from bed and dressed in the dark.
The Dublin pub was almost as old as the town itself and it showed. Dark wainscoting skirted the room, the stucco walls grimed with damp patches like bedsores. A long cherrywood bar with a lip polished to a high sheen from generations of elbows. Dim wattage reflected in the hanging saloon mirror.
Three tables were occupied, all faces that smiled and nodded to Emma and Jim. The old man rooted at the end of the bar and the clack of billiards from the backroom, everything in its usual place. They took a table near the window and Travis dropped into a chair. Splayed out like a wet blanket. “Can we get those shrimp things?”
“Whatever you want.” Jim looked the room over, nodding and waving. “Hitchens is at the bar. I’m gonna say hi.”
“Ask if he’s still selling his John Deere,” Emma said.
Brian Puddycombe stood behind the bar pulling draft into a pitcher. Sleeves rolled up, a bar towel slung over his left shoulder. Puddycombe’s earlobes swayed when he turned his head quickly, droopy and loose, unnaturally stretched from patrons bending his ears with their sob stories. The pub owner knew everyone’s business but was trusted as a keeper of secrets, his discretion rewarded by repeat business.
He winced as his new waitress crashed her tray onto the bar, glasses tumbling, and wandered on, leaving the mess where it was. Puddycombe was shaking his head, the way one generation deplores its junior, when Jim leaned into the cherrywood. “Jimmy,” he said. “Long time. You all right?”
“Busy, you know. Who’s the new girl?”
Puddy grimaced. “Audrey. Graceful, isn’t she?”
Jim watched the girl bump into tables. “Murdy’s little girl? Last time I looked, she was in middle school.”
“Time flies. She just turned twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two?” Jim said. “Hell, that makes us old farts, doesn’t it?”
“Speak for yourself, old man.” Puddy set the pitcher down and held up a pint glass. “What’ll you have?”
“What you’re pouring.” Jim slid a few stools down the bar to a patron hunched over his pint. “What’s up, Hitch?”
Doug Hitchens dragged his eyes from the TV, his gut tucked neatly under the bar. “My blood pressure,” he griped. “Would you look at this shit.”
The Leafs were hosting Chicago on the big screen mounted under the saloon mirror. An original six showdown, Toronto getting pummelled. Hitchens grimaced, pumping a fist into his breastplate like the game was responsible for his indigestion and not the basket of suicide wings under his nose. “These bastards. Like my day hasn’t sucked rocks enough. Jesus.”
Jim forced a smile. Alongside the beer gut, Hitchens was a Canadian in the worst possible way and it irked Jim. A man who, despite having it all, loved nothing more than to complain about all of it. Still, it suited him. It matched his most Canadian of names: Dougie.
“How’s the farm?” he said, blasting Jim with stale Tabasco breath.
“Seen better days. You still trying to move that tractor? The 89 Deere?”
“Don’t tell me that old dinosaur of yours finally gave up the ghost.”
“What are you asking for it?” Jim winced. He’d meant to word it differently instead of plainly asking to be fleeced.
“You’re gonna take advantage of me now, in my hour of despair?” He thumbed the game, mock anguish on his face. “That’s just damn cruel, Hawkshaw.”
“I’ll drop by the shop sometime. When you’re sober.”
Hitchens turned to Puddycombe, pouring on the false shock. “Listen to him, trying to swindle a dealer.” He wrapped his hand over Jim’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Forget that old heap. I got a great Kioti loader on the lot. Like new. Twelve G’s. Just for you.”
“You’re upselling the wrong guy. Old and used is my budget. Less than.” Jim kept the tone hearty and inebriated but it still stung his cheeks, bartering down for a used-up piece of equipment.
Hitchens smiled at him, sensing a kill. “Maybe you better come by the shop. We’ll work a few options. But don’t even ask about trading in that relic of yours.” He turned and clocked an eye on Emma and Travis at the table. “I see ya brought the brood out tonight. You win the lotto?”
