by Nash Summers
The bar was called Whiskey’s even though everyone in town knew it wasn’t named after the alcohol. It had been named after the owner, Hank’s, great-granddaddy, whose nickname had been Whiskey because of his smooth voice and the sharp aftertaste his words left in your mouth. At least that’s what people around town said.
I walked through the front doors, passing a few men and women standing outside smoking in the hot evening. Their eyes barely flickered when I walked past.
The inside of Whiskey’s was old and poorly decorated, not that anyone cared. Townsfolk who came to Whiskey’s didn’t exactly come for the scenery. One long bar ran along the right side, and shelf after shelf behind it of dust-covered bottles that had likely been there since right after Prohibition. The bottles twinkled amber and emerald and puce in the dim overhead lighting. A large ceiling fan that sputtered hung overhead, promising coolness that never quite touched the large room.
Mrs. Mayberry’s husband was easy to spot. He sat at a table with a bunch of men his age who all had the same patch of sunburned skin on the backs of their necks. He wore an old cowboy hat that I assumed was a permanent fixture since I’d never once seen him without it. The pint of ale he cradled in his hand spilled over his fingers each time he shook with laughter.
I walked over to the table with my hands in my pockets. None of them seemed to notice I was there until I hovered over Mr. Mayberry for a few moments. When his eyes finally caught on me, the laughter died.
“Hey, Mr. Mayberry. Marie sent me over to tell you to come home.”
He smiled at his friends while he laughed, and then looked back at me. “Ah, you’re a nice kid, Levi. I’m sure you had better things to do than come to the bar and tell an old man his wife needs him at home.”
I shrugged, grinning. “She gave me muffins.”
The table erupted in laughter as though this was the funniest thing they’d heard all night. Judging by the redness of their faces, it was probably one of many funny things they’d heard that night.
“All right, all right,” Mr. Mayberry grunted as he hauled himself out of the low chair. He pulled out his wallet and slapped a few bills on the table. “Don’t want to get in any trouble with the missus. She’d probably lock the house down.”
Another round of laughter from the table.
Mr. Mayberry slapped me on the shoulder and staggered out of the bar on wobbly legs. I thought about going outside to make sure he at least headed in the right direction, when a sudden feeling of unease gripped me.
I turned toward the bar, and sure as rain, Monroe was sitting there on a three-legged stool, long legs perched on the slats. He hadn’t yet seen me. The sick feeling in my stomach twisted and turned. I could leave and he wouldn’t know I’d been here. But somehow that felt impossible. And wrong. His shoulders were slumped, as usual. His head hung low as he stared into his half-full pint of honey-colored liquid. What would’ve been considered a five-o’clock shadow yesterday peppered his chin along his tight jaw. The stools all around him were vacant. The rest of the bar was busy with laughter.
When I slung my bag off my shoulder and sat down on the stool next to his, I didn’t think he even noticed me. He was absolutely transfixed, staring into his beer.
“Monroe,” I said gently. I reached out and touched his arm.
He flinched back, his head snapping up to look at me. “Levi. I didn’t see you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Trying to remind myself why I came back to Malcome.”
“Think of anything yet?”
He smiled sadly, his gaze sweeping over my face. “On the fence.”
“Can I get you something?” the gruff bartender asked. He wiped the counter in front of me with a dirty rag that looked more coated in grime than the countertop.
“A beer, please.” Turning back to Monroe, I asked, “So, why did you come back?”
He shrugged, took a sip of his drink. “Nowhere else to go—nothing else to my name. Nothing but that house.”
“You haven’t met anyone else since you’ve been gone? No friends?”
“Not really. Decent people can tell something ain’t right with me.”
For a split second, I wanted to tell him that that wasn’t true, that there was nothing wrong with him. But we both knew it would’ve been a lie. There was something very wrong with Monroe Poirier. He was a polished, shining new car, with the inside rusted throughout.
The bartender set the beer down and stalked off. Monroe watched as I brought the beer to my lips.
