Gringo

by Cass J. McMain

  “Oh.” She carried the lamp over to the side table and plugged it in. “I was out in the garage, probably. I’ve been cleaning the last of the closets out, organizing some stuff. I was probably out there looking for more boxes. It’s a terrible mess in there. I have to tackle that next.”

  The garage. He hadn’t checked there. Hadn’t she said she hated to go into the garage? “It’s not so bad. Just needs organizing, is all.” Dan picked out another wing and slid the box toward Ellie. “Have some. They’re pretty good.”

  She took a wing and nibbled at it. “I have got to get those tools out of there. You want them? Some of them at least? I hate to just give tools away.”

  “If you give them to me, you’re still giving them away.”

  Ellie threw her bones toward the trashcan and missed. “Well, that’s different,” she said, stooping to pick them up. “I mean, I’d rather you have them than just some stranger. If you can use them, that is. You may as well look at them. If not, I guess Goodwill. Or the shelter. The men’s shelter, they could probably use tools, you think?”

  “Or the women’s shelter. Women use tools too.”

  “True.” She picked out another wing. “These are good. They have a lot of meat. You could starve to death on wings, usually. My husband used to go dove hunting. He’d bring home all these little birds. I mean, doves look pretty big to start out with, but there’s hardly any meat there, you see. You have to eat five or six of the little things to feel like you had a meal… just made me feel like a monster, lining up all those tiny birds in a roasting pan.”

  Daniel thought about that. He’d probably have felt the same way. When he was a small boy, he’d thought of wings and drumsticks as just things you ate, not as parts of a bird. An uncle had pointed out (on a real live chicken at the petting zoo) where each part came from, and he hadn’t been willing to eat them for months. In the end, though, he’d gotten over it. Because if you didn’t eat things, you’d starve.

  Ellie tossed the last of the wing bones in the trash and washed her hands. “Thanks for the snack. You want to go look at the tools?”

  “I’ll be here on Wednesday to start up your swamp cooler. I’ll look then.” He stood next to her at the sink, looking out the window. It was on the tip of his tongue to warn her about leaving her windows open when he realized it was senseless: even if she closed them now, she’d have to have them open again for the swamp cooler to work.

  Chapter 47

  Billy helped Braxton climb up onto the barstool. “Give him a milk.”

  The boy made a face. “Dad. I want a real drink. Not milk.”

  “OK. How about a Coke?”

  “That’s just a soda. I want a bar drink, like adults.”

  “You’re too young for a real drink.” Billy ruffled his son’s hair and looked at Daniel. “Just give him a Coke. Put an umbrella in it or something.”

  “I could make him a Shirley Temple,” Daniel said. “That’s a good kid drink.”

  “Hey, yeah. You want a Shirley Temple, son?”

  Braxton eyed Daniel. “Shirley’s a girl’s name.”

  Upon discovering that the drink was named after a little girl, the boy wanted nothing to do with it. “No girl drinks. Give me a boy drink.” He folded his arms and looked at his father with mock severity, but he was grinning. They both were.

  Billy considered. “How about a Rob Roy? That’s for boys, right?”

  Daniel shook his head. “Not a Rob Roy; that’s got Scotch. You mean a Roy Rogers. That’s a good drink for a boy. You want one of those, Braxton?”

  Braxton nodded enthusiastically and spun around on the stool while Daniel mixed his drink. When it was passed across the bar to him he grasped it and gazed at it deeply. “Rob Roy Rogers! Look Dad. It’s a Rob Roy Rogers!”

  “Just Roy Rogers. Rob Roy is different.”

  “How come?” Braxton picked the cherry out by its stem and held it up. “That’s a cherry. It’s a marshino cherry.”

  “Maraschino.”

  “How come it’s different? Does Rob Roy have a cherry?”

  “Rob Roy has… what was it? Scotch?” He looked at Daniel, who nodded. “Roy Rogers hasn’t got Scotch.”

  “Oh.” He sipped at his drink thoughtfully for a moment or two, watching his father flip through a catalog. “What’s this drink made of?”

  Billy shrugged but didn’t look up from his catalog. “I don’t know son. Ask Danny. He’s the bartender.”

