“I Know You”

It’s slow, even for a Tuesday. The rain slicks sidewalks, streets, doorways, every corner of Olympia. The homeless shelter where they can, under bridges, in the parking lot behind the abandoned industrial park, protected by flimsy tarps, donated tents, anything that isn’t soaked or flooded. People scurry past the picture window, heads down, hands in pockets. No one carries an umbrella. Northwesterners can’t be bothered.

At the end of the bar George Thomas sits solidly on his favorite stool, watching the ballgame on the screen mounted to the wall. The volume on the television is off. The players stand poised, then move suddenly in response to the pitch, soundlessly, as if in a dream. At a four-top near the door the Banners hunch over their frothy mugs. They’re newlyweds, regulars, uneasy in each other’s company. Serenity asks if they need anything else, and the wife, Lisa, looks at her with pain in her eyes as her husband says they’re fine.

The Banners are a stellar example of why people shouldn’t marry. Once that ring goes on, it becomes a chain, Fidel says, which is why he and Serenity have lived together for twenty-six months with a clear understanding that no knot will be tied. He watches the game; Serenity polishes glasses that she’s removed from the dishwasher. The hard water leaves spots. She’s added that special liquid that’s designed to take care of them and never does. She’s told Fidel about it several times. He tells her the glassware is her department.

He’s a good bartender. He hasn’t been stumped by an order in a long time. The book he keeps under the counter was his father’s, who worked in one of the big hotels up in Seattle before he shot himself in the head. Fidel doesn’t talk about it, but Serenity knows Fidel’s mother made the man miserable. She wanted things he couldn’t give her, and in time, his sense of guilt lead him to pull the trigger.

Serenity’s tired. She works too hard. She cooks, cleans, manages their money, when they have any. They’re usually broke. The rent on the bar takes a huge chunk. Business has been bad for months. Last year, when her mother died, Fidel closed the place for two days. He said it was the right thing to do, but the lost revenue added to her grief.

The Banners go on their way. George Thomas has another beer. The baseball game continues. At the bottom of the seventh, three young women come through the door, shrieking, laughing, running their hands through their soaking hair. They’re dressed up, high heels, stockings, lots of jewelry. Maybe they’re students, but Serenity doesn’t think so. Students at the local college shun fashion, feminine trappings, no glitz and glam for them. Maybe they’re down from Seattle, though there’s much more to do up there.

They take a table. Fidel is out from behind the bar before Serenity can get there. He offers to hang up their coats. The blonde on the right give hers to him without a word; the brunette says the back of the chair is fine for her; the blonde on the left hands over her leather jacket with a smile the size of the Ritz.

Serenity thinks of her own hair, which is half blonde, half black. The die job is working its way down, her God-given raven shade replacing what came from a bottle. Fidel doesn’t like her with light hair. She doesn’t look like herself, he says. Because Fidel is handsome, he wants other people to be attractive, too. It bothers him when they’re not, especially women. He won’t have any trouble with the three at the table. It’s clear they know they’re good-looking. It’s almost as if they’re competing for who will win the pageant.

Left Blondie’s a shoe-in. Her sweater is tight, her breasts ample, her neck long and slim. The crucifix dangling from a thin gold chain only adds to the allure. Fidel is a lapsed Catholic, and used to tell tales of what Catholic girls are really like.

He takes their drink order, and scurries back to the bar. He’s amped, almost nervous, and splashes soda water down the front of his denim shirt. Serenity goes over to the table, and asks the girls for ID. They stare at her. She asks again. Wallets are exhumed, licenses slid out and handed over. Right Blondie is Cheryl, age twenty-two. Brunette is Megan, age twenty-four, and Left Blondie is Jill, age twenty-three. Serenity reads Jill’s last name.

“I know you,” she says. Jill stares at her sullenly, the brilliant smile gone.

“I don’t think so.”

“Your family lives on Division.”

“Who are you?”

“Nobody you’d know. But I knew your older sister, Lacey.”

Jill holds out her hand for her license. Serenity returns it, and the others, too.

Fidel appears, drinks on a tray, which he deposits with a flourish. The women laugh. Serenity doesn’t. Back at the bar, she says that’s Lacey Sandhurst’s baby sister over there.

“Who?”

“You remember. You worked on her car.”

