Next day, talk of the mystery woman swept up and down the road. General opinion said she must be someone from the development up north. At the same time, opinion said, she could not be from that housing project because she claimed to wait for a local cop. The mystery woman had the kind of class usually wasted on rich bozos, not on bozo cops.
Sugar Bear drew further into himself. It is all very well to know that bad men must be stopped. To kill a man, though, is not something Sugar Bear’s morals can alibi. Sugar Bear did not then understand that in some less-than-sublime situations all choices are wrong.
He became testy with his work and testy with Chantrell. On some afternoons Sugar Bear closed shop, retreated into a nap, then woke toward evening. He walked through the night, or at least until just before clocks struck twelve. People driving home from Beer and Bait would see him shambling beside the road, or standing beside the Canal as he looked across its dark waters. When they offered him a lift he refused in low and kindly voice. On the following day, having snapped at Chantrell the day before, he would be gentle and sad; slipping Chantrell a couple of bucks which eased both their feelings.
When Annie began wearing dresses and being an absolute knockout, it seemed to soothe Sugar Bear. The reaction was not what Annie hoped for, but better than nothing.
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted to Bertha on one chill and drizzly summer afternoon. “I don’t even know much about the guy who got dead. It happened so quick it’s like it didn’t happen.”
“The guy was city, and city ways don’t work here. At least not those ways.” Behind Bertha’s shoulder, and mounted high up, a television, usually off—but turned on sometimes in afternoons or during ballgames—broadcast soap… somebody’s psychiatrist was boffing the teenage daughter of his patient’s deranged third-cousin twice removed… something like that.
“I get lonesome for him,” Annie said. “We’ve never so much as hugged, but I get lonesome. It was never this way before, even back in high school.” She reached to pet Jubal Jim who was about to settle in for a snooze. He licked her hand.
“It’s called a nesting instinct.” Bertha’s voice betrayed the same confusion Annie felt. “I don’t know if you ever get over it.”
“Spiffing up seems to work a little, but it’s working mighty slow.”
“It don’t pay to rush,” Bertha told her. “Sugar Bear’s a long way from being in the clear. Just hope he put that car in deep, deep water.”
The muted sound of tires crunching on parking lot gravel seemed to Annie like an invasion of privacy. “I’m really sad,” she whispered quickly. “I’m scared. When I get sad I do things that are really, really stupid.”
“Who don’t?” Bertha told her. “Take a strain. Customers.”
“…which of course,” a woman said as she opened the door for two other women, “is why she got in such a tiz. Gregory is an attentive man, but no hair dresser.” The women were clearly from the housing project up north, and clearly in the wrong pew. Bertha waited. A customer is a customer until the time comes when a bouncer is called for.
All three women were manicured, slim, in their fifties-going-on-thirty-five. Annie, accustomed to magic that only worked when it felt like it, didn’t give them a second thought. The women headed for a table in back.
“Ladies’ day,” Bertha called to them. “You kids can set at the bar. Saves steps.”
There came a hurried consultation, like the buzzing of a disturbed hive. The word “hopeless” clawed the air. Then thirst overcame indignation and the three turned, tried to stroll to the bar, although it is impossible to stroll at Beer and Bait. Walk or stagger, yes.
“It’s certainly not the country club,” one said. This one was the scrawniest of the lot, a tough little number wearing a purple dress. She spoke to the others as if Bertha and Annie were not there.
“Yes it is.” Bertha’s voice sounded pushy, cheerful, and brisk. “Limited seating.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Annie said.
“They’re from New York.” The scrawny one’s voice held admiration. She turned to the other women. “New York humor is special.”
To this day no one can explain that afternoon. Some sort of magic kept logging trucks from stopping, and boats away from the fuel pumps. The only male present, as far as any lady could tell, was Jubal Jim who napped mightily.
But, if a man had been sitting at a table in shadows, forgotten, and looking toward the bar, and if he was a man of depth, he would have imagined an assembly of butterflies on bar stools. Colors glowed orange and purple and green and tan; dresses and skirts as aery as wings, and Annie gorgeous in blue pastel. The ladies from the housing project gradually let down well-coifed hair, once they got their noses into their second round. There’s something extra relaxing about Beer and Bait on drizzly afternoons.
“This actually is lovely. A Grandma Moses sort of place.” This, from the green butterfly who was tallest, and seemed kindly. She spoke to the orange butterfly whose wings seemed wide above the bar top because she leaned on elbows; enjoying a place where no consultant on good manners would ever visit.
“I only wash the windows twice a year,” Bertha lied. “There’s stuff happens on that water you really don’t want to see.” Bertha decided to experiment. “Potato chips,” she told them, “are on the house. Stay off the pool tables unless you know what you’re doing.”
Annie suppressed a giggle. The purple butterfly blinked. “It’s a man’s game,” she said. “One of the curses of our existence.” She turned to the other butterflies, picking up a conversation that must have gone on before they entered the joint. “And then, my dear, in the very midst of playing house, you can just imagine who phoned her from the airport…”
“Explain about men,” Annie said, because, although Annie stayed with lemonade, Annie felt confused and out of sorts.
“Men are sorta unusual,” Bertha told her. “They come and go and do stuff they claim is important, and most of it amounts to diddly. Men are absolute suckers for feeling important. Men stumble around, do something major dumb, then claim they had the whole thing planned from the beginning.”
“Men play at being noble.” The purple butterfly took a healthy belt of her drink, then sniffed suspiciously, then giggled. “I’ve never drank with a dog before. Unusual.” She seemed about ready to wake Jubal Jim and offer him a sip.
“The last guy that tried to get that dog bombed is still on crutches,” Bertha said.
“Noble,” the purple butterfly repeated. “Men play at being noble. You can take that to the bank.”
“If I’d known what trouble the second one was going to be,” the orange butterfly said, “I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to divorce the first one.”
“You can hustle a man at pool when you can’t hustle a woman,” Bertha said, “’cause a woman don’t feel like her reputation’s on the line. A woman gets her reputation from interesting stuff.”
“Do you hustle, dear?” The purple butterfly emptied her glass, looked toward the doorway and probably thought of the chilly afternoon. She shivered. Pushed her glass forward for another. “I mean pool. Of course I mean pool.”