wrong—”
“But?”
“The turn-of-the-century charm is beautiful, but it’s worn and out of code in some areas. I mean, I’m no expert, but our commercial real estate guy gave me a few things to look for, and he also said he’d be happy to help you with the sale if you’re really serious. I thought it best we talk first.”
“I’m serious as a heart attack, Bethany.”
“Okay, well, if you want to get top dollar for it, you’ll have to make some repairs. And you’re going to want to get top dollar. I checked into it for you. Are you aware your father took out a large loan on the property?”
I shake my head, wondering what other surprises I know nothing about.
“There’s a balloon payment due next month. It looks like he’s in arrears for last month’s payment, and this month’s is due next week. Those payments are just under a thousand dollars each. The balloon payment is close to fifty thousand.”
My mouth drops open. “Oh. My. God.”
She nods. “If you sell, you’ll need to make enough to cover those payments, plus, this is your mom’s only income. If she can’t make a nice profit off it, all her future income is wiped out.”
“So, we’re screwed?”
“Well, the market stinks right now. Real estate values have plummeted in the last twelve months. Your father really picked a bad time to have this balloon payment come due.”
“I had no idea he was in such a financial bind. Maybe that’s why he did what he did.”
“Michaela, I’m so sorry. I know this is all so overwhelming. If you do want to sell, I’d suggest some repairs, bringing some things up to code. I’m sure this place has been grandfathered in for a lot of things, considering it hasn’t ever changed hands.”
“I know. It’s the family legacy. I’ve been reminded enough times this week.”
“Right. Of course you could leave all that to the buyer, but the market is down and I’m just not sure how much interest there will be for a place that isn’t move-in ready. This is a small town. If we were closer to Atlanta, this place would get snapped up in a second.”
“Do you think the repairs you mentioned are something I could do?”
She shrugs. “I honestly don’t know. I could have Jack Reed call you. He’s our expert.”
I nod. “Thanks. Let me think it over.”
She rips the sheet of paper off her pad. “I made notes. Like I said, this is just a guess on my part based on what I was told. But it’ll give you an idea as to what kinds of things they look at.”
“I really appreciate you taking the time.”
She drops her head to the side. “Don’t be silly. We’re best buds. I’d do anything to help you, you know that. I’m here for you, Michaela.”
I move in for a hug, clutching the paper in my hand. “I do know that.”
She pulls back and searches my face. “You look tired. Getting any sleep?”
I shake my head. “Not much. I can’t get my brain to rest.”
“All this worrying is not good for you. I hate that this all got dumped on you.”
“I’ll be fine. I have to get ready for that meeting. The employees will be here in about half an hour.”
“Okay. That’s my cue to leave. Call me later. We need to meet for lunch soon.”
“Sounds like a plan. Thanks again.”
Bethany heads toward the front door and waves over her shoulder.
At ten o’clock our dozen employees show up. Some introduce themselves, others just sort of stare at me like I’m some outsider.
I’ve already made a list of their names, but I’ve no clue what their positions are. I stare at the bunch, wondering which one’s the cook, who the bartenders are, and which ones are the waitstaff.
We sit at a couple of pushed together tables. I’ve never held a meeting before or even spoken to a group in public, and my stomach is in knots.