Down on Love

by Jayne Denker

  She still hadn’t figured out how to respond. “Um, I guess, yeah.”

  “Those stories people send in are hilarious.” Jill’s face lit up. “Oh, that one where the girl broke up with her poor boyfriend in church, and they started yelling at each other over the hymn? Unbelievable!”

  George couldn’t help but return the smile. “Yeah, that was a good one.”

  “Ooh, or—or—what about the couple who got a divorce because the husband wouldn’t go to the doctor to find out how to make his feet stop smelling? And then it turned out to be the dog farting all along?”

  “Also good.”

  “Hey, George,” Darryl interrupted, giving her a nudge, “I think Charlie Junior wants to talk to you.”

  She leaned past him to see where he was pointing; the bartender, Charlie Beers Junior, son of the owner Charlie Beers Senior (who had always said he opened a bar because fate had decreed it, bestowing that obvious a last name on him), was hitching his chin at her, urging her over.

  “Okay . . .” George didn’t know Charlie Junior except by sight; she had no idea what he wanted, but she figured she might as well find out. “I’ll be right back.”

  “See if he’ll give us a pitcher for free,” Darryl shouted after her.

  “Hey, Charlie, what’s up?” George perched on the bar stool nearest him. “Did you want something?”

  “Hey, George. Uh, kinda. Can we . . . ?” He inched down the bar until he was closest to the end, by the bins of cherries and lemon and lime wedges atop a damp bar mat. She followed, guarded but curious. When they had a small amount of privacy, he leaned on the bar, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Okay.”

  The older man squinted up at her and hesitated.

  “Charlie, what’s going on?”

  “It’s my wife,” he admitted reluctantly, looking down at his hands. “I think she’s cheating on me.”

  What? George didn’t know why he was confiding in her, but she felt compelled to at least acknowledge his confession politely before asking. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” Charlie’s head drooped so low George could see the bald patch at the back of his head.

  “Charlie, I’m really sorry you’re upset and everything, but why are you telling me about it?”

  He looked up, bewildered. “Because you’re a professional.”

  “A professional what?”

  “You know all about, you know, couples. And everything.”

  George laughed in his face, then immediately regretted it. The man looked stung. “Sorry. Look, I’m no relationship counselor. I just have a stupid blog where people try to one-up one another with lousy relationship stories.”

  “You give advice, George. I thought you could—”

  “Only for fun, Charlie. For a laugh. My blog is like the online equivalent of guys standing around your bar shooting the shit about their wives and girlfriends. Would you trust any of these freaks to give you marriage advice?” She ignored the dirty looks a couple of the ones who looked like regulars sent her way. “Same goes for me. Okay?”

  Charlie eyed her suspiciously, and George got the feeling her explanation wasn’t sinking in.

  She sighed. “Have you . . . I don’t know . . . talked to her?”

  “I’ve tried, but she won’t talk about anything serious. I don’t know how to get through to her. I mean, I know she’s bored and lonely, what with my working nights all the time. But I never thought she’d . . . And then I find these . . . these chicken feathers all over the bedroom, and I’m thinking all kinds of—”

  “Chicken feathers?”

  “I think she’s . . . you know . . . with the guy in the costume who stands outside the Chicken Shack with the two-for-one sign.”

  George sighed. “I’m really sorry, honest. But I’m not the person you should be telling.” And she really wanted some brain bleach for the image she had in her head right about now. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what else to say . . .”

  The man nodded sadly. “Okay. I understand, George.”

  “I’ve got to get back to my friends. Just . . . talk to your wife, okay? Try to get through to her. And if she won’t talk about anything serious, or tell you where the . . . chicken feathers . . . came from, call a real counselor. Understand?”

  He wasn’t convinced, she could tell, but she wasn’t about to stick around waiting for him to accept it. She went back to the table, slid into her chair, and rested her head in her hands.

  “Everything all right, little sister?” Darryl asked, patting her back.

  “Christ. Gimme a beer.”

  George’s one beer led to another, and then another, until, she realized, she was completely relaxed and happy for the first time in a long time. The more Darryl let loose with his roars of wall-shaking laughter, the better she felt. That and the booze, of course. The crowd from the farm eventually divided up, her high school group at one table and everyone else at another. When the others slipped into reminiscing about their childhoods, and school, comparing notes and sharing stories, George was happy to join in, confessing, “You know, I was always so jealous of you guys, sneaking in here all the time in high school. I used to eavesdrop on you telling stories in the hallway the next day and wondered what it felt like to have a hangover, because you made even that sound fun, like some club initiation.”

  At this, the whole table erupted with guffaws.

  “What’d I say?”

  “Oh, honey,” Darryl cried, “we lied so bad.”

  “What?”

  “Lied, lied, and lied some more.”

  Nestor chuckled. “Charlie Senior never let us in here, you kidding?”

  “Aw, you believed everything we bullshitted about.” Darryl laughed at her stunned look. “You were always such a cute little thing—what did Casey used to call you in school?”

  From behind her, a familiar voice said, “Goose.”

