there was liquid in his throat.
She pulled her cell phone from her jeans and called 911.
She’d actually enjoyed the C-Beams. It had been a while since she’d seen a genuine bar band, a band that actually wanted the bar patrons to dance. She’d arrived at the Rusty Scupper just after they’d started playing and found a place at the bar, in between two sets of couples. She’d ordered a dirty martini—probably not the best bar to get a martini in, but she was craving one—and spun her chair so that she could get a look at the band, playing what she thought was a Kinks cover. She looked around the bar, trying to see if Matthew was there, but she didn’t spot him. She hadn’t yet decided what to do if he did turn out to be there. Probably just watch him. Try to make sure he didn’t see her. She was slightly disguised, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt. On her head was a knitted newsboy cap, something she’d bought several years ago but never wore.
The martini came, its surface dangerously close to the rim of the glass, and she dipped her head and took a sip of the salty, ice-cold drink. She felt somehow good in her disguise, completely anonymous. What would someone see, looking at her? She really did wonder, since she had no idea. She knew she was attractive, but she also knew that there was something off-putting about her, something cold that people reacted to. She lifted the glass and took a larger swallow. Across the U-shaped bar were two women, one in a Patriots jersey and the other with tight jeans, a shiny black shirt, and spiky hair. Hen caught one of them looking her way. At one point in her life, Hen had been intrigued by same-sex relationships. For no good reason, she sometimes believed that if she’d been a lesbian, her life would be more interesting than it was. She still thought it, even though she savored her uninteresting life.
The band was playing a song she didn’t recognize, and she assumed it was their own song. The Rusty Scupper had a small stage and a small dance floor, but people were actually dancing, even to the original. It was an unusual sight; Hen had become so used to going to see Lloyd’s favorite bands, mostly arty lo-fi bands that attracted men in jeans and black T-shirts and with the beginnings of a middle-aged gut who stood and appreciated the music, their arms crossed. Occasionally, some of them would bob their heads to the beat, but they never danced. Here, there were two couples dancing, plus a group of middle-aged women clearly out on a girls’ night. And there was a lone woman on the periphery of the dance floor, wearing a gray-and-white-striped T-shirt dress and high black boots. She looked too young to be at the bar, but she held a bottle of Miller High Life down by her thigh, and Hen could see that she was mouthing the words of the song. She must be one of the band members’ girlfriends, and Hen wondered if she was the one who got in the car with the lead singer that night at the Owl’s Head. It seemed likely.
She finished her martini—far too fast—and ordered a vodka tonic, telling herself to nurse it. Periodically, she’d look around the room, scanning faces for Matthew. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she passed a separate room that had two pool tables and wandered through it, just to make sure he wasn’t in there. A man asked her if she wanted to play pool, and she told him that she was just looking for someone.
“Oh, he’ll show up for you,” the man said. He wore a Lowell Spinners cap, and Hen wanted to tell him he shouldn’t wear a hat indoors, but remembered that she was wearing one as well.
“It’s a she.”
“Nice.”
Back at the bar, she felt a little light-headed and asked if they were still serving food.
“Kitchen’s closed, but we have potato chips.”
Hen ordered a Diet Coke and two bags of salt and vinegar chips. She thought of Vinegar, Lloyd’s cat, back at home, most likely asleep on Lloyd’s recliner in the living room. And then she thought of Lloyd, at Rob’s bonfire party. He’d be very stoned and talking rapidly with Rob or another one of his college friends. What would they be talking about? Years ago, it would’ve