“Nope. A fresh start.” Jim clinked his pint against Hitchens’s glass.
“Ha. That’s a good one. Didn’t no one tell you there’s no such thing?”
Puddycombe snapped his towel at Hitchens. “Don’t ruin the man’s night out, Dougie. Go on back to the fam dam, Jim. And take this for Emma.”
Puddy slid a glass of house red towards him. Jim took up the drinks and retreated before Hitchens started up again. He manoeuvred back to his table just in time to see Audrey drop a tray of glasses and holler for the busboy.
Jim settled into his chair and laughed, knowing full well that Puddycombe didn’t employ a busser. The bar owner would be left sweeping up the mess himself.
“What’s so funny?” Emma said.
The meal was fine. Nothing spectacular, but satisfying. The novelty of it, Emma thought, considering how rarely they had a night out anymore. The break from routine and the exhausting task of deciding what to cook each night. Jim’s reasons for celebrating still didn’t sit well but she didn’t have the energy to argue the point. Why spoil the evening?
“You all right?” Jim touched her elbow as they stepped out into the parking lot. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m good.” She put a hand on Travis’s shoulder. “Did you get enough to eat, honey?”
Travis simply grunted and shrugged off her hand, wary of even the simplest sign of affection in public. That age. He underscored the point by belching as loud as he could.
She swatted the back of his head. “Manners.”
They heard the brawling before they saw it. Angry voices cursing blue into the night air. Parking lot donnybrooks were not uncommon outside the Dublin House but this was early. And a Tuesday night. Two men facing off between the parked cars. The younger guy Jim didn’t recognize, a hipster doofus in skinny jeans and tattoos. Not a townie, some college kid from nearby Exford or Garrisontown.
The other one Jim knew by voice alone.
Bill Berryhill was a monster in scuffed work boots and a stained T-shirt. Knuckles hardened to stone. Jim had known him since grade school and even back then Berryhill was a pissed-off asshole looking for a fight. Jim hated him but didn’t ever want to tangle with him. Who would?
“C’mon asshole,” Bill Berryhill bellowed, nostrils flaring like a bull. “Say that shit to my face!”
Clearly Hipster Doofus didn’t get the memo about avoiding ogres while visiting Pennyluck and had pissed off Berryhill. Not that that was hard. Simply existing was cause enough for Bill to want to scrap. Doofus was talking tough but he kept backing up, already losing. Berryhill shoved him hard, hurtling him right into Jim. Jim caught the windmilling man, kept him upright. Doofus threw him off like this was somehow Jim’s fault.
“Just fuck off, man!”
Exactly who Doofus was cursing, Jim wasn’t sure and now Jim was angry, being thrust into the middle a drunken brawl like this. Not that he let it show. He never did.
“Step up, princess.” Berryhill pressed in, thrusting his blocky chin at the outgunned kid in tattoos. “Where’s all that tough talk you had back in the pub.”
The guy slithered around and put Jim between himself and the ogre. Jim now taking the blast of Berryhill’s beer breath. How the hell did this happen? He put up a hand to hold back the bruiser. “Knock it off, Bill.”
Berryhill towered over Jim and Jim needed to get out of the line of his fire. “The fuck outta the way Jimbo.” Again, the nostrils flaring. “Her Highness needs to learn her manners.”
Emma pulled Travis out of the way but the boy squirmed around, not wanting to miss anything. She watched Bill lean in further, almost inviting Jim to take a free punch. She wanted to knock him one herself but knew Jim wouldn’t. He didn’t lose his cool or even raise his voice.
Hipster Doofus had clearly seized the moment and legged it. Vanished.
“Grow up, Bill.” Jim elbowed Bill aside and led his family back to their pickup. As much of an asshole as he was, Jim knew Berryhill wouldn’t pull anything stupid in front of his wife and son.
“Fucking pussy.” Bill’s parting shot, loud enough so they all heard it. Travis looked back but Jim turned him
