But he was still a murderer, and would get no sympathy from her.
"Why don't you sit down a while, Barry," she said, patting the stool beside her invitingly just as Mr. Panelli sat down on the stool on the other side of Alex, the two of them still deep in conversation. "You're getting ready for the big New Year's tournament?"
"Yeah. It's going to be a tough one. You know, what with half the team only coming on board this week. Frankie Kelso's a good guy, but I don't know that he can plug the two-hole. I'll be ... well, I'll be bowling in the four-hole, taking your dad's place."
"It's the most important slot, isn't it?" Maggie asked, only an effort of will keeping her from batting her eyelashes at the man. But she couldn't play that dumb, not when she'd been listening to bowling stories for nearly half her life.
"It can be, if we go down to the wire. If the match is out of reach, then it means nothing, and everybody's already walked away to watch another match. But, to my mind, the two-hole is the big one, if you want to pull away, pull away fast, you know? Lead-off strong, follow in the two-hole strong, and you're already halfway there, you know? But like I said, Frankie's number two."
"Even so, the four, um, hole, is a big responsibility. But, then, maybe not for the captain of the football team the year we went to states, huh?"
"The year we won states," Barry said, grabbing Maggie's second slice of pizza and shoving half of it into his mouth. "I'm used to pressure. I do my best, under pressure. You should have tried me out, Maggie, back in high school."
"You didn't know who I was, back in high school," Maggie said, this time losing her smile. But she recovered quickly. "You and Lisa and the others—you were the in-crowd. I was the ... I don't know what I was. Maybe the square peg in the round hole?"
Barry leaned closer to her, to whisper his next words in her ear. "That's the round peg in the round hole, Maggie. You don't know what you missed."
Then, before Maggie could say anything—or slap his stupid, grinning face—Barry got to his feet, smoothed down his shirt, and told Joe Panelli he'd meet him back at the lane. "Gotta hit the head first."
"I'd like to hit the head—his head—with something really, really hard," Maggie said, swiveling to grab onto Alex's arm.
Joe Panelli leaned forward and turned his head to look at her. "Like they say your daddy did?"
Suddenly Maggie couldn't wait to get out of the bowling alley, out of Ocean City, out of the past that hadn't changed all that much in the present.
"They dropped the charges against my dad, Mr. Panelli. Didn't Mrs. McGert tell you when she was making her general announcement?"
"I know, I was just joking. Tell your dad to come by later on tonight if he can, okay? I owe him an apology. A big one."
Maggie softened, nodded. "I'll do that, Mr. Panelli. I know my dad would appreciate it. The past few days haven't been easy."
"Tell me about it. No, it hasn't been easy, not for any of us," Joe Panelli said, and Maggie saw his gaze shift to his left, as if he could see Barry Butts walking away from him. "And it's not going to get any easier when I have to tell Barry he's off the team. If your dad wants to come back, that is. But don't say anything, okay? I want to ask him myself, when I apologize."
He then stood up, slapped Alex on the shoulder. "Good seeing you again. And don't forget to come watch a while when you're done eating. Lane twenty-seven. We'll be here until ten or so. Oh, and be careful to be good to Evan's daughter. I hear he's a real killer. Just kidding!" he added quickly, laughing as he headed out of the snack bar.
Maggie and Alex watched him go, watched as another man came up to him and the two stopped to talk.
"You know who that is, Alex? Another trip down Memory Lane, that's who that is, well, minus that beer belly he's carrying around with him now, and the hair he's missing on the top of his head. That's Frankie Kelso. He graduated two or three years ahead of the rest of us—Lisa, Brenda, Joyce, and me. I remember Brenda walking the halls our senior year, though, with his class ring hanging around her neck on a chain—you know, like your quizzing glass? I was so jealous."
"If you wish to have my quizzing glass to hang about your neck, sweetings, you have only to ask. You were enamored of Mr. Kelso?"
"No. I was enamored of the way Brenda wore his ring around her neck. She looked so ... so self-satisfied, I guess. Now Brenda is a housewife—not that there's anything wrong with that—and her Frankie has just become a Majestic. Which means he'll be bowling three, maybe four nights a week until he's too old to lift the ball. Just like my Mom and Dad. History repeating itself."
"I promise never to take up bowling, sweetings," Alex told her as he helped her to her feet, positioned the walker for her.
"No, you wouldn't. Your hobby is sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Not that I'm sorry, because you've been great so far. But this Samaritan thing, Alex? You still want to do that?"
"There are many things I want to do, Maggie," Alex told her as they made their way to the last row of seats directly behind lane twenty-seven. "First and foremost, I want to get this over with and return to the city. I begin to believe I was not fashioned for the hinterlands. Joe Panelli inquired as to whether or not I'd be interested in purchasing two tickets to the pork-and-sauerkraut dinner on New Year's Day at the local firehouse auxiliary building. And I found myself very nearly saying yes. Adding to that, I have no idea what a firehouse might be, let alone its auxiliary. Firehouse, bowling lane—I now have to assume both are buildings, don't I? And just when I had become used to partaking of breakfast in a house of pancakes. Sometimes I can say I truly feel Sterling's pain."
Maggie laughed out loud, causing Barry Butts to look their way as he took his ball from the return rack. "As you've probably already guessed, Alex, a firehouse is where they keep the fire trucks, and the auxiliary is the wives of the men who are the volunteer firemen—or, saying it another way, the women who run the socials and pork-and-sauerkraut dinners. And, speaking of sauerkraut, if I remember my history at all correctly, the First George ate sauerkraut or cabbage all the time. Couldn't speak a word of English, he made the Royal residences all stink like boiled cabbage all the time."
"Before my time, I fear," Alex told her quietly.
"Yeah, I know. Your George is still regent, isn't even the fourth George yet, not in our books. But I did a lot of research before deciding which era I wanted to write in, you know? I'm still looking for a way to slip it in that the household of the first George had only a little less than one hundred people living together—and employed only one laundress. I have a friend who sets her books in those times, and she once told me she makes sure her heroine and hero end up going swimming in a clear stream or get caught in the rain at least once a book, because those guys weren't exactly known for their personal hygiene habits."
"And you're digressing for what reason?"
Maggie slumped down on the uncomfortable plastic seat. "I don't know. I guess it's because Dad is going to show up soon, and then you're going to do your thing, and it's probably going to get messy."
"Hi, folks!"
"And speaking of things getting messy ..." Maggie said, slumping even lower in her chair. "Hi, Henry. What are you doing here?"
"Same as you, I guess," he said as he carefully juggled a plate of nachos and a vanilla milk shake. "Hey, move down two, will you? One seat doesn't do it for me. Wanna nacho?"