Page 2 of Lady Sings the Blues

“Mark, huh?” I ponder over his name along with those eyes and that smile. Unfortunately, I’m sure I don’t know any Marks.

“Yep,” he cuts into my thoughts. “My mother named me after her dog.”

“She did?”

He nods his head. “He had a hair lip.Mark, mark, mark.”

“Ooo—” I tease, taking a step back from the bar with my drink in hand. “You were doing so well.”

“I was?”

“You were. Emphasis onwere.”

He folds his arms on the bar in front of him and leans in. “What if I said the drink’s on me?”

“Might get you back closer.”

“Might?” Mark stands up straighter again. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

And I realize within this exchange, I not only stepped back up to the bar but had slid myself onto a barstool in front of where the bottle of cider had initially come to rest. Lifting it to my lips, I salute him first before taking a long pull.

He opens his mouth, looking about to speak again. Which, I could listen to his stupid jokes for the rest of the day, when the door swings open hard, glass rattling as it hits the limits of the hinge. A woman steps inside, a horrible woman these eyes haven’t looked on in years, and when she does, all the good humor sweeps out of the room as the door swings back closed behind her.

Not near ready enough to deal with the attitude she’ll sling at me, for coming back to town again or still breathing, I slink down on the stool, using my hair to hide my face.

The bartender sees this. He sees, shooting me another one of his indecipherable looks. Wish I did, but in this moment I have nothing to shoot back.

Then he moves from behind the bar, approaching her in a familiar, yet unwelcoming manner, speaking in low tones for only the two of them to hear.

As uncomfortable as she makes it now, I suck down the rest of my drink fast, slap a couple dollars tip on the counter and scurry out of the bar while he keeps her distracted enough to do so. Too bad. He seemed nice.

But really, what do I need for nice? I’m here for one purpose, and one purpose only. Once that’s done, I never plan to step foot in this god forsaken state again. And they’ve all let me know how much they appreciate my plan, in no uncertain terms.

Can’t remember why I even ventured to step inside that bar again anyway. Except some really great times were had inside those walls. Too many memories in this town in general. Most of them good, until I remember the few bad outweigh the good by a million pounds or more.

The rumble of pipes thunders in the background, and I look up to see a motorcade of bikes traveling the road which runs along the parking lot, heading toward town. How many motorcades have I seen over the years? Once the warm weather hits in spring until the first frosts of winter fall, bikers use this route traveling from up north down to all parts south.

As my eyes follow the band of bikers, they land on one sitting alone kitty-corner from my car staring hard at me. His black, leather boots and faded denim-clad legs straddle a massive black and chrome machine. Dark shades and a black bandana with the bottom half of a skull printed on it, tied around his face from the nose down, conceal his features.

It’s as if he’s challenging me to turn away first. I feel a panic attack coming on from his intensity. It suffuses the entire parking lot. Though, I refuse to give in to the fear and attempt to swallow back the hard ball formed in my throat. When I don’t turn away, he quirks an eyebrow, nods his head, and rumbles out of the parking lot.

What was the point of the encounter?

Bikers creep me out in general. Ever since I was a little girl. Men showed at our house one night, one bleeding profusely. My mother freaked, but my father helped them. I don’t know why he helped, maybe his Hippocratic Oath come back to bite him in the ass. But I remember a giant man, all leather and chains, staring down at me with his black beady eyes outside our kitchen, where my father helped the wounded man. He ran the blade of a hunting knife up and down his calloused thumb. Every-so-often pointing the tip in my direction. No words. Intent clear. First and last time I kept the company of a biker. I shudder at the memory.

The door to Lady’s opens. The noise pulls my attention from where Mr. Scary Biker Man tore out of the lot back to where it should have been the whole time.

Her leg, the pencil thin leg of the one woman I not onlydon’t wantto deal with now, but Idon’t have it in meto deal with right now, hangs half out of a wide crack as if she stopped to talk again before leaving. Dressed for business in the obligatory thin, beige skirt suit, even though the woman hasn’t worked since college. And the only work she did then was to land her a rich husband. She’s probably inside, lecturing poor Mark, the bartender, warning him if he sees me to contact the mayor’s office right away. As the wife of the mayor, gossiping, manipulating, and strong-arming have become her fortes. She deals in them the way Mark the bartender deals in bourbon.

Better for us all she not see me.

I get back in my car.

Four missed texts. Two from the funeral home, two from people warning me not to linger in town any longer than I need to and that “they’ll be watching.”Great.Not that I don’t have enough on my plate this week. How could anyone down here possibly have my number?Right. They probably got it from Hadley.

Before I take off, I call the funeral home. They’ve put me on hold. While I’m on the phone, mayor’s wife Lenore leaves the bar. She only glances my way at my nondescript car, a sedan, a midnight blue Malibu, turning her nose up as she passes. Tinted windows keep her from seeing inside. Lenore drives a Lexus.

Hadley, my dad’s live-in girlfriend picked everything before I arrived here. His burial suit, the casket, the music, flower arrangements. Death is a racket, and she had no qualms about spending my money to ease her sadness. Apparently my one and only job is to fund this operation since my so blissfully in love father neglected to update his life insurance of which I’m the sole beneficiary. Just enough to cover taxes and the funeral. Which, after leaving me on hold for fifteen minutes, would be the reason given for why the funeral home had initially texted. They want their money.

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