Read Online The Cove by Ron Rash - Free Book Online Page A

times like this when doing so would seem high nosed and putting on airs. At the bank Chauncey had always known how to show customers he thought himself no better than anyone else. Sometimes it was using phrases like “lipping full” or “just as lief,” or offering his hand first to shake, yes sirring a farmer who owned nothing more than a couple of acres and a swaybacked mule, or rising from his chair when some snuff-gummed widow came in with her coupon book.
    â€œI’ll have the same as Boyce here, Meachum,” Chauncey said, smacking a half eagle on the varnished wood, “and a round for all at the bar. Whatever they want, and pour yourself one. We’re drinking to Paul Clayton, a true hero.”
    The old men offered slurred thank yous and tapped their shot glasses for Meachum to fill. The bartender drew Chauncey’s beer and set it on the counter with a shot glass. He poured the moonshine, then went down the bar and filled the old men’s glasses.
    â€œHave you another beer, Boyce,” Chauncey said, “long as it ain’t Schlitz or some other Hun beer Meachum’s hiding back there.”
    â€œI’m fine,” Boyce answered.
    â€œPour yourself one, Meachum,” Chauncey said.
    The bartender hesitated, then drew himself a beer and picked up the gold piece. The cash register chimed and the wooden drawer slid open. Meachum returned with four silver dollars, stacked them on the bar like poker chips.
    Chauncey raised his shot glass and the old drunks did as well. He looked at Meachum and the bartender raised his tankard.
    â€œTo Paul Clayton, a hero,” Chauncey said.
    He knew they were watching to see if he’d sip like a nancy pants or drink like a man. Chauncey tilted the glass and swallowed as if the shine was nothing more than a shot of sarsaparilla. It went down easier than he’d expected, an oily warmth settling in his stomach. He held the empty shot glass aloft for all to see, then set it down hard enough that the glass rang against the wood.
    A chair scratched and Chauncey looked in the mirror. The man with Estep muttered something and stood, his hand still on his stomach. Tillman Estep helped the man to the entrance, a brief unfolding of late-afternoon light as the doors swung. The man had come back from Europe convinced, though he’d had no wound, that his guts were torn up. A doctor in Asheville said it was because he’d bayoneted a German. Chauncey knew such things happened, had read about it in a pamphlet the army sent him. Sometimes snipers went blind or a man who’d shot another in the leg would become lame. Still, any shirker could playact such a thing to get out of the war.
    Chauncey began to feel the alcohol. Nothing much, just a soft buzzing in the back of his brain. He’d heard moonshine was twice as potent as bourbon, but he’d once drunk half a bottle of L & G and never slurred a word.
    â€œWhat do you hear about your nephew?” Chauncey asked. “They still think Paul to be up there awhile?”
    â€œThree more months,” Boyce said, staring at his glass as he spoke.
    Chauncey took a swallow of his beer and tapped his shot glass against the bar. Meachum came over and refilled it.
    â€œThat’s some fine white liquor you’re pouring,” Chauncey said. “When those doctors in Washington are done, all Paul will need is a couple of glasses of this and he’ll be totally cured.”
    â€œThat’s God’s own truth,” one of the old men said as Chauncey drained his shot glass. “It’ll cure most any ailings a fellow can have.”
    Chauncey swallowed and set the glass down hard again as the alcohol made its slow slide into his stomach.
    â€œYes, that’s quality whiskey,” Chauncey said, and winked at Meachum. “Whoever made it knew what he was doing. Right, Boyce?”
    â€œI’d not know,” Boyce answered.
    â€œOf course not,”