of the town. Lena shuddered as she thought about it. Reece made Heartsdale look like a bustling metropolis. Except for the tire factory, most of the men in this room would have left a long time ago. As it was, they were content to drink themselves to death and pretend they were happy.
Lena slid onto the first vacant stool she could find. The country song on the jukebox had a pounding bass, and she leaned her elbows on the bar, cupping her hands over her ears so that she could hear herself think.
She felt a bump on her arm and looked up in time to see Webster's definition of a hick sitting down beside her. His face was sunburned from his neck to about an inch from his hairline where he had obviously been working outside wearing a baseball hat. His shirt was starched within an inch of its life, and the cuffs were tight around his thick wrists.
The jukebox stopped abruptly, and Lena worked her jaw, trying to make her ears pop so she didn't feel like she was in a tunnel.
Her gentleman neighbor bumped her arm again, smiling, saying, "Hey, lady."
Lena rolled her eyes, catching the bartender's eye. "JD on the rocks," she ordered.
"That'n's on me," the man said, slapping down a ten-dollar bill. When he spoke, his words slurred together like a wrecked train, and Lena realized he was a lot drunker than she planned ever to be.
The man gave her a sloppy smile. "You know, sugar, I'd love to get biblical with you."
She leaned over, close to his ear. "If I ever find out you have, I'll cut your balls off with my car keys."
He opened his mouth to reply but was jerked off the barstool before he could get a word out. Hank stood there with the man's shirt collar in his hand, then shoved him into the crowd. The look he fixed Lena with was just as hard as the one she imagined was on her own face.
Lena had never liked her uncle. Unlike Sibyl, she wasn't the forgiving type. Even when Lena drove Sibyl to Reece for visits, Lena spent most of her time in the car or sitting on the front porch steps, keys in her hand, ready to go as soon as Sibyl walked out the front door.
Despite the fact that Hank Norton had injected speed into his veins for the better part of his twenties and thirties, he was not an idiot. Lena showing up on Hank's proverbial doorstep in the middle of the night could only mean one thing.
Their eyes were still locked as music started to blare again, shaking the walls, sending a vibration from the floor up the barstool. She saw rather than heard what Hank was asking when he said, "Where's Sibyl?"
Tucked behind the bar, more like an outhouse than a place of business, Hank's office was a small wooden box with a tin roof. A lightbulb hung from a frayed electrical wire that had probably been installed by the WPA. Posters from beer and liquor companies served as wallpaper. White cartons filled with liquor were stacked against the back wall, leaving about ten square feet for a desk with two chairs on either side. Surrounding these were piles of boxes stuffed with receipts that Hank had accumulated from running the bar over the years. A stream running behind the shack kept mold and moisture in the air. Lena imagined Hank liked working in this dark, dank place, passing his days in an environment more suitable for a tongue.
"I see you've redecorated," Lena said, setting her glass on top of one of the boxes. She could not tell if she wasn't drunk anymore or if she was too drunk to notice.
Hank gave the glass a cursory glance, then looked back at Lena. "You don't drink."
She held up the glass in a toast. "To the late bloomer."
Hank sat back in his office chair, his hands clasped in front of his stomach. He was tall and skinny, with skin that tended to flake in the winter. Despite the fact that his father was Spanish, Hank's appearance more closely resembled his mother's, a pasty woman who was as sour as her complexion. In her mind, Lena had always thought it appropriate that Hank bore a close resemblance to an albino snake.
He
Lena slid onto the first vacant stool she could find. The country song on the jukebox had a pounding bass, and she leaned her elbows on the bar, cupping her hands over her ears so that she could hear herself think.
She felt a bump on her arm and looked up in time to see Webster's definition of a hick sitting down beside her. His face was sunburned from his neck to about an inch from his hairline where he had obviously been working outside wearing a baseball hat. His shirt was starched within an inch of its life, and the cuffs were tight around his thick wrists.
The jukebox stopped abruptly, and Lena worked her jaw, trying to make her ears pop so she didn't feel like she was in a tunnel.
Her gentleman neighbor bumped her arm again, smiling, saying, "Hey, lady."
Lena rolled her eyes, catching the bartender's eye. "JD on the rocks," she ordered.
"That'n's on me," the man said, slapping down a ten-dollar bill. When he spoke, his words slurred together like a wrecked train, and Lena realized he was a lot drunker than she planned ever to be.
The man gave her a sloppy smile. "You know, sugar, I'd love to get biblical with you."
She leaned over, close to his ear. "If I ever find out you have, I'll cut your balls off with my car keys."
He opened his mouth to reply but was jerked off the barstool before he could get a word out. Hank stood there with the man's shirt collar in his hand, then shoved him into the crowd. The look he fixed Lena with was just as hard as the one she imagined was on her own face.
Lena had never liked her uncle. Unlike Sibyl, she wasn't the forgiving type. Even when Lena drove Sibyl to Reece for visits, Lena spent most of her time in the car or sitting on the front porch steps, keys in her hand, ready to go as soon as Sibyl walked out the front door.
Despite the fact that Hank Norton had injected speed into his veins for the better part of his twenties and thirties, he was not an idiot. Lena showing up on Hank's proverbial doorstep in the middle of the night could only mean one thing.
Their eyes were still locked as music started to blare again, shaking the walls, sending a vibration from the floor up the barstool. She saw rather than heard what Hank was asking when he said, "Where's Sibyl?"
Tucked behind the bar, more like an outhouse than a place of business, Hank's office was a small wooden box with a tin roof. A lightbulb hung from a frayed electrical wire that had probably been installed by the WPA. Posters from beer and liquor companies served as wallpaper. White cartons filled with liquor were stacked against the back wall, leaving about ten square feet for a desk with two chairs on either side. Surrounding these were piles of boxes stuffed with receipts that Hank had accumulated from running the bar over the years. A stream running behind the shack kept mold and moisture in the air. Lena imagined Hank liked working in this dark, dank place, passing his days in an environment more suitable for a tongue.
"I see you've redecorated," Lena said, setting her glass on top of one of the boxes. She could not tell if she wasn't drunk anymore or if she was too drunk to notice.
Hank gave the glass a cursory glance, then looked back at Lena. "You don't drink."
She held up the glass in a toast. "To the late bloomer."
Hank sat back in his office chair, his hands clasped in front of his stomach. He was tall and skinny, with skin that tended to flake in the winter. Despite the fact that his father was Spanish, Hank's appearance more closely resembled his mother's, a pasty woman who was as sour as her complexion. In her mind, Lena had always thought it appropriate that Hank bore a close resemblance to an albino snake.
He
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