  George’s head snapped up like someone had yanked on the back of her hair. There was Casey, smiling lazily, hands in his pockets, right by her chair.

  “That’s right!” Big D said, slapping the table. “Goose!”

  George hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt, but she was pretty sure it was.

  “Wow, Casey, never thought I’d see you here,” Elliot said, reaching for the pitcher and pulling a plastic cup off the stack in the middle of the table. “What’s the occasion?”

  For a split second, George and Casey’s eyes met, then flicked away.

  “What, I can’t go out for a beer with my friends?”

  George admired his easy grace as he joined them at the table, stretching out in his seat and accepting the cup Elliot handed him. He was newly showered and in freshly laundered clothes, and George caught a whiff of soap and fabric softener. She resisted the urge to lean closer and take a deeper sniff.

  “First time for everything, I guess,” Jill said, glancing at George for a second. George stared down at the water rings on the table. “Hey,” Jill said, with a wicked grin, “all this high school talk’s got me thinking. Who’d you go out with, George? I don’t remember. I know all about the love lives of these losers here—way too much, if you ask me—but how about you?”

  George laughed. “Nobody.”

  “Come on. Not even a date to the prom?”

  “Not even. I went with my friend Megan. We sat at a back table with a bunch of other dateless losers and mocked all the couples.”

  “So that was the origin of your blog.”

  “Seriously?” George gawped at Casey. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  Jill shrugged. “He may be right.”

  George thought a moment, then admitted reluctantly, “Huh. Maybe.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “So why didn’t you have a boyfriend?” Jill pressed.

  George wished she wouldn’t. This was the part of small-town life she didn’t m
iss—the way everybody thought they were entitled to ask you all sorts of personal questions, because your business was their business. Going back generations. And the catch was if you didn’t answer those questions, others would—whether or not the people who ponied up the answers even knew what they were talking about.

  So before someone else at the table could offer up a theory, she answered—truthfully. “Nobody asked me.”

  “Why didn’t you ask them?” Casey challenged.

  She looked him straight in the eye. “I tried that. Once. It ended badly.”

  There was a pause. It felt electric to George, and she panicked, wondering if anyone else at the table noticed. Then Casey looked away from her, and the moment was over.

  She refocused on the group just as Darryl was saying, “Do not tell me someone blew you off. Stupid bastard. Who was he? I’ll beat him up.”

  George couldn’t hide her grin. “Statute of limitations, I think, D.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on dumbassery.”

  “I like your word.”

  “You can borrow it anytime.”

  “No action at all?” Jill pressed.

  Okay, now Jill was getting annoying. What was she getting at? Did she know, or was she just teasing? George couldn’t tell.

  “Maybe . . .”

  “Ah hah! Now you’ve gotta say—who was it? Some guys at school had some darned good moves back then. And others had shitty ones, of course. Which was it? Darned good, or shitty?”

  “Darned good” didn’t even come close to covering it, George didn’t say. She had an answer, but there was no way she was going to go into detail with these long-lost schoolmates of hers. In public and all. Yet there was everyone at the table—and it was just her imagination, but it felt like everyone else in the bar as well—watching her expectantly. Most of all, she felt Casey’s eyes burning into her from her left. She didn’t dare sneak a glance that way. She paused. There was a heavy silence; even the song on the jukebox faded away. George wanted to say something clever and cutting, but she was sure the only thing that would come out would sound like “Glxzrd.” She took a breath to steady herself, smiled in what she hoped was an enigmatic way, and managed to get out, “What is it they say? Never kiss and tell?”

  Jill rolled her eyes. Darryl laughed. “Oh, I’d tell,” he said. “I’ve got no scruples.”

  George leaned toward him (and away from Casey), eager to get the spotlight off herself completely. “So tell,” she demanded. “Who was your best?”

  “Oh, Steven Manassas, no question.”

  George choked on her beer. “What?” She shoved his arm. “Get out!”

  “I’ve been out, honey. Where have you been? Oh yeah, that’s right—hundreds of miles from here.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t come up in conversation. It’s not like, ‘Hey, good to see you after a zillion years. And guess what?’”

  She looked at him in a new light. Imagine, Big D—the immovable force on the football field (he played unbreakable defense just by standing there) and the basketball court, the larger-than-life of the party—with that type of secret. For how long? They’d all assumed he was straight when they were younger.

  From her other side, Casey nudged her arm. She glanced over and was startled to find him way closer to her than she’d expected. He whispered, “Steverino the Wonder Plumber.”

  George’s mouth fell open. Shocked enough to focus on the words and not the breathy tickle on her ear, she whispered back, “Shut up!” Just when she thought the town couldn’t get any more insular. Then she turned back to Darryl. “When did you know?” she pressed.

  “It wasn’t a question of when; I pretty much always knew. It was more . . . when was I going to admit it first to myself and then to everyone else? And the answer to that was, of course, after high school. Way after.”

  “You took Sera to the prom,” George said, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “The light dawns.” Darryl drained his beer and added, “Sera helped me out a lot. Well, we helped each other. She was always there for me. She’s really good at keeping secrets.”

