and rigid jaw muscles. He heard her thank her mother as Cheryl tossed her a bright red beach towel.
Within a few minutes he watched Melanie’s bikini-clad, gangly young form cross the family room to get to her bedroom and some warm, dry clothes.
What was the threat to his married life? Where could he direct his rage? It wouldn’t be hard for him to hate Carl Bauer, but he knew Bauer was only a symptom of the problem. Cheryl had as much as told him that. There was nothing here for a man to come to grips with, to understand and fight.
Peterson watched his wife across the room. She was absently picking up a clutter of magazines Melanie had read that afternoon, fitting them one by one into the wooden rack by the sliding glass doors to the patio.
It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.
Peterson picked up his evening newspaper, opened it full-width before him to block out his view of the room, of Cheryl.
He sought solace in the sorrows of others, in the precise black-and-white world of newsprint.
TEN
“Y OU SEEN THE LATEST batch of outa town papers the mayor’s got?” old Bonifield asked Wintone from down the bar at Mully’s.
“Not yet,” Wintone said, swiveling slightly on his bar stool to turn away from Bonifield as a signal that he didn’t want to talk. What he really felt like doing was telling Bonifield what he, Wintone, wished the mayor would do with his out-of-town papers, but there was little point to that.
“They’re all interested in Colver now,” Bonifield went on. “Not long ago they never know’d we was alive, an’ now they’re askin’ how to spell our names. An’ I told plenty of ’em how to spell yours, Sheriff.”
Wintone didn’t thank him.
“I was careful not to mention nothin’ else, though. They was all interested in your personal life an’ all, how reliable an’ such you was. ‘No comment’ is what I told ’em.”
“Ain’t you got someplace else to go?” Mully asked Bonifield.
The old man curled a tobacco-darkened lip at him. “Sure, you can afford to drive off customers now.”
Mully chuckled hopelessly and shook his head. “I don’t see nobody in here but the three of us. This ain’t the kind of place tourists take to, not when they find out there’s no hard liquor.”
“Then you oughta serve hard liquor,” old Bonifield said. “Cater to ’em. This here’s your golden opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?”
“Didn’t I say golden?”
“Nothin I need gold for.” Mully began to wipe down the bar, though it was smooth and dry. “I promised Cora there wouldn’t be no hard liquor served in here, after her brother got killed in that fight. Don’t see any reason to break that promise now.”
“That’s all been fifteen years ago!” Bonifield said in exasperation. “An’ Cora’s been gone five.”
“Don’t make no difference,” Mully said calmly, but his face seemed darker, the fine-etched lines deeper.
“Don’t you ever hear ice crackin’ under you?” Wintone asked Bonifield.
Bonifield was finished with his beer. Turned on his stool, he leaned back against the bar and bit off a chew of tobacco from a brownish mass in a wad of crumpled wax paper he’d drawn from his pocket.
“Maybe I did speak hasty,” he said. “A man’s wife is never really dead to him, in a manner of speakin’, that is.”
Mully continued to wipe the bar, Wintone to stare into the disappearing foam of his beer.
“All I meant,” old Bonifield said to Mully, “was that maybe you oughta pretty up the place some. Maybe even get some entertainment. Then maybe folks from outa the area would take to comin’ here.”
“I got business enough to meet my needs.”
“Reserve,” Bonifield said. “I’m talkin’ about somethin’ you know you got an’ don’t have to spend. A cushion’s what I mean. Fer that rainy day folks talk about.”
“Ain’t never gonna be another rainy day around here,” Mully said.
Wintone cupped his hands around the
Within a few minutes he watched Melanie’s bikini-clad, gangly young form cross the family room to get to her bedroom and some warm, dry clothes.
What was the threat to his married life? Where could he direct his rage? It wouldn’t be hard for him to hate Carl Bauer, but he knew Bauer was only a symptom of the problem. Cheryl had as much as told him that. There was nothing here for a man to come to grips with, to understand and fight.
Peterson watched his wife across the room. She was absently picking up a clutter of magazines Melanie had read that afternoon, fitting them one by one into the wooden rack by the sliding glass doors to the patio.
It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.
Peterson picked up his evening newspaper, opened it full-width before him to block out his view of the room, of Cheryl.
He sought solace in the sorrows of others, in the precise black-and-white world of newsprint.
TEN
“Y OU SEEN THE LATEST batch of outa town papers the mayor’s got?” old Bonifield asked Wintone from down the bar at Mully’s.
“Not yet,” Wintone said, swiveling slightly on his bar stool to turn away from Bonifield as a signal that he didn’t want to talk. What he really felt like doing was telling Bonifield what he, Wintone, wished the mayor would do with his out-of-town papers, but there was little point to that.
“They’re all interested in Colver now,” Bonifield went on. “Not long ago they never know’d we was alive, an’ now they’re askin’ how to spell our names. An’ I told plenty of ’em how to spell yours, Sheriff.”
Wintone didn’t thank him.
“I was careful not to mention nothin’ else, though. They was all interested in your personal life an’ all, how reliable an’ such you was. ‘No comment’ is what I told ’em.”
“Ain’t you got someplace else to go?” Mully asked Bonifield.
The old man curled a tobacco-darkened lip at him. “Sure, you can afford to drive off customers now.”
Mully chuckled hopelessly and shook his head. “I don’t see nobody in here but the three of us. This ain’t the kind of place tourists take to, not when they find out there’s no hard liquor.”
“Then you oughta serve hard liquor,” old Bonifield said. “Cater to ’em. This here’s your golden opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?”
“Didn’t I say golden?”
“Nothin I need gold for.” Mully began to wipe down the bar, though it was smooth and dry. “I promised Cora there wouldn’t be no hard liquor served in here, after her brother got killed in that fight. Don’t see any reason to break that promise now.”
“That’s all been fifteen years ago!” Bonifield said in exasperation. “An’ Cora’s been gone five.”
“Don’t make no difference,” Mully said calmly, but his face seemed darker, the fine-etched lines deeper.
“Don’t you ever hear ice crackin’ under you?” Wintone asked Bonifield.
Bonifield was finished with his beer. Turned on his stool, he leaned back against the bar and bit off a chew of tobacco from a brownish mass in a wad of crumpled wax paper he’d drawn from his pocket.
“Maybe I did speak hasty,” he said. “A man’s wife is never really dead to him, in a manner of speakin’, that is.”
Mully continued to wipe the bar, Wintone to stare into the disappearing foam of his beer.
“All I meant,” old Bonifield said to Mully, “was that maybe you oughta pretty up the place some. Maybe even get some entertainment. Then maybe folks from outa the area would take to comin’ here.”
“I got business enough to meet my needs.”
“Reserve,” Bonifield said. “I’m talkin’ about somethin’ you know you got an’ don’t have to spend. A cushion’s what I mean. Fer that rainy day folks talk about.”
“Ain’t never gonna be another rainy day around here,” Mully said.
Wintone cupped his hands around the
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