“So,” he said, “what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”
I shot him a look. “I’m not a boy.”
He took a swig of his beer and grinned. “Younger than me.”
“Maybe by a few years.”
“It’s those eyes, I think. They make you look young.”
“Where’d you go after you left Malcome?”
He paused for a moment. “New York.”
“City?”
“State.”
“What’d you do up there?”
“Learned a bit about cars. Met a man in Addison who owned a garage. Taught me how to do a few things with engines. Takin’ ’em apart, put ’em back together. That sort of thing.”
“Is that what you’re going to do now that you’re back in Malcome?”
He shrugged. “Figured I’d give it a shot. Work out of my garage. I can’t imagine most folks around here are willing to give me a chance, but I’m a good mechanic. They’ll come to me if they’re desperate enough.”
The bubbles floated to the top of my beer glass and popped when they touched the air. I swirled it around, both hands on the pint glass as I stared down at the bottom of the glass. “What’d you do when you left all those years ago? You were only—what—eight or nine? How did you get by on your own?”
Monroe turned toward me. He pushed his hair back off his face. The grin he gave me was practiced, fake, and effective. It stirred up that longing in my gut, shot into every nerve ending in my body. I felt that smile like he’d just run his fingertips up the back of my spine.
“What do you think I did, Levi?” His eyes were dead, clear pools. Nothing lurked there but emptiness, not even the darkness of his soul.
I swallowed hard. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
Monroe turned back toward the bar as if he’d instantly forgotten. I could tell by the set of his jaw that he hadn’t.
My heart sped. A sick feeling settled in my stomach, but not like one I usually felt when Monroe was around. I’d upset him.
“You know,” I said feigning casualty. “Dogs are good judges of character. And Coin seems pretty fond of you, so you can’t be all bad.”
Monroe threw his head back and laughed. “My, Levi. You say the sweetest things. Did saying something almost nice to me sting that bad?”
“It hurt a little.”
“Coin’s a great dog,” he said. “The best. I doubt there’s a better one out there. Can you believe I found him on the side of the road? Some jackass left him in a box in an alley. He was cryin’ the blues when I walked by. I got one look at him, at those big blue eyes, and knew it would’ve been impossible to leave him there.”
Monroe’s eyes were the same color, that disarming blue.
“What breed is he?”
“Louisiana Catahoula Leopard Dog. Pure bred, the vet told me. Not that I give a damn. He could be a mutt and I’d love him just the same.”
I couldn’t help the grin that broke across my face. Monroe stared at me.
“God, Levi,” he said. “When you smile like that—”
“Hey!” A meaty hand landed on Monroe’s shoulder. Monroe turned, and I looked up to see one of the local men standing there. “Your kind ain’t welcome here.”
Monroe immediately slid off the stool onto his feet. The man was a lot wider than Monroe around the middle and a few inches shorter. But the two other men standing behind him had similar sneers on their faces.
<
br /> They hadn’t been here when I’d arrived, and because they were all staring down Monroe, I figured they were men with something to prove. Word around town hadn’t been positive when it came to Monroe. Townsfolk talked about how he wouldn’t interact with the locals—not that any of them wanted him to—and that something wasn’t right about him.
The other week at the local farmer’s market, I’d overheard two women talking about him.
“I heard he was in jail for murder,” one woman told the other.
Her friend gasped. “Murder? You mean someone other than his daddy?” She’d shaken her head at the memory. “Something ain’t right with that man. That much trouble shouldn’t follow one person around unless he’s been askin’ for it.”
One of the vendors, a middle-aged man, piped up. “I heard he’s on the run. Got in trouble with some drug lord in Mexico. Owes him a ton of money.”
After that the rumors continued to circulate: Monroe had gotten a girl pregnant and was hiding from her wealthy family, Monroe was on the run from the law for living off the grid, Monroe never paid taxes, Monroe had murdered a man when he was a teenager and had been in jail up until now.
In a town as small as Malcome, rumors circulated quickly. Bad rumors circulated like wildfire.
