“They’re ogling and pointing. I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything.”
“Well, they’re probably ogling and pointing because I told them your husband dumped you and ran off with his secretary.”
“What? That’s not—”
“True? Didn’t think so. I took the liberty of concocting that little yarn to stop them from running you off the island. Now they can pity you instead of hating you.”
“Take it as a compliment. If you were as ugly as an ox’s ass, none of ’em would give a care.”
“That’s a creative interpretation.”
“I try.”
A girl in braids on the other side of the room called out, “Bingo!” and Ruth cursed, crumpling her cards.
“That brat. I was one N-31 away.”
“We could mug her for her winnings. She’s small. I bet you could take her.”
“Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that.”
Round after round came and went as Abigail allowed herself to get absorbed in the game. Every time someone would shout “Bingo,” Ruth would carp about the loss, then slide a new set of cards to her. When each game ended, people would decamp to the bar at the rear of the hall, where the food was served and a handful of men were stationed on stools.
“Our next round will be an X formation,” the bingo caller announced, swirling the ball cage. He was about to pull the opening number when Hank Scokes, the man Abigail had met at the Kozy Kettle, staggered in the main door, knocking over a sheaf of folding chairs. The clatter echoed and heads turned.
Hank was swaying, visibly drunk. He was wearing the same clothes Abigail had seen him in the day before. “Sorry,” he yelled in a mock whisper, before slipping on the chairs and falling to the floor.
Sheriff Larner leapt from his seat, prepared to drag Hank from the fire hall, but one of the guys from the bar came rushing to his aid. He was younger, the brim of his cap covering most of his face. He hauled Hank to his feet and was guiding him to the exit when Hank’s eyes locked on Abigail.
“Hey. I know you,” he said, as if she was a long-lost friend.
Now heads were turning toward her.
Then his tone changed on a dime. “Whaddaya think you’re looking at,” he sneered. The guy at his side squinted at Abigail, as though she was the one insulting Hank.
If Abigail could have willed herself to dematerialize, she would have.
“Nat, get him out of here,” Larner ordered.
The caller spun the ball cage again and tried to get everyone’s attention refocused on the game. “Check your cards, folks. Like I said, this game will be an X formation.”
Abigail was shaking, she was so humiliated. “That was…” she began, but didn’t finish because she couldn’t decide whether
Ruth chose for her. “Sucky. That was sucky.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Heart trouble,” Ruth replied.
“Don’t you mean liver trouble? He was plastered.”
“Hank’s wife passed away about six months ago. That’s his heart trouble.”
“Oh” was all Abigail could say. She experienced an abstract sympathy for the man, unwilling to associate herself with him or acknowledge that she had anything in common with a nasty drunk who made a scene. “Was that his son with him?”
Ruth scoffed. “Lord, no. That’s Nat Rhone. He works on Hank’s fishing rig. Bounced from boat to boat because nobody wanted to take him on full-time.”
“Why?”
“He has a helluva temper.”
“So why did Hank hire him?”
“There aren’t many people as ornery as Hank Scokes. Nat makes him seem like a pussycat.”
“Is Nat an islander, a native?”
“Nope. Came here about four years ago. Nobody knows where he’s from. Way I heard, last person who asked wound up with stitches.”
“Friendly guy.”
“Somewhere, sometime, somebody did Nat wrong. He’s never forgotten it.”
“Maybe his husband divorced him and ran off with his secretary.”
“Touche,” Ruth retorted. “The real bummer is, Nat Rhone’s the only decent-looking man on this island. Only it’d take a U-Haul truck to carry his emotional baggage.”
