“Nobody is taking anyone anywhere except me,” I said, stepping between them. I pointed at Elliot. “Get in the truck. In case you didn’t notice there’s only one seat so you’re both riding shotgun.” He climbed in without saying another word. I was glad because I had no way to actually make either one of them do anything.
“Get in,” I told Burtis. He was still leaning over the front of the truck, ready to arm wrestle. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and held it up. “Don’t make me call Lita.” I fervently hoped he wouldn’t call my bluff because, like Brady, I had no idea where she was.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, hanging his head and climbing in next to Elliot.
I walked around and slid in on the driver’s side, leaning over to make sure they were both belted in safely. They smelled like this foul cough medicine that my father bought on the Internet from Canada. He swore by it but I thought it smelled like a mix of paint thinner and old-fashioned liniment.
“What were you two drinking?” I asked.
“Jäger Bombs,” Burtis said.
“We were taking a stroll down memory lane,” Elliot added.
“What is a Jäger Bomb?” I asked, thinking as I did that I was probably going to regret the question.
“First you need beer,” Burtis said.
Elliot nodded in agreement.
“Then you need a shot glass of Jägermeister.”
Elliot nodded once again.
“You drop your shot glass in your beer and bottoms up.” Burtis pantomimed the action.
“And then you’re bombed,” Elliot added.
They elbowed each other and laughed.
“Kathleen, did you know this man is my oldest friend?’ Elliot asked.
“Oldest friend?” Burtis said. “I thought I was your only friend.”
“Oldest friend, only friend, tomato potato,” Elliot said.
“So how did you two get to be friends?” I asked, shooting a quick glance in their direction.
“Well, he stole my woman,” Burtis began.
“Don’t start that,” Elliot said. “She wanted me.” He raised a finger in the air and hit the roof of the truck.
“The hell she did,” Burtis retorted.
Elliot shifted sideways to look at him. “Well, her tongue wasn’t in my mouth to check my fillings.”
“I laid you out before. I can do it again,” Burtis warned.
“You’re slow, old man,” Elliot retorted.
“Well you’re soft, pretty boy.” I didn’t need to look at them. I could hear the smirk in Burtis’s voice.
“Mary Connolly still got those great legs?” Elliot abruptly asked.
“Oh yeah,” Burtis said. “She works for Kathleen down at the library. You should go see her.”
“You mean Mary Lowe?” I said, slowing down as the car in front of me turned.
“She used to be Mary Connolly,” he said. He nudged Elliot with his shoulder. “That is one kick-ass broad. I’ll take you out to The Brick. She dances. Think feathers.”
I knew about Mary’s dancing. I decidedly didn’t want to think about feathers.
Burtis started to sing then, doing the intro to “Sweet Home Alabama.” Elliot closed his eyes and kept time on the dashboard. They sang all the way out to the Chapman homestead, finishing just as I pulled up in front of the old farmhouse.
“Thank you for the ride home, girl,” Burtis said, leaning forward to smile at me around Elliot.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I said.
“Don’t be a damn stranger, Elly May,” Burtis said to Elliot.
I came around the truck and walked him up the steps to the wide veranda that ran the length of the front of the house. He patted his pockets, found his keys and fished them out. I unlocked the front door and folded the key ring back into his hand.
“He’s a good man,” Burtis said, jerking his head in the direction of the truck.
I smiled at him. “Go to bed,” I said.
To my surprise he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “Sleep tight,” he said.
When I got back in the truck Elliot’s head was against the back of the seat. His eyes were closed. And he was snoring. I shook his shoulder. If he got into too deep a sleep I’d never be able to get him out of the truck and up to his room once we got back to the hotel.
He didn’t move. I poked him with my elbow. “C’mon, Elliot, wake up,” I said. He just kept on snoring.
Great. Now what?
I started the truck and pulled down the driveway. Elliot snored in a steady rhythm beside me, sleeping the sleep of drunks, fools and angels, as my mother would say. How was I going to wake him up and get him into the hotel?
I turned down the hill. I knew there was a length of clothesline and a couple of bungee chords in the back of the truck. I couldn’t come up with any way to use them to get Elliot up and into the hotel that wouldn’t draw way more attention to us than I wanted—and that would work. I could only think of one thing to do.
The snoring had gotten louder when I pulled into the driveway. I left Elliot in his seat, shut off the engine and walked around the back of the house. A light was on in the kitchen. That was good.
I banged on the back door and after a moment Marcus opened it, Micah at his feet.
“Kathleen, what are you doing here?” he said.
“Your father’s in the front seat of my truck, snoring,” I said, rubbing my hands together. It was getting cool now at night.
He frowned at me in confusion. “My father?”
I nodded.
“Why?”
“I was taking Burtis home. Your father called shotgun, not that there was actually anywhere else for him to sit.”
“Hang on a minute.” He held up both hands like he was about to surrender. “My father and Burtis were . . . ?”
“In the bar at the St. James.”
“Why were you driving them anywhere?”
This was taking longer than I’d intended. “Because Brady is in Minneapolis, Maggie is in a lockdown at the high school with Ruby and I have no idea where Lita is.” I looked over my shoulder. “I’m sorry about bringing him here, but it was that or leave him in the truck all night covered in a blanket.”
“Show me where he is,” Marcus said, resignation in his voice.
We walked back around the house and I pointed at the truck. Marcus leaned in on the driver’s side and took Elliot by the shoulders, shaking him. Then he pulled his dad along the seat and eased him out, putting one arm behind the older man and one in front of him for support. I slammed the truck door and went around to Elliot’s other side to help support his weight. We got him all the way around the house and inside.
“Living room,” Marcus said.
We eased Elliot onto the sofa and I grabbed a plaid throw blanket from the back and covered him.
Marcus looked down at his father. “How much did he have to drink?”
“A lot,” I said. “If it helps, they seemed to be having a good time, especially when they were singing.”
Marcus turned his head slowly to look at me. “Singing?”
“Lynyrd Skynyrd in the truck on the way out to Burtis’s place. Bob Seger in the bar at the St. James.”
He exhaled loudly. “Okay. That settles it. I can never go in there again.”
I put my arms around his waist and leaned up to kiss him. “Did you know your dad and Burtis were friends when they were young?”
He shook his head. “I had no idea. Neither one of them ever said a word about it.”
He walked me out to the deck. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay, can I?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve heard enough seventies’ rock for one night.” I planted a kiss on his mouth and went back to the truck.
* * *
I didn’t sleep very well. I kept dreaming that Elliot and Burtis had decided to take their music on the road and I had somehow gone along as their road manager. I was down in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes before six o’clock Saturday morning. Owen wandered in, yawned and sat down next to his dishes.