  Braxton made a half-turn on the stool, looking at Daniel. “You’re the bartender? Is that your job?”

  Daniel nodded solemnly. “It is.”

  “Because you work here. My dad works here, too.”

  “I know.” He leaned against the back bar and tossed his bar towel from one hand to the other, watching the little boy twist back and forth on his stool. Braxton. What a name. He looked mostly like his mother, but there was a little of Billy there. Around the eyes, the eyebrows maybe. He imagined the boy would be short and stocky like Billy, when he grew up. Hard to tell.

  “Do you know what’s in this drink?”

  Daniel laughed. “Yes. You saw me make it, didn’t you?” He relayed the ingredients to Braxton, whose eyes got rounder and rounder as he listened.

  “All of that’s in there? Dad, did you know there was all that stuff in it?”

  “No, son. I don’t know much about the drinks.”

  The boy pointed firmly at Daniel. “He could teach you to do it.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “I could. If your dad wanted me to. He could spend some time back here and I could teach him the basics.” He’d made this offer more than once before, but Billy had never shown any interest. Daniel wondered if it would be different this time, if somehow the boy’s interest in it would transfer over to the father.

  “I know, I should. I really should. Someday.” Billy clicked his pen shut and stuffed it in his pocket, looking around the bar briefly. He stood up. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on him for a minute. I need to go check on something in the office.” He ruffled the boy’s hair again and told him to be good, then he was gone.

  Daniel stood, blinking. Braxton spun around and around on the barstool. Each time he faced the bar, he tapped it with his fingers. Then he’d place his hands flat on the surface and push off, with a quietly whispered whoosh. He went around six or seven times, then stopped briefly and watched Daniel watching him.

  “What’s grendadeen?”

  “Grenadine. It’s a syrup.” Daniel pulled down the bottle and looked at it, then held it out so the boy could see it. “Supposed to be made from pomegranates, or used to be. But they make it out of other stuff now.”

  “What stuff?” The boy began spinning again. Whoosh.

  Daniel reviewed the ingredients. “This one’s mostly corn syrup and chemicals. Flavoring, it says.”

  “Corn syrup’s made out of corn. We saw a video at school.” Whoosh. “The teacher said it’s not good for you.”

  Margie came around the corner, tugging at her shirt and muttering. She slammed her tray down on the bar and grabbed the bottom of the shirt in both hands. “Look at this. This is ridiculous.” She tugged and tugged at it. “It’s so tight. And look how low the front is. He’s trying to make us all look like hookers.”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows and tipped his head slightly, looking at the little boy. “Braxton’s visiting today,” he said quietly.

  “I’m having a Rob Roy Rogers.”

  Margie drew breath in a hiss. “See. That’s exactly the problem with having kids in bars. It’s not appropriate. People say all sorts of stuff here.” She looked around the bar. “Where’s his dad?”

  Daniel shrugged. “Dunno. He went to the office.”

  “So you’re babysitting?” She flipped her tray back up onto her hip and ran her free hand along her hairline. “He better not try that on me. I won’t do it.”

  Braxton spun his stool around several more time
s, but didn’t say anything. After Margie left, he stopped and leaned over the bar as far as he could. He wiggled further and further up until he was lying across the bar. He surveyed the floor at Daniel’s feet. “I can see your shoes.”

  “I can see yours, too. You better get down from there.”

  “Why? I’m not touching anything. What’s that for?” He stretched and pointed to the tangle of tubes that snaked between the beer kegs and the taps.

  “That’s for the beer. Those are the taps.”

  “Taps? Why do they call it that?” He wiggled further onto the bar.

  “I don’t know. You need to get back in your seat, Braxton. I can’t let you lie on the bar. Customers won’t like that.” He made a shooing motion. “C’mon. Go sit down. One day you can ask your dad to show you all around back here, when we’re closed.”

  The boy dragged himself down off the bar, then adjusted his shirt. “How come that lady doesn’t like kids?”

  “Margie likes kids.”

  “She doesn’t like me.” Braxton leaned across the bar again, slowly, as far as he could without raising his rear from the barstool. “She said I shouldn’t be here.”