I didn’t believe any of the stories about Monroe, not only because I didn’t want to. I knew the locals had a hard time understanding and accepting those who were different. Every now and again, I still heard rumors circulating about how I ate the heads off mice and prayed to Satan.
And then some people, like the men glaring at Monroe with no good reason, took those rumors as gospel.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Monroe said. His shoulders were squared, his spine rigid.
“Well, then you shouldn’t have come back to Malcome.” He made a spitting sound when he turned his face to the side. “You’re a curse on this whole town, and we all want you out.”
The men behind him all grunted in agreement.
“Listen,” Monroe snapped. The lights began to dim. The edges of the bar started to fade out, turning into black haze. My vision became obscure, sharp edges blending with smooth surfaces. I focused on Monroe’s profile, his tight jaw, the veins in his arms and neck when he balled his fists.
Monroe snapped something at the man. The man yelled something back. I didn’t know what they were saying. I couldn’t focus. I held my breath.
From over the top of Monroe’s shoulder, I stared at a pair of midnight-black eyes. They watched me, froze me in place. The serpent slithered over his shoulder, across his back, and then around his neck. It hissed and flicked its black tongue at me as it began to squeeze.
The portly man threw a punch that caught the side of Monroe’s face. I jumped off my stool as Monroe lunged at the man, knocking him over.
The bar exploded.
Chairs were thrown back, groups of men crowding around. A waitress screamed and ran to the back. The bartender leaned forward over the bar, yelling something I couldn’t discern over the noise or the ringing in my own ears.
Monroe punched the man, sending him sprawling backward. Another man joined in, trying to grab Monroe around his chest and tackle him to the ground. A boy I’d graduated from secondary school with, Billy Sanders, tossed himself into the mix. It was an unfair fight, and everyone in the bar knew it. Townsfolk huddled around, watching as the three men overpowered Monroe, sending him to the ground. They cursed at him when he was finally down, holding him there, keeping him immobilized with thudding kicks to his back, his stomach, his chest.
A glass mug from the bar toppled over, smashed on the ground. Shards of glass and honey liquid cascaded across the floor.
“Hey!” I slipped in between Billy and Monroe. “Stop!”
He shoved me to the side. “Back off!”
I grabbed Billy’s arm as he was about to reach for Monroe. “Billy, stop! This ain’t right.”
His fist impacted with the side of my jaw. I fell instantly, slipping on the spilled beer, tumbling fast, like gravity wasn’t the only thing pulling me down. I landed on the shattered glass scattered across the grimy floorboards. I pulled myself up awkwardly, shaken, looking at my arm. Jagged cuts began to wail crimson. The side of my head was wet either with spilled beer, blood, or both.
“You’re a freak, just like him,” Billy spat. “Always walking around talking to yourself. Maybe we should teach you to mind your own damn business.”
Darkness flooded the bar, the air, my lungs.
And I watched a man lose his mind when Monroe rose to his feet.
The other two men were immediately dragged to the floor, one of them cupping his bloody nose and screaming. The other was groaning, eyes unfocused as he stared at the ceiling, cursing someone’s name. And then Monroe was behind Billy. I hadn’t even watched him move from where he’d been tossed to the floor. Monroe spun Billy around by the shoulder, leaving him no time to see the fist that he rammed into his gut. Billy doubled over and Monroe slammed him to the ground. He moaned, arms around his stomach, but Monroe was on top of him in an instant. He fisted Billy’s collar, punched him in the side of the face. Blood splattered across Monroe’s forearms.
Blood pooled everywhere. From the man with the broken nose, or the one who’d been thrown to the ground only to land on a jagged piece of glass that lodged into the side of his arm. Or from Billy, and his battered head that hung helplessly on his neck, as though he were a ragdoll. Monroe was covered. Bloodied hands, bloodied face, bloodied T-shirt and jeans. Bloodied soul.