  “Are you sure we’re talking about my sister, here?”

  “She was a good friend.”

  George patted his huge arm. “I’m glad. Do the two of you still hang out?”

  His expression darkened. He reached for the pitcher and grunted a non-answer. Hm. She changed the subject. “Anyone special in your life lately?”

  “Oh yeah.” D grinned. “Casey’s the best boyfriend ever.”

  Casey didn’t even bat an eyelash. Smiling around the lip of his beer cup, he muttered, “Shut up.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, baby.”

  “I’m not worthy.”

  “Damn right you’re not. But hell, you don’t even make time for women. What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got things to do, that’s all,” he said, reaching for the pitcher and emptying the last of the beer into his friends’ cups before going to the bar to get a refill. “You know—work? You should try it sometime.”

  “Excuses, excuses,” Darryl shouted at his retreating back. Casey just waved over his shoulder without turning around.

  George decided it would be wise if she didn’t finish her fourth beer. She’d been to the ladies’ room five times and still felt her insides sloshing with alcohol. What was more dangerous than an impending hangover, though, was what the beer was doing to her thoughts. Just as the floor was tipping at a precarious angle, her opinions were tipping from “I don’t need no stinkin’ Casey Bowen” to the red-zone “God, he’s still beautiful.” When she started wondering if she could possibly find an entirely logical reason for him to remove his shirt in the bar, she knew it was time to go home. George reserved one hug for Darryl and gave everyone else, even Casey, a collective farewell. She didn’t look at him as she said her good-byes, but she could feel him staring at her again. She scooted through the crowd and out the door.

  The cool night air felt good on her prickly skin. She stood on the sidewalk just outside the bar and took several deep breaths, willing her buzz to go away, even though she knew nothing but time and several large glasses of water would do the trick. Good grief, three beers and her evening was over. When had she become such a lightweight? Well, she knew when—the Thom Era. He never drank much, just a glass of wine with dinner, mostly—he never went out to a bar with friends just to drink. And so neither did she, mainly because when she did indulge, she couldn’t bear the silent, disapproving look he gave her. And God forbid she ever actually got drunk, or even close to drunk. Then he really let her know what he thought of her. And his thoughts on a drunk Georgiana weren’t pretty. Or kind.

  No, wait. That was over with. She didn’t have to think about Thom anymore, and she certainly didn’t have to worry what he thought of her. So she wouldn’t. She shook her head a little and teetered a bit. How embarrassing. If only she’d worn heels, she’d have a real excuse for being unsteady. She wandered over to her Neon parked at the curb and leaned against it. This baby was staying put tonight. She patted the Pink Lady’s roof. “See you tomorrow, faithful steed,” she muttered, then pushed herself off the side of the car. Time to start walking.

  “Ma’am?”

  Her head wobbled as she turned it. She felt like she had to make an extra effort to keep it steady. A man in uniform stepped into her iffy line of vision. It was one of Marsden’s three police officers and, judging by his peach-fuzz complexion and full cheeks, the force’s newest recruit. Wasn’t he just the cutest, in a fluffy kitten sort of way.

  “Yes?” She hoped she was sounding dignified and un-slurry.

  “Is this your car?”

  “This one here?” She patted it again. “Why yes, it is.”

  “. . . George?”

  “Ye—” She looked closer at the officer. Behind her, s
omeone opened the door to the bar, and the music blasted out onto the sidewalk until it closed again. “Billy?”

  “‘Will’ now, but yeah.”

  “Didn’t I used to babysit you?”

  “Er . . .”

  “Yeah, I remember. You always used me for Nerf gun target practice. So, good career choice. Play to your strengths.”

  “Don’t antagonize the nice police officer, George.”

  Casey. Coming up beside her and making her jump a mile. Again.

  “I’m not,” she protested. “I just made a simple observation. And stop sneaking up on me.”

  He ignored that last bit. “You forgot your purse,” he said, offering it to her.

  Oh. “Thank you.” She accepted it from him and tried several times to put the straps on her shoulder, failed, and tucked it under her arm instead.

  Billy—Will, whatever—watched her carefully as she tussled with the misbehaving straps. “George, you weren’t thinking of driving home, were you?”

  “’Course not,” she scoffed. “I’m walking.”

  “That might not be very safe, either—”

  “I’m driving her home, Will,” Casey spoke up. “I’ll make sure she gets in all right. You have a good night, okay?”

  Casey grabbed her arm and steered her up the block toward Main Street.

  George dragged her heels and started to protest. “I don’t need—”

  “Now, now, none of that. Let’s get you home, Drunky McTesty. Before you get yourself in trouble.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “Get in the truck.”

  They stopped by Casey’s F-250 and he reached for the door handle, but George dodged around him and stumbled into the street, which fortunately was empty. He corralled her easily, since he was sober and she was wobbly, and he gently grasped her arm.

  “I can walk!”

  “I don’t think you can.”

  “Come on, let go! I want to see that.” She pointed with her free hand back toward the buildings nearby.