“Oh, yeah. ’67 Mustang. Lived down the road. Saw me tinkering with my Chevy. Asked if I could help.” He wipes down the bar, leans into it hard.

“Uh, huh.”

“You never met her, did you?”

“I thought I ought to, you talked about her so much.”

“Just about the car.”

Lacey showed up at her door one night when Fidel was out with a friend, looking at a truck he wanted to buy. She played it cool, and asked if she could come in because their power’s out and she needed to use the phone. The square shape in the front pocket of her blue jeans looked a lot like a cell phone to Serenity. She let her in anyway. Lacey asked if Fidel were home. Serenity said no, he’d be back in a while. Lacey said to tell him she needed to talk to him, and he knew what it was about. Serenity said she’d be sure he got the message.

She never told him about the visit. They’d be watching TV, and his cell would buzz in his pocket. He’d look at the screen, and go into the other room to take the call. He’d say it was his friend with another truck he might look at, or wanting to borrow some tools. Once he said it was the bank calling back about the loan he’d applied for. It was after eight in the evening. Serenity said that banker was dedicated as hell. Not long after, the Mustang and Lacey were gone. The phone calls stopped. The loan fell through, he said, but Serenity has set up online access to their accounts. The loan came in and went to Lacey. Five thousand dollars. Just like that.

Serenity figures it was to get rid of a baby, not to have and raise it. Kids cost a lot more than five grand. She hopes she was wrong, because she doesn’t like the idea. People have a right to be born, don’t they? And to be happy? The Declaration of Independence even says so. And as for the liberty it also guarantees, boy, does Fidel take that one to heart.

Now here’s Jill, who looks so much like Lacey it’s driving Fidel nuts. Serenity bets he recognized her the minute she came through the door. Did she pick their bar because she knew Fidel worked there? That seems like a stretch. But Fidel is a man women go out of their way for.

Her mother warned her. “He’s got a roving eye,” she’d say. After she got sick, the comments were harsher. “All charm and no personality.” Her mother never got to know him, not the way Serenity knew him. And what she knows is that he loves her truly, but can’t stay true.

Women leave men like that for less. Women stay with them if there are children or money on the table, neither of which Serenity has.

George Thomas says it’s time to pack it in. He pays his tab, and meanders across the room in a slight zig-zag. He stops by the table where the women sit. He bids them a lovely evening, and makes for the door.

“God’s sure crying tonight,” he calls back over his shoulder. No one answers. He leaves.

At the bar, Fidel tells Serenity he has an idea. Something to boost revenue, bring people in, even on bad nights like this.

“Ladies Night,” he says. “You know, half-priced drinks for women.”

“It’s sexist.”

“So? If they come, the guys will, too.”

“Call it something else.”

“Like what?”

“’Ovary ovation.’”

“Get out.”

“’Unsung uteruses.”

“What’s wrong with you? I think it’s a great idea.”

“I don’t suppose that table had anything to do with it?”

“What, them? No. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

The three women order another round. Half an hour later, they want a third. They’re visibly tipsy. Jill has her eye on Fidel. She’s flushed. The ball game concludes. Looks like the Astros won. Fidel tells Serenity the ladies are too drunk to drive, and he’s going to call them a cab.

When he goes to the table to make his offer, they all groan, protest, giggle, and flirt. Jill says maybe he’s right, but she’s got her car a block over. She hands him they key. They all live near each other. He can drop her off last. One of her brothers can drive him home. Fidel confirms where she lives, and says he can walk, it’s only about a quarter mile. She says it’s raining. He says he doesn’t mind getting wet.

“You look like the cat who got the cream,” Serenity says when Fidel fills her in.

“Can you close up on your own?”

“I’ve done it before.”

He leans in for a quick kiss. She gives him her cheek.

“I won’t be late,” he says.

“Bet you will.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I know you.”

He doesn’t hear. He gets his jacket on, runs Jill’s credit card for the tab, hands it back, and helps them into their coats. They walk out, and head up the sidewalk, four across, arm-in-arm. Serenity stands at the door, watching them go. She turns the sign on the door from Open to Closed, and flips the latch. Before she lowers the blinds on the window she looks up at the sky, where the rain has stopped, the clouds have moved on, and a riot of stars are thrown in an ordered chaos, like wishes that will never come true.