South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [84]
“Jackie was a difficult girl,” Arbutus said tentatively, and Madeline slammed a fistful of silverware into the sink.
“I don’t want to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I don’t. I don’t want to hear that she wasn’t bad, or that she was just young, or any of that. I don’t want any more half-stories or evasions or—or—or—omissions. If somebody can’t just tell me the truth, flat out, I don’t want to hear any of it.”
“All right,” Arbutus said.
Madeline bit her lips, tears leaking from her eyes. Oh God, she had yelled at dear Arbutus. But she couldn’t take it back. It was the truth, she did not want to hear the filtered, censored, rewritten bits and pieces. She took a scouring pad to the bottom of a kettle and scrubbed. Oh, she missed Emmy. She was just herself, to Emmy. Her little scaredy-cat who needed a night-light and a story at bedtime. Her artist. Her Cubs fan, her champion spaghetti eater, her best Monopoly opponent, her dear girl. Things here would never, ever be that simple.
Madeline felt a touch on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said to Arbutus without looking Up. “I shouldn’t yell at you, none of this is your fault.”
“I can take it. Talk to Gladys. I think it’s time.” Arbutus rolled away to her room, and Madeline followed to help her into bed.
Gladys did not come and she did not come and Madeline was more and more restless and angry. The little model world she’d built in her head, her vision of how everything would be, seemed shoddy and Unreal, exposed for what it was, a silly fantasy. What was she thinking, selling the apartment to buy an old relic of a building in the middle of nowhere? She was a city girl, a waitress, an orphan, the accidental progeny of a teenaged—hooker. She had no place here.
After Arbutus went to bed, Madeline paced around the house. The scene in the courtroom replayed in her head. Impatient with that, impatient with being cooped Up, she headed outdoors. She’d walk down to the water.
It didn’t help. She tromped away from the shore after a while, back to Main Street. She stopped for a moment outside the craft shop window, thinking sourly of her too-romantic ideas about life. A decent job with benefits, that’s what she needed. Sighing, she went on. There were a dozen cars and trucks outside the Tip Top, and the windows were open, letting the noise spill out into the street. The clamor sounded friendly, lively. People were having fun in there. Eating burgers, drinking beers, listening to music. She pulled open the heavy door. All this time and she’d never been inside. With any luck, Randi Hopkins wouldn’t be working tonight.
The bar’s high ceilings were covered in pressed tin painted dark green. High-backed wooden booths painted the same color lined the walls. Tables were wedged in close to one another, and at the far end was a pool table with a game in progress. A few people turned to look when Madeline arrived, but most went on with their dinners and drinks and conversations. She slid onto a stool and ordered a beer. The bartender was a middle-aged man in a T-shirt and jeans who served it with an automatic, Uninterested smile. Thank God, a lack of curiosity. “That all?” he asked.
“For now.”
He came around again half an hour later—the beer was only half gone, but he offered her another.
“How about a shot of brandy?”
He pulled down a glass and poured the shot.
Madeline swallowed it in one gulp and a wave of relaxation washed over her. “Give me another one of those,” she said, and he pulled another glass down. As easily as that, she was feeling just a tiny bit better.
She didn’t hurry through the second shot. She’d just sit and enjoy the novelty of it. How exciting to see Unfamiliar faces that might just stay Unfamiliar. (And