they took the pictures, where was the secret? Unless it was like the Indians had said. They took your picture, you lost your soul. That might be something, the picture the thing itself. Like seeing an aura. They could bring that off, she thought, they might get more than they had bargained for.
• • •
By the time she reached Sweet Home, the fog had turned to a light drizzle and she decided that a glass of wine was in order—a little something to ward off the chill as she waited for the gas. She dropped the tank at Mike’s Travel Land for filling and proceeded to Bodine’s Tavern.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and there were only four cars in the lot. Kendra parked beside Pam’s brown Honda Civic and went inside, out of the rain. She could hear them at the dartboard as she climbed the stairs. An Iris Dement tape played softly in the background—a song about sweet forgiveness. Kendra stopped when she reached the landing. She listened to the sound of a dart striking the board. The sound was followed by a chorus of laughter that momentarily drowned out the music.
From somewhere in the dark interior of the bar came the sound of an ice machine spitting cubes into a tray. The song ended. Pam’s voice rose out of the void, some derogatory remark aimed at the weekend’s competition. Darts was considered a large time in Sweet Home. Bodine’s had a team, as did most of the other bars. There were leagues, tournaments, trophies, good times. Kendra had been invited to try out. She had declined, of course. She was that way. Tournaments would be won and lost. Trophies would change hands. It would all happen without her.
A toilet flushed in one of the johns behind her. A man she did not recognize stepped onto the landing, buttoning his jeans. The man was dressed like a logger, the heavy black pants, plaid shirt, suspenders, caulk boots. The man had unruly blond hair and a beard. He was not unattractive. He stared at Kendra for a moment, looking her over, then smiled. Kendra turned and went into the bar.
She caught Pam in mid-throw, left leg straight, right leg back and bent at the knee and ankle, toes touching the ground. Pam was a big-boned woman, and the pose—Kendra had seen it many times—always struck her as slightly ridiculous.
Kendra waited at one end of the bar, so as not to disturb Pam’s concentration. The throw was apparently on the money. Pam was in the act of waving her fist in the air when she caught sight of Kendra in the dim glow of the cigarette machine and stopped short, staring with such intensity Kendra was compelled to look over her shoulder. When she turned back to the room, she found Pam approaching her.
The larger woman took her by the arm and guided her to an empty table with such dispatch she was barely able to nod a greeting to the two men with whom Pam had been playing, although whenshe did, she had the feeling that they were looking at her in an odd way as well.
“What is this?” Pam asked her. They were seated against the wall, in a black Naugahyde booth. From the street below Kendra was able to make out the sound of traffic, tires on wet asphalt, the distant patter of rain on metal roofs.
“What?” Kendra asked. She was aware of the two men glancing in her direction, then looking away.
“Christ on a bike,” Pam said. “Don’t you know who you looked like, standing there?”
Kendra said nothing. The woman shook her head.
“You looked like Amanda,” she said. “I mean you looked just like her. The clothes were bad enough, you had to go for the haircut too?”
“I guess.” Kendra fingered a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. Until just yesterday, her hair had been long and black. In Eureka she’d had it cut short and added a reddish tint. There had been a few pictures of Amanda in the trailer, and Kendra had taken one with her to the salon.
“What did Drew say?”
“Nothing. It was just like with the clothes. The tattoo. He doesn’t say
• • •
By the time she reached Sweet Home, the fog had turned to a light drizzle and she decided that a glass of wine was in order—a little something to ward off the chill as she waited for the gas. She dropped the tank at Mike’s Travel Land for filling and proceeded to Bodine’s Tavern.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon and there were only four cars in the lot. Kendra parked beside Pam’s brown Honda Civic and went inside, out of the rain. She could hear them at the dartboard as she climbed the stairs. An Iris Dement tape played softly in the background—a song about sweet forgiveness. Kendra stopped when she reached the landing. She listened to the sound of a dart striking the board. The sound was followed by a chorus of laughter that momentarily drowned out the music.
From somewhere in the dark interior of the bar came the sound of an ice machine spitting cubes into a tray. The song ended. Pam’s voice rose out of the void, some derogatory remark aimed at the weekend’s competition. Darts was considered a large time in Sweet Home. Bodine’s had a team, as did most of the other bars. There were leagues, tournaments, trophies, good times. Kendra had been invited to try out. She had declined, of course. She was that way. Tournaments would be won and lost. Trophies would change hands. It would all happen without her.
A toilet flushed in one of the johns behind her. A man she did not recognize stepped onto the landing, buttoning his jeans. The man was dressed like a logger, the heavy black pants, plaid shirt, suspenders, caulk boots. The man had unruly blond hair and a beard. He was not unattractive. He stared at Kendra for a moment, looking her over, then smiled. Kendra turned and went into the bar.
She caught Pam in mid-throw, left leg straight, right leg back and bent at the knee and ankle, toes touching the ground. Pam was a big-boned woman, and the pose—Kendra had seen it many times—always struck her as slightly ridiculous.
Kendra waited at one end of the bar, so as not to disturb Pam’s concentration. The throw was apparently on the money. Pam was in the act of waving her fist in the air when she caught sight of Kendra in the dim glow of the cigarette machine and stopped short, staring with such intensity Kendra was compelled to look over her shoulder. When she turned back to the room, she found Pam approaching her.
The larger woman took her by the arm and guided her to an empty table with such dispatch she was barely able to nod a greeting to the two men with whom Pam had been playing, although whenshe did, she had the feeling that they were looking at her in an odd way as well.
“What is this?” Pam asked her. They were seated against the wall, in a black Naugahyde booth. From the street below Kendra was able to make out the sound of traffic, tires on wet asphalt, the distant patter of rain on metal roofs.
“What?” Kendra asked. She was aware of the two men glancing in her direction, then looking away.
“Christ on a bike,” Pam said. “Don’t you know who you looked like, standing there?”
Kendra said nothing. The woman shook her head.
“You looked like Amanda,” she said. “I mean you looked just like her. The clothes were bad enough, you had to go for the haircut too?”
“I guess.” Kendra fingered a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. Until just yesterday, her hair had been long and black. In Eureka she’d had it cut short and added a reddish tint. There had been a few pictures of Amanda in the trailer, and Kendra had taken one with her to the salon.
“What did Drew say?”
“Nothing. It was just like with the clothes. The tattoo. He doesn’t say
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