Friday Nights

Chapter 7: Salt Of The Earth

Chapter 7: Salt Of The Earth

“Daddy?” Beth asked, blowing over the rim of coffee and raising it to her lips. The liquid—hot and rich—simmered in her mouth, washing the taste of grits from her tongue before travelling down her throat. She had her diary spread out in front of her, working diligently on her songs, her head bent so low her nose nearly touched the paper. She had her laptop open nearby to play a few songs softly through the built-in speakers.

Hershel sat opposite Beth at the kitchen table, glasses propped high on his nose and gaze trained on a neat line of writing in the local newspaper. He cast a cursory look at his daughter from over the top of his paper, quickly retuning his attentions to the price of beef and the yield of crops.

As he had long stared at the bottom of the bottle—numbing the tips of his finger with alcohol, again blurring the lines between right and wrong—Hershel had preoccupied himself with the most menial tasks when his thoughts were elsewhere. He would read every line of the paper, from the comics to horoscopes to community-minded articles. He would work to ensure there was a mug of coffee in his hand throughout the day to stave off from tasting an altogether different type of liquid. He would test the fencelike for weak spots, dissemble and clean his hunting rifles with a meticulous care, and sand and smooth and paint the walls of his large ole barn. Really make an effort to lick his farm up into shape—just so Hershel could feel like he had control of one thing in his life, like he still wielded the power to keep his daughters safe.

“Hmm?” Hershel made a noise of acknowledgment in the back of his throat, taking a slow sip of his drink. His sinus filled with the smell of burnt coffee grinds, his tongue swirling with the rich taste.

“Daddy,” Beth blinked, striving to maintain a steady voice, “Daddy, I lied to you.” Hershel glanced at her, his wrinkled brow furrowed in confusion. “Every Friday night I would tell you I was meeting up with friends in town, but I’d actually spend them at the Cherokee Rose Bar,” she said, unashamed of what her confession entailed.

“And exactly what were you doing at the Cherokee Rose Bar, Bethy?” His voice was methodical in tone, as to maintain an unbiased opinion throughout the conservation. He was a man who would rather understand a situation than stir up trouble because of it.

“Singing.”

A bushy white eyebrow arched—her daddy was curious. “Singing?”

“It was open mic night,” Beth explained, “and I hadn’t sung in public since . . .” she sucked in a shaky breath, steeling herself. “I hadn’t sung in public since Momma and Shawn died. I needed to do it, Daddy. I needed to be able to sing without seeing their coffins being lowered into the ground.” Her chin was set high in determination, calling on that Greene stubbornness. “I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life working at that diner, I just wanted to be somewhere nobody knew my name. I wanted to do the thing I loved to do. I wanted to be someone other than Beth Greene for a night.”

“And why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I met someone.”

Hershel lowered his mug to the table, folding his newspaper in quarters, now giving Beth his full attention. Whatever—or whoever—concerned his daughter’s love life concerned him.