Giant Men and Violent Women

You'll Never Guess Who

ASHLEY

She's the only patron in the bar. A woman playing a reggae-folk beat on a guitar and the sounds of clanking glass greet me at the door. The regular bar singer, Mary Joe, is onstage in standard attire for a reggae-folk singer—wild hair, a T-shirt, jeans, jewelry made from the Natives.

Neon lights displaying the names of every tequila ever made are hung behind the bar. It's clean in here, and the patrons are polite. It's nothing like the walnut shells and brewery workers you'd see in a reggae-folk dive in New Hampshire.

Right now, Mary Joe is singing the classic "You Don't Love Me" because no music set can be complete without the guitarist singing that song.

And, now, I see her at the table. We've been meeting for a year now. I always liked her and wouldn't cut her off just because she decided to live her own life, her own way. Good for her. She and I meet every Thursday. And I have to admit, being here with her is always a welcome relief. She's happy. She's upbeat. And, even on her worse days, she's hopeful.

"Thought you were about to stand me up," she says with her usual flirty look, pointing at two glasses of tequila on the table. Her hair is different—thicker, longer, unusually tamed. Still nearly black, but it's different.

"Your hair is different," I say to her.

"Had dinner with his parents yesterday, so I had to look civilized." She runs her fingers through her hair. "His parents...oy vey..." She crosses her eyes at the thought of her future in-laws. "All they were doing was hounding me about Apocrypha Catholics and if I've ever spoken to the dead."

"Roman Catholics?"

"Of course."

She and I stand in front of each other.

"They asked if I could take them to the Battle of Chippewa coming up," she says. "They think us reenacting battles and allowing spectators to watch on the sidelines is cute. Told them, sure, I'm still friends with the guy who runs the league. That really impressed them." She winks at me.

I can smell her perfume. It's been the same for years—strong, distinctive, sweet. Just like her. I can tell why Mercer fell hard for her. I lean over to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"You smell good, as always," I tell her.

"I was just about to say the same. So, how was dinner tonight?"

"Painful."

"That's what you get."

"I know." I take a seat at the table.

"Ordered you a tequila," she says.

"Thank you." I take a long swig of it.

"So, what happened?"

"Hyacinth and Swanee were there."

"Get the fuck outta here! Please tell me you're lying."

"I wish I were." I take another swig of the tequila. "There was an empty seat at their table."

"Oh, I know my sister had a fit," Charlotte says of Louisiana. Yes, I have bar dates with Louisiana's sister. "Did Presley Ann show up?"

"No, thank God. But the night, needless to say, didn't go well. I just dropped Louisiana off."

"Your place or hers?"

"Hers."

"Oh, you're in trouble. I know my sister, and it ain't looking good for you."