Artwork? Megan’s eyebrows rose. What a coup if she could bring a valuable piece of art back to the Legal Services offices. They could sell it at their annual auction. Something like that might pay their operational bills for a year.
“I’ll miss it,” Mrs. Tucker continued, “but who knows? Maybe this could mean as much to someone else as that plate means to me.”
“Could I see it?” Megan asked.
“Of course.” Mrs. Tucker turned it around. The framed material was not canvas but lush black velvet. Megan’s eyes fairly bulged as she gazed upon the subject-or, more accurately, subjects: several bulldogs huddled around a poker table.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Mrs. Tucker said. “My late Herbert just adored it.”
“Did he?” Megan said evenly. “Herbert must’ve been an interesting man.”
“Not really. But he did love his bulldogs.” She pressed the picture into Megan’s hands. “Here.”
“Oh, gosh. I don’t know-”
“I insist.” She started back toward the house. “And thank you again. I have to decide where I’m going to hang my new plate!”
Megan nodded and waved. “Merry Christmas!” She turned, opened the car door, and tossed the alleged artwork into the backseat. “Jasper, meet your new bulldog buddies!”
Jasper grinned, and a huge pool of doggie spittle dripped down onto the passenger seat.
“Way to go, Rudolph.” She slid into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. “To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
3
“Just leave the bottle.”
“Carl, I will not leave the bottle.”
“I said leave it.”
“And I said no!”
Carl and the bartender hunched over the single-chair table and glared at each other, their eyes searing the void between them.
Carl Cantrell clenched the top of the whiskey bottle, his hand wrapped around the bartender’s. “I need a drink,” he said, slurring his words more than a bit.
“You’ve had a drink. You’ve had several drinks. And the day’s barely begun.”
Carl yanked harder, trying to get control of the bottle, but the bartender stubbornly refused. Their arms worked back and forth like pistons.
Joe the bartender stopped pulling, reached around with his other hand, and extended Carl’s arm. He saw the strip of torn shirt wrapped around his forearm, now stained with blood. “Jiminy Christmas, Carl. What’ve you done to yourself?”
Carl jerked his arm back. “It’s nothin’. Just a scratch.”
“A scratch? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. ’Cept I need a drink.”
“Forget it.”
Carl grabbed the bottle again. “I need a little somethin’ in the mornings. Just to get my heart started.”
“You keep drinking like this, your heart’s gonna stop dead in its tracks.” The bartender jerked the bottle free. “One more drink, Carl. That’s it.”
Carl made a hiccuping noise. “Then make it a double. I’m in pain here.”
“One more drink.” The bartender pulled Carl’s shot glass closer and poured. “And after that, I want you out of here. And I don’t want to see you around anymore. Got it?”
Carl’s watery eyes widened. “Whadd’re you saying, Joe?”
“You know what I’m saying. I don’t want you around no more. You don’t belong here.”
“Joe …” A lump seemed to catch in his throat. “I been comin’ here forever. Me and the boys-”
“You ain’t been with the boys for years and you damn well know it. Those days are done. You tossed ’em away with about ten tons of hooch.”
“But, Joe …” He reached out with his good arm and was embarrassed to see that it trembled. “This is my place.”
“This is a cop bar,” Joe replied, turning away. “And you ain’t been a cop for a good long time.”
Carl watched as Joe faded into the dark recesses of the bar. His head hung in place, seemingly frozen, as if he didn’t have the strength to move it. He felt tired and washed out.
His eyes had the misfortune to light upon the wall-length mirror behind the bar. He could see himself, draped over this rickety, unbalanced table like a human vulture. His face was drawn and his hair was a mess; he looked pathetic. His chin was dark with stubble. Come to think of it, he hadn’t shaved this morning, had he? Maybe not the day before, either. Maybe not since he lost the job at the hardware store-his fifth in a year.
Jeez. He pounded himself on the forehead. No wonder Bonnie wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t let him see his boy. He looked like death warmed over. If he’d bumped into himself on the street, he probably wouldn’t let Tommy talk to him, either. Just a bum, his son would think. Some worn-out, washed-up rummy. Keep your kids away. Don’t let them be infected by the thick smell of flop sweat. Don’t let them be contaminated by the man who reeks of failure.
He picked up the shot glass and downed it. The liquor burned his throat, coating his stomach with a new layer of confidence and self-respect. The sudden warmth surged through his arms, his legs, his head.
He felt better. But how long would it last?
One thing was certain-he wasn’t welcome at Joe’s anymore. Where else could he go? There weren’t many places open this time of the morning, and on Christmas Eve, no less. Most people weren’t bar-hopping on the twenty-fourth of December. Even most rummies had someplace else to go. Even the most pathetic drunks usually had a family.
But not Carl. Not anymore.
I’m all alone, he thought. The words were a relentless pounding inside his brain. I’m all alone.
He banged the empty shot glass down on the table, making it rock back and forth on its not-on-the-level legs. It wasn’t right. Not right at all. Sure, he’d been going through a rough patch. Times were hard. But that was no reason for Bonnie to bail out. That was no reason to take away his son, his Tommy, the only thing that still mattered in his life.
He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a creased and slightly torn photo. Tommy and him, three Christmases ago. They were standing in front of the tree, Tommy in his jammies going ape over the Dinosaur Mountain play set Santa had brought him. Carl sitting just beside him, grinning from ear to ear like the proud daddy he was.
Three Christmases ago. And in three short years, the whole damn world had changed. Tommy didn’t even look like this now.
Carl picked up the shot glass and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall on the opposite side, leaving a dark, dripping stain on the fading wallpaper.
Joe hustled out of the shadows. “I want you gone, Carl! Now!”
“I’m goin’. I’m goin’.”
“I’ll give you thirty seconds. Then I’m calling the cops.”
“The cops?”
“Yeah, the cops. You remember them, don’t you, Carl? The boys in blue. That nice shiny uniform you used to wear? Well, they’re gonna be in here to haul your butt to the pokey if you’re still around in thirty seconds!” He checked his watch. “Make that twenty.”
“I’m gone,” Carl muttered. “Thanks for everything.”
He shoved the photo back in his wallet, threw some money on the table, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. His arm twinged as he twisted it back into the coat sleeve, but the whiskey had deadened the pain just enough to make it bearable.
He stepped onto the sidewalk and was nearly bowled over by shoppers rushing both ways at once. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Of course they were, Carl thought. Everyone has places to go, people to be with. Everyone but me.
He spotted a group of carolers on the opposite corner, teenagers mostly. They were singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Whatever happened to the classic Christmas carols-“Silent Night” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem”? Nothing was what it was supposed to be these days. Nothing worked right.
He would have to fix things, that was all.
He remembered the look on Bonnie’s face when she finally told him Tommy wasn’t at home. Sad, pathetic, desperate. No doubt in his mind-she was telling the truth.