Drummond looked like a man in the aftermath of a head-on collision. No blood, no bruise, no break of bone, just the blank visage of abrupt metallic concussion. More accurately, he looked like the passenger of a crash who, upon confronting the trauma of what had just occurred, sits immobile on the curb, replaying the incident in his mind. When Ellen first caught sight of her husband planted at the bar of the Finnegan’s, cradling himself in whirring paralysis, she positioned herself awkwardly in the doorway. His oily brown hair was mussed, his eyes were bloodshot, and the light hit him in a way that made him seem a stranger. She watched him sit and stare and drink, until he acknowledged her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
“It’s just …”
“I know, Drum.”
Ellen went over the day’s events. She and Drummond had driven their friend and neighbor Mary Palmer to the arraignment, expecting the judge to accept formal charges against her husband, Pastor John Palmer, for domestic abuse. They bore witness when the judge postured, said his hands were tied, lamented his required role, and dismissed the case, citing a lack of physical evidence as the decisive variable.
They had stood with Mary at the doorway to the women’s shelter on Granger Street, waiting patiently for her to take the first step toward the door. Peering inward, Drummond volunteered to get gas for the car, promising to return before Ellen had finished helping Mary get settled. But he had not returned, and Ellen had waited, and she had grumbled, and she had lingered, for hours it seemed, before setting out on foot—and she had found him here, not two blocks from the courthouse.
Ellen listened to the drone of the bar, trying to match the surrounding sounds of exclamation with their progenitors. It was not an overly crowded night, maybe ten couples sitting and tables and another half a dozen at the bar, but the sound loop in the place seemed out of synch with the picture. Finnegan’s was one of the better bars in town, which meant that it offered more than three beers on tap, and the bathrooms were regularly cleaned. An old song was coming through on the jukebox—she remembered the tune but not the name. She could see that Paul, a veteran bartender, was seeing to another customer, mouthing the lyrics in dramatized elation. His oversized, untucked, short sleeved collared shirt bounced off his hefty arms and shoulders; the dim light of the room refracted off his bald head like a flickering candle.
Ellen let out a solitary laugh. “Who sings this song?”
“This is Jackson Browne, Call it a Loan,” Drummond said. “Paul seems to like it.”
Drummond always knew the singers’ names. As the moment’s levity faded, Ellen put one hand on the backrest of the stool next to him. It was one of those soft vinyl ones, dark red cushion on a stainless steel pole. It looked inviting, but she did not sit, and he did not look back at her.
“They play the same station in here all the time,” Drummond said. “The same songs, over again. Nothing changes.”
Ellen pried Drummond’s long-emptied drink from his grip and slid it away from him. She peered into the empty pint glass as if it were a periscope that could show her all the things beyond her line of sight. What panic had been coursing through him, in that moment on Granger Street, to flee like that? She pressed her thumb hard against the muscle tissue on the top of his hand, as if to say to him that his deepest fears were false: he was good, he was strong, he had done his part. She looked around the room and noticed Tom and Jenna Stevenson, a younger couple who also attended Pastor John’s church. They were toasting something, smiling, showed no signs of noticing anyone else in the bar.
“Drum,” Ellen said. “Every family within ten miles is going to know what he did. It’s not jail time, but he won’t go unpunished.”
Ellen thought about Mary’s blank expression when the judge dismissed the case, the look of a woman burrowing in. She wanted to tell Drummond he was mistaken, that they had made a difference last night when Mary appeared at Ellen’s doorstep late the night before, crying, heaving, retching, and reenacting a near-epileptic pantomime version of the incident. They had helped her call the police, helped today.
Yet she could picture Mary at the women’s shelter, trying in vain to sleep, shaking, shivering, emptying out, and she knew too well the kind of satisfaction her husband would want. She imagined Drummond driving to the preacher’s house in a fit of volcanic rage, standing on the man’s lawn in the middle of the night, and shouting for the criminal to emerge and answer for his sins. Was this the impulse coursing through him, a man who was often reluctant to roll through a stop sign, or drive above the speed limit? Or was it Ellen? Did some part of her wish that God would visit upon Pastor John the rage of a thousand vengeances? Tenfold retribution for a hypocrite.
Paul came around to Ellen, still standing, and Drummond, still deteriorating. The bartender was now mouthing the words to a song Ellen had never heard before. He made a circle in the air with his outstretched finger and, continuing to lip-synch, produced a facial expression that said concisely, “What can I get you?”
She leaned forward, waved at the darkest beer they had on tap, and moved her pointing hand like a windshield wiper from the coaster in front of Drummond to the spot in front of her where a drink would go. As she seeped into a slouch, the stool cushion gave against her lower back, cradling her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
“It’s just …”
“I know, Drum.”
Ellen went over the day’s events. She and Drummond had driven their friend and neighbor Mary Palmer to the arraignment, expecting the judge to accept formal charges against her husband, Pastor John Palmer, for domestic abuse. They bore witness when the judge postured, said his hands were tied, lamented his required role, and dismissed the case, citing a lack of physical evidence as the decisive variable.
They had stood with Mary at the doorway to the women’s shelter on Granger Street, waiting patiently for her to take the first step toward the door. Peering inward, Drummond volunteered to get gas for the car, promising to return before Ellen had finished helping Mary get settled. But he had not returned, and Ellen had waited, and she had grumbled, and she had lingered, for hours it seemed, before setting out on foot—and she had found him here, not two blocks from the courthouse.
Ellen listened to the drone of the bar, trying to match the surrounding sounds of exclamation with their progenitors. It was not an overly crowded night, maybe ten couples sitting and tables and another half a dozen at the bar, but the sound loop in the place seemed out of synch with the picture. Finnegan’s was one of the better bars in town, which meant that it offered more than three beers on tap, and the bathrooms were regularly cleaned. An old song was coming through on the jukebox—she remembered the tune but not the name. She could see that Paul, a veteran bartender, was seeing to another customer, mouthing the lyrics in dramatized elation. His oversized, untucked, short sleeved collared shirt bounced off his hefty arms and shoulders; the dim light of the room refracted off his bald head like a flickering candle.
Ellen let out a solitary