Chapter 1
The jukebox erupted and Cleve Morrissey winced as the country song drowned in jingoistic patriotism. He held up his empty Budweiser bottle to signal he’d have another. The old man bartender put one in front of him.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Cleve said, cringing at the self-righteous lyrics. “Just stick to trucks, trains, and d-i-v-o-r-c-e.”
A man two stools over heard him.
“What’s that, pardner?”
Cleve swiveled his stool for a better look. The man was burly, bald, perhaps forty, and smiled pleasantly.
“Country singers,” Cleve said. “They should sing about what they know and leave the macho bullshit to real soldiers.”
“You don’t like Toby Keith?” the man said.
“Don’t know him.” Cleve sipped his beer.
“But you still don’t like him?”
“I don’t like hypocrisy,” Cleve said. “He makes money pushing fear, but did he ever lock up his country boy mansion and go fight for the big bad U.S. of A?”
The man mulled it a few seconds with a slight frown.
“Well, I reckon old Toby’s too damn rich for bullshit like that,” he said cheerfully.
“Good answer,” Cleve said. “You win a beer.”
Cleve signaled for the bartender to give the man a Bud Light and they raised their bottles in salute.
“To fake patriots,” Cleve said and the man nodded but didn’t second the motion.
“Obliged for the beer, pardner,” the man said after a sip. He got up and went down to the far end of the bar and sat with a young woman who’d just come in.
“Whatever,” Cleve said. He looked up at the bartender, who had stood there during the conversation.
“Mister,” the bartender said, “don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Cleve glanced out a window at the swirling snow and said, “Can’t help you with that one, chief.”
The bartender frowned and wiped the bar with a cloth.
“Well, damned if it ain’t an itch I just can’t scratch,” he said. “Can’t put my finger on it.”
“Always good to watch where you put a finger,” Cleve said.
“So they say, so they say.”
“Is that what they say?” Cleve hoped the man wasn’t the type who said everything twice.
“They do, they do,” the man said, his voice rising into an annoying high-pitch.
“Might have a shot of Beam on the side here,” Cleve said, hoping that putting the man back to work might discourage conversation.
“Believe I can do that,” the bartender said.
“Believe you can, believe you can,” Cleve muttered.
The bartender poured the shot, oblivious to the mockery.
“Well, like I was saying, it sure seems like I’ve seen you around, mister. But not for a pretty long time, I suppose.”
“Haven’t been around in a long time.” Cleve shrugged. “End of story. Mystery solved.”
Cleve tossed the shot of Beam down and enjoyed the burn.
“So, how long’s it been?” the bartender said.
“How long for what?”
“Since you been home.”
Cleve’s eyes narrowed.
“You taking a survey or something?”
“Not at all, friend,” the old man said. “I was just asking, that’s all. You know, making conversation.”
Cleve felt bad that he’d been prickly. He knew the old man didn’t mean any harm and so he offered a hand and they shook.
“Cleve Morrissey.”
The old man cocked his head to the side as they shook.
“I’ll be damned. Cleveland Morrissey? I’ll be go to hell.”
“Well, don’t go to hell, but nobody calls me Cleveland, Mr. –”
“Dalton. Homer Dalton.”
“Homer,” Cleve said. “So, how about another shot of Beam since you’re on that side of the bar, Homer.”
“Coming up – and on the house, my friend.”
“I’m not complaining,” Cleve said. “But how come it’s free?”
“I saw you play, in high school, Mr. Morrissey—Cleve. It’s the least I can do.”
Cleve did the math: He was forty-three and so high school was twenty-five years in his wake. Another century, really. On another planet.
“That’s some memory, Homer.” Cleve looked away for a moment, back out the window at the snow.
“You were the biggest thing that ever came out of here,” Homer said.
“That can’t be true,” Cleve said. “Had to be others.”
“None of them went as far as you did.”
“I didn’t go so far. And now I’m back.”
“You played for the Lions, for God’s sake.”
“One year,” Cleve said. “That’s all. Don’t make it into more than it is.”
“That’s a year more than any bum from around here ever did. Or ever will, I reckon.”
Cleve rolled his eyes.
“I was just a kid.”
“Well, you look good,” Homer said. “Like you’re still in shape.”
“To drink some Jim Beam, sure. But not to play for the Lions.”
“But you did play for them. That’s what counts.”
“If you say so,” Cleve said.
“I do, I do.”
Homer had a sillyass grin on his face that made Cleve chuckle. Apparently, the old man believed that one year could outweigh all the others. That was the wrong math, Cleve knew. Life didn’t add up so neatly as that.
“So, just where you been all these years, Cleve?”
Cleve finished his beer.
“Here and there, here and there.”
But mocking the old man had grown stale and now sounded simply mean. He regretted it.
“Been back long?” Homer said.
“Just got off the train and walked over here for a cold beverage.”
“Just tonight?” Homer shook his head. “You haven’t even seen the town yet.”
“There’s never been all that much to see.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Homer said. “Now we’ve got Wal-Mart down the street, and a Chili’s, out at the new strip mall. We’re coming up in the world.”
“Hallelujah, man,” Cleve said. “Maybe you’ll get the Olympics.”
“Well, it’s a start,” Homer said. “So, how long you here for, Cleve?”
“I’ll know when I know, I guess.”
It had been a long day. The Beam and Budweiser percolated throughout him. Cleve slid off his stool and put more than enough to cover his tab on the bar. He offered Homer a hand again and they shook.
“Don’t take any wooden nickels, Homer.”
“Can’t afford to, Cleve.”
Cleve nodded and pulled on his pea coat and black knit cap. His hair, still dark, had grown out long enough to hang out under the cap and tickle his neck. He grabbed his bag off the floor and felt the old man’s eyes on his back as he left. Outside, he jerked up his collar and walked several blocks, snow and ice crunching beneath his boots, and took a room at the Starlight Motel.
