The Widow’s Saloon (Part 2 of 7)
Henry gazed lovingly at Vlorance through his spectacles. His eyes were the color of a summer sky that had faded over the decades into a softer, though no less beautiful, hue.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked.
Henry stood much taller than his wife, and though he was several years her senior, the way he looked at her still gave her the same lightheaded sensation she had felt when she was younger. He was stooped now, and his movements had been slowed by time, but he remained a powerful man. There was a surprising, steady strength in his grip. His hands were far more capable than those of men half his age.
When Henry died, Vlorance grabbed those same hands and squeezed them with all the desperation she possessed, but her husband’s mighty grip had vanished. His warmth was gone, and he had gone with it. As she laid his hands back down upon the sterile sheets of Dr. Geovini’s clinic, she became transfixed by a narrow strip of white blanket. It occupied the space where his ring finger had been. Staring at it felt like noticing Henry’s injury for the first time, all over again.
Chapter 3
The infection that took Henry’s life had moved with a terrifying, silent speed.
After the struggle with the stink-lizard, they had opened the side door and every window in the building to purge the musk before walking to dinner at the only restaurant in town: The Trawler.
They ate seafood, as was the custom in Harbor Side. Vlorance had spent her life in Catfish City, a bustling port that made this settlement look like the cluster of tents it had once been. While she was no stranger to food from the sea, she found herself craving the taste of beef or pork. It would be many months before she tasted either again. Despite the limited menu, dinner was a pleasant reprieve from the grueling work of renovating the saloon.
When dinner was over, they walked back to the two-story building through the cooling evening air. They retreated to the small apartment above their business and closed the door behind them. Downstairs, a hand-painted sign hanging on the front entrance read: Opening in 3 weeks.
Henry was dead in two.
Chapter 4
The grand opening of the Dotted Ox went forward, driven by an outpouring of support from a community that refused to let Vlorance fail. That night, it seemed as though every soul in Harbor Side had crowded into the room to pay their respects and buy a drink. What had begun as a somber, impromptu wake slowly transformed into something more akin to a loud celebration.
Laughter began to ripple through the crowd as stories of Henry surfaced. Nearly everyone in the room had known him from back in Catfish, where he had operated a hotel just a few blocks from the wharf. It had been a place of cheap rates and questionable deals, a sanctuary for those who did not want to be found. Henry, who worked the hotel’s front counter for decades, saw much, but never said anything—even when it had cost him his wedding ring and the finger in it.
As a result of his legendary discretion, Henry had left behind a legion of friends. Vlorance watched them from her post at the end of the bar, a small, sad smile on her lips. This is what Henry would have wanted, she thought. They nodded to her and spoke soft, kind words as they passed, their movements cautious and respectful.
The stillness was broken when someone pulled out a well-tuned six-string and started up a lively plucking. Then somebody else unpocketed a harmonica and played right along with the guitar. Alistair, a serving boy from The Trawler, dragged an empty bucket to a spot against the wall and sat on the ground with it clamped between his knees. Alistair was well-known in Harbor Side for two things: the lightning speed with which he could bus a table and his obsessive pursuit of rhythm. The young man could—and often did—turn anything into a percussive instrument, much to the ongoing dismay of his employer, coworkers, former classmates, and teachers. That night, though, his restless energy was exactly what the room needed.
As Alistair began to beat out a cadence, the other musicians were inspired. Tossing aside their somber restraint the trio played with a desperate eagerness borne of grief. They were still reeling from Henry’s sudden departure; it hurt for them to be apart from their friend. They played for him, every note a tribute to a man who had always made them feel like their ideas mattered.
Alistair struck the edge of the bucket’s underside with the joint of his thumb. A jolt like a localized lightning strike numbed his hand to the wrist, followed instantly by a throbbing ache. He stopped mid-beat to check the damage. A small, jagged cut had opened, but the sudden silence was more uncomfortable than the wound. The music died, and the entire saloon fell into a heavy, expectant quiet.
He blinked, watching as a single drop of blood fell from his thumb onto the white plastic of the bucket. It made a tiny, hollow tap. A second followed, then a third, the rhythm of his own heartbeat marking the silence.
The guitarist and the harmonica player looked down at him, their eyes wide and fixed. Their expressions were like those of two children who had just been told their favorite toy was truly broken forever. Alistair looked out at the rest of the saloon; people sitting, people standing in the cramped spaces between tables, everyone frozen with their drinks in hand. They all wore the same fragile expression. An ice cube shifted within a glass. In the deep quiet, the sound was like a crack of thunder.
Holding their collective gaze, Alistair lifted his injured hand and brought it down with a violent crack. He struck where the blood had pooled, sending a fine spray of red across the white surface. He winced, but he did not look away. He raised his other hand and brought it down. Thoom. He began to alternate, his hands becoming a blur as he gained speed. Thoom-thoom. Thoom. He hammered the bucket until his lungs burned and his breathing became a jagged rasp. Just as his muscles began to fail, Alistair threw his head back. His brown curls fell across his shoulders, soaked by a spreading dark stain of sweat. With the last of the air in his lungs, the young man let out a hellacious, soul-shaking scream. His voice rose without cracking until it filled every corner of the room.
Alistair’s hands kept moving—a blur—until consciousness was about to leave him, and then he suddenly stopped.
See more of Harbor Side and The Dotted Ox in Part 3
