Part 5 (1/2)
”I'm being stupid, aren't I? I'm sure he feeds her all sorts of junk food-which she probably loves-and doesn't make her go to bed or brush her teeth. He gets to be the good guy, and I have to be the disciplinarian. I don't like that he tries to be her pal instead of her dad. d.a.m.n it, she needs a dad.” She added, ”And he's not even that good at being a pal.” ”
I know. But you have to remember that Erin is part of the equation, too. She's one of the smartest kids I know. No, she's the smartest. She's not taken in by her father's constant excuses. She loves him, but she understands what's going on, and she's dealing with it just like you are.”
Meghan groaned. ”G.o.d, that doesn't make me feel any better!”
The kettle began to whistle on the stove. ”What kind of tea do you want?” I asked.
”I don't want tea,” she said.
”Coffee? Wine? Scotch?”
”I want a beer.”
”Well, that we don't have.”
Meghan grinned. ”Well, let's go get one, then.”
”And dinner.”
”Yeah. And dinner. Greek food”
”Mmm. That sounds great. I'm starving.”
Pus.h.i.+ng her chair back, Meghan stood. ”Go get changed. We're leaving in ten.”
EIGHT.
I HURRIED UPSTAIRS. GOT out of my scrubby work clothes and into a freshly washed pair of jeans and a forest-green, long-sleeved knit s.h.i.+rt. I zipped on a pair of black ankle boots, applied a little eyeliner and lip gloss, and smoothed my hair back from my forehead, patting the thick braid down my back to make sure it hadn't come loose.
Downstairs, Meghan waited for me in the living room. She wore the same clothes-khakis with a b.u.t.ton-down white s.h.i.+rtand had run a comb through her curls.
Cadyville isn't exactly a rocking town. It shuts down early except for a few restaurants and taverns, and the latter don't serve any hard liquor, only wine and beer. We headed to the Greek and Italian place on First Street, where I indulged in souvlaki and Meghan had the spanikopita. We almost always ate at home, both to save money and because of Erin's schedule, but we both loved Greek food. Well, truth be told, I love most any kind of food.
While we ate, she updated me on what she'd learned from the funeral home. Then I told her about my visit with Tootie Hanover.
”So he told her he'd made an investment that turned out well?” Meghan asked.
I nodded. ”And he gave it all away. You'd think he would have spent some of it on himself. Forget a new truck, I never saw so much as a new s.h.i.+rt.”
”How do you know he gave it all away?”
”I guess I don't. Do you think there's more?”
”Could be. The investment could still be paying off,” Meghan said.
”But he didn't tell anyone about it,” I said.
”No, Sophie Mae. He didn't tell you about it.”
After we had shared a piece of decadent pumpkin cheesecake for dessert, I sat back and took a sip of fragrant after-dinner coffee.
”So, do you still want to go have a beer?” I asked.
”Yeah. You?”
”I'm up for it. How'bout we go into the Gold Leaf?”
Meghan wrinkled her nose. ”I was thinking more along the lines of Eldon's.”
”But Walter didn't used to hang out at Eldon's.”
”Ah. But he did used to hang out at the Gold Leaf?”
”Before he stopped drinking. I hadn't realized Walter was an alcoholic until Erin said that the other night.”
We shrugged into our coats and went outside. The pavement was wet, but for the moment it had stopped raining.
As we walked down the block to the tavern, Meghan said, ”Walter moved into that cottage soon after we bought the house. He seemed pretty functional, but his daily window of sobriety steadily decreased the first year or so that I knew him. Then all of a sudden he stopped drinking. He came and talked to Richard and me once, apologized for I don't even know what, and I figured he was working his way through a twelve-step program. He did the same with everyone else he had worked for in the neighborhood. As I recall, Richard was kind of an a.s.s to him.”
”Talk about someone who should be in a twelve-step program,” I said.
Meghan grimaced. ”If only.”
The door to the Gold Leaf was open, spilling rock 'n' roll onto the quiet street. Inside the doorway, a large tattooed man perched on a stool far too small for his behind. He checked our LD.s more from habit than necessity and waved us inside.
Layers of blue-gray smoke drifted on the air, gathered into clouds on the ceiling. On our left, three pool tables marched down the length of the room. The muted clacking of the b.a.l.l.s underscored the music and the voices, most of them male, which rose and fell in conversation. Ahead, a wide aisle divided the pool tables from the bar running parallel on our right. Here and there, small round tables held pitchers of beer and half-full gla.s.ses for the pool players. The whole place smelled of cigarettes and microwaved hotdogs. A shout of laughter erupted from the end of the bar, and as two men moved away, Meghan and I slid onto the stools they had vacated. On Friday night the place was hopping.
”Getchoo?”
”What?” I shouted.
”What. Can. I. Get. You?” the bartender repeated. He was nice looking, with long hair pulled into a ponytail and friendly green eyes. He smiled when he spoke.
Meghan ordered a Red Hook Hefeweizen, and I asked for the bitterest thing he had, which turned out to be the Red Hook India Pale Ale.
When he brought our pint gla.s.ses, I asked him, ”Does Walter Hanover still come in here?”
He reached under the counter, and a moment later the volume of the music lowered an iota. A guy at the other end of the bar protested, but the bartender ignored him. No one else seemed to notice.
”Walter Hanover? What's he look like?” the bartender asked.