I called out Monroe’s name, but he didn’t hear me, didn’t see me. I could see his soul, then, that black snake. It owned him, controlled him, like a puppeteer playing with its marionette. It was coiled around his body, its long tail flicking against the ground. Black scales glistened in the overhead lighting, glittering like jewels.
The snake brought with it fading echoes of a purple haze, of tar tugging and pulling me into swamp waters, and then confusion set in as I was stumbling forward into the swamp behind the Poirier house. The water, thick like nectar, the trees black and looming like figures from hell. Water came up to my thighs. I dipped my hand in, cupping it, letting it spill through my fingers. The silence was deafening, hollow. Nothing could be seen through the darkness but the malachite tinge of the swamp waters and the dark shadows of trees and hanging moss.
My legs moved of their own accord, pulling me deeper into the dark waters. My heart beat slowly; my breath came easily. After a few steps, I sank to my knees. The thick water stopped at my chest—until it didn’t. It began rising, higher, higher, lapping at my collarbone, my Adam’s apple, my jawline. It kissed me, wantonly, lovingly. Nothing had ever felt so right, so intimate and secure.
Yes. I wanted it to fill my lungs, to seep into my pores, to cover my eyes with its darkness. I wanted an eternity with it holding me in its grip. I wanted it to be with me forever and always because it loved me so, and I loved it. My heart sang sweet, knowing lyrics, telling me we’d always be together.
But something stopped the water from rising. A gold shimmer in the back of my mind. Something told me not to breathe in the water I so desperately needed in my throat. Something told me to….
Monroe sat next to me on the floor, his bloody hands touching my face, cupping my cheek. He spoke my name softly, his brows low over his light eyes. The black snake around his neck stared at me, unmoving, unblinking. To the side lay Billy, coughing, groaning. A pool of blood surrounded him, seeped across the floorboards.
Monroe caught me staring at Billy and said, “My aunt was right—the devil lives inside my soul.”
I began to shake. The blood, the snake, the look in his eyes—it was all too close to the swamp, to the feeling I had when its purple haze swirled around me and threatened to strangle the air from my lungs.
Monroe snatched his hands back, wiped them on his jeans. He looked over his shoulder at Billy, who continued to roll around on the floor.
The sheriff and two
other uniformed officers showed up. All the lights in the bar were immediately turned on, and everyone was hustled outside. Monroe helped me to stand up, carefully, acting as though I was as breakable as an eggshell. I wanted to ask him if he was all right, but he was torn away from me in the small crowd.
The night was still hot, but the air felt cold against my shivering body.
“You okay, kid?” the sheriff asked.
I sat on the small porch attached to the front of the bar. My arms were crossed over my chest, my gaze focused intently on a trampled weed on the ground.
When I looked up at him, he gave me an uneasy smile. The sheriff’s hat cast a shadow across his face, but I still recognized him. We’d gone to the same school, the only school in the area. Everyone called him Dawson, but I thought I heard from someone once that it was his last name.
The khaki fabric of his uniform strained across his broad shoulders. His clean-shaven jawline was chiseled and angular, emphasized by the dramatic shadows cast from the bright streetlights. A few loose strands of sandy brown hair peaked out from beneath the brim of his hat. He kept his hands on his belt buckle as he looked at me—such a traditional cop way of standing—which made him look even taller than he already was.
I remembered the day he became sheriff of our little town of Malcome. Sheriff Wilson retired and had his pick of four other men, three of whom he liked but publicly always deemed incompetent. I’d served them a few times at the diner, and Sheriff Wilson seemed to like razzing all of them. When Dawson had been named Malcome’s new sheriff, a few people muttered about him being too green behind the ears. As far as I knew, and that wasn’t very far, he seemed like he was doing a fine job, not that there were too many rowdy people in Malcome. Until now.
“I’m all right, Sheriff.” My gaze fell back down to a pebble covered in dried mud.
“Wanna tell me what happened here?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him put his hands on his hips.
“There was a fight,” I said simply.
He barked out a laugh. It rang through the quiet night air like the snapping of a bone. “Yeah, I could see that. The place looks like an animal was slaughtered in there.”