brought a new thrill to the idea of the two of us sharing a dark table in an empty room. It was a thrill that might have been a fear under other circumstances, but I’d had quite enough of fear already.
“How long have you worked here, Bert?”
“At the Menger?” He looked up, calculating. “I’d say close to thirty years.”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Thirty years? But you, you look—”
He laughed, rich and rolling. “I started when I was a kid, back with the brewery. Not even ten years old. Runnin’ errands and such. I carried bags of barley as soon as I was old enough to lift them, carried blocks of ice as soon as I was strong enough to do that. Worked in the laundry, the kitchen. Pretty much wherever I was needed.”
“How did you end up behind the bar?” It was a reasonable question. A good bartender is a prestigious position, not usually attained by the kitchen help, and never, in my experience, by a man of any color other than white. Bert cocked his head and nodded, understanding the essence of my question.
“One day a few years back, I carried in a keg. It was middle of the morning, not a soul around, so I set it up, tapped it. Manager at the time came in, and I think was ready to tear into me, and I asked him if he wanted a beer. Nice and gentlemanlike. “Can I draw you a beer, sir?” And he looked surprised, like he didn’t know I could speak beyond ‘Yassuh, Mr. Boss-man.’”
He broke off with a rueful laugh, but I did not join him. In that single fragment of speech, he’d transformed himself from the elegant man behind the bar to something unrecognizable.
“The power of vocabulary and syntax,” I said, knowing my own past was riddled with simpering, cooing phrases.
“That, and a perfect pour. And silence about havin’ a drink before noon. He advanced me five dollars to buy a suit, get a good shave and a haircut. Told me if a single customer ever had reason to complain about having a Negro behind the bar, I’d be fired.”
“And what,” I said after a beat, “do you think he would say to finding you sitting alone, late at night, with one of your more desirable guests?”
He shrugged, letting me know he appreciated the humor of the question. “What do I care? He died years ago. Then Sylvan came, and he and I haven’t met but twice.”
“He doesn’t drink.”
“Not a drop.”
“And he leaves you to yourself.”
“I have it well under control.”
“I envy you.” My guard dropped enough to let a hint of wistfulness come through. His brow furrowed, and he reached a hand across the table. Close to mine but not touching. We both knew better than that. The inch of space between us carried the burden of centuries.
“Why are you in here, Mrs. Krause?”
I tapped the rim of my cup. “I wanted a drink.”
“You can drink in your room.”
“I can’t—I wasn’t ready yet to go to my room.”
“Why? Tell me.”
At that moment, everything that should have been a barrier between us dissolved, washed away by waves of tears. I wept as I hadn’t since my husband’s last breath, when I wept not only for the loss of him but because no one would truly believe my mourning. I wept then too as I did in this moment, for the woman I’d become. Lost, alone. I wept for what I couldn’t face the night before, for being frightened to the core and having no one to protect me. To soothe me. To reassure me that I was safe. I brought my hands up to cover my face, as if that alone could hide this horrific emotional display, and then I felt them—his warm hands wrapped around mine, tugging them away.
“Mrs. Krause? Did something happen?”
I opened my eyes and took in our grip. His finger grazed across my knuckles, stopping before touching my wedding band. The sight was mesmerizing, like a tiny ballet. My pulse eventually slowed, matching the pace of his touch. My breath grew steady, my eyes dry. My sleeve had hitched up, exposing the rash. This too he touched, a sensation as featherlight as the one that brought it.
Regaining my senses, I took my hand away and answered his silent question. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Mrs. Krause. I don’t know everything, but I do know that. Something happened.”