  “That’s because it’s a bar. She doesn’t think any kids should be here.”

  Braxton made a face. “Why? That’s stupid. What’s wrong with a bar?”

  Daniel looked around, not knowing how to answer. Take your pick, kid. What isn’t wrong with a bar? “It’s just a place for grownups, is all. When you get older you’ll understand.”

  “Do you have any kids?” The boy raised up out of his chair and stood on the foot-rail, elbows on the bar. When Daniel shook his head, he asked, “You got a wife?”

  “No, no wife either.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  Not anymore. “Nope. Free as a bird.”

  Braxton laughed at that. “Bird, that’s funny. Why are you free like a bird? They keep birds in cages.” He slid his arms further out across the surface of the bar, giggling. “How come you never got a wife? Don’t you want to have kids?”

  Now the boy was all the way across the bar again, with his shoes dangling over the edge and the laces swinging back and forth like vines.

  “Sit down, please. Before you get me in trouble.”

  Braxton slid back slightly, but didn’t get all the way off the bar. “Do you have a dog?”

  “No,” Daniel said. “Not exactly.”

  “What’s that mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “You don’t want one? Like you don’t want any kids? My aunt Becky doesn’t have kids either. She says she didn’t want to keep track of them.” Braxton sat back and began spinning around on the stool again. “What’s she mean ‘keep track’ of them?”

  Daniel rubbed his eyes. “Just that kids take some watching.”

  “Like how you’re watching me. But I’m not a really baby kid. I’m eight, so I do stuff by myself okay.” He paused briefly in his spinning to look at Daniel. “I have a dog. He’s a Beagle. His name’s Foxy. My dad picked that ‘cause Beagles used to hunt foxes.”

  “Ah,” Daniel said, absorbed by the quiet sense of unreality settling over him. Was he really babysitting an eight-year-old in a bar?

  He guessed he was. He watched the boy go around and around.

  Whoosh.

  Chapter 48

  He leaned sideways and shouted over the edge of the roof. “Ellie? Ellie! You hear me? Ellie?” He was having trouble with the swamp cooler. He’d expected this to be an easy task, but it hadn’t been. It was like Ellie hadn’t had her cooler serviced in years. There was scaly muck all over the thing, and the little tubes were crusty and stuffed up. He was glad he’d thought to bring fresh pads for it; the existing ones were almost nothing but hard, flaky crud. “Ellie!”

  She came out from under the porch and shielded her eyes with her hand, looking up at him. “Daniel? Did you call me?”

  “Yeah… do you have needle nose pliers? Or something I can use to hold this little…dammit. Hang on.” He paused to adjust his grip. “This little gasket thing, I can’t hold it in place while I tighten – dammit. I keep dropping it. Have you got some small pliers? Needle nose or something?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll look. Hold on a minute.” She went back inside.

  He fumbled around with the tube and the small copper connector while he waited for her to return. Damn swamp cooler. It was probably pretty old, but if she’d shut it down properly last season, it wouldn’t look like this, he was sure. His own was almost spotless despite being at least six years old, according to what they told him when he moved in.

  Daniel sat back on his ankles and armed sweat off his forehead, then wiped the grit from his wet hands off on his pants leg. Well, he was almost finished with it. Once he got this line tightened up, that was. He’d have to make sure it was shut off correctly come the fall, to save himself some of this effort next summer. If she hadn’t sold the place by then.

  “Daniel? I have this tweezer sort of thing…” She held it up, waving it slowly back and forth. “Will this help any?”

  He peered over the roof edge at her, then lay almost flat and stretched his hand out. “Let me see that.” He gripped it and pulled it up for inspection. “Maybe,” he said. But when he tried it, it didn’t work.

  “There’s all sorts of tools in there but I’m not sure what you need. I didn’t see any little pliers like needle nose, though.”

  “Hang on. I’m coming down.” He worked his way down the ladder and ran his grimy hands down along his legs again. “In the garage?”

  She nodded and held the door open for him. “Would you like a drink? Some tea? Lemonade?”

  “Sure, that would be great.” He slipped into the garage and began going through the toolbox that Ellie had left open. He’d halfway expected to find what he needed sitting right on top, but Ellie was right: there were none in the toolbox. No needlenose pliers. No pliers at all. He turned and began sifting through the items that were scattered on the workbench nearby. There had to be pliers here somewhere, had to. But there weren’t. He cast his eyes around the garage. How could it be so hard to find a pair of pliers?

  Ellie came in with a tall glass of lemonade and handed it to him. “Any luck?”

  He shook his head, sipping at the drink. “Not yet.”

  “There’s some tools in here, I think,” she said, running her hand along the side of a free-standing wooden cabinet. “It’s hard to get open, so I didn’t look there. I really need to clear out this garage and get rid of some of this stuff. Here, help me get this door open.”

  He gripped the handles and tugged until they opened with a hideous screaming sound that made his ears ache. “God, Ellie. You aren’t kidding.”

  “It’s old…it’s not lined up right or something. I quit trying to use it years ago and stuck it out here for tools. It’s an antique. It was nice, once.”

  Daniel ran his hands along the side of the piece. It really wasn’t in very good shape. One side of it was painted a ghastly blue, and there was a bottle opener nailed to it. And there were marks all over it, long gouges along the front. On the side that wasn’t painted blue, someone had marked lines and written on them in pencil. “Would take some refinishing, for sure. All these scratches and pencil marks. Who—” Then he realized what the marks were and stopped talking abruptly. They were height marks, where someone – maybe Ellie, maybe Herb – had marked the growth of their son, and later their granddaughter. Marks dug in with a pencil and a ruler, dates. So he stopped talking, but it was too late.

  Ellie reached out with a finger and traced some of the lines and her eyes took on a strange glossy, glassy look, as though tears were there but afraid to come out. “This was Herb, here. See, how tall he was? And here, this is my line. Jonah was so proud the year his mark was the same as mine. He said he was going to beat his dad. He never did though. Herb was taller.” She bent over and traced a line
about two feet from the bottom and then looked up at Daniel, sideways with her glossy eyes. “He killed himself. Did you know that?”

  “I… I did hear something about that. I’m sorry, Ellie.” Daniel let out a breath and then held another one. Who was she talking about? Jonah, or Herb? Did it make a difference?

  Ellie turned back to the lines on the cabinet. “So I told you, then. I didn’t remember telling you.”

  “You… no. A little. I heard about it.” He looked down at his feet and saw a pair of needle nose pliers sitting on the floor nearby. He stifled a snort and picked them up as quietly as he could. Ellie glanced over once and then returned to gazing at the cabinet.

  “I don’t talk about them much. I don’t like to talk about any of it.” Her finger went out again, shaking and slow, and touched a line about three feet up. “That’s the last one.”

  He bent slightly to look at it. Alicia, it said. The year was noted, and a smiley face was drawn on next to it. Now his own eyes unexpectedly filled up with tears and he blinked them back. Ellie looked at him but her eyes didn’t change; they still looked somewhat unfocused, like she was looking through him.

  “It was celery.”

  Celery. He shook his head. “What?”

  “The disposal. Celery, not bones. Remember?”

  He drew a sharp breath. “Celery’s not good for the disposal, that’s for sure.” Thinking she was changing the subject, he went on, “I found some pliers.”

  Ellie kept looking right through him. “I was making the dinner. Thanksgiving dinner. She was so tall, she could reach the sink.” Ellie paused, pointing to that last Alicia measurement… and then to one below it, eight or ten inches lower. “She couldn’t the year before, see, but that year she was tall enough. So I let her help with some of the kitchen stuff. She begged me to let her put the potato peelings in the disposal.” Now the tears in Ellie’s eyes did come loose and spill over the edge, but she didn’t seem to notice. “She was so tall, you see. And I was so… busy. Busy with the dinner. I chopped some celery for the salad and left some out for snacking. Dinner was still a few hours from being ready, and she liked celery with peanut butter on it, so… I left out some. Too much, really. Five or six stalks, cut into lengths. You know how you do. I left some longer for the guys.” She held her hands out to indicate the lengths, as though that mattered. “But it was gone, all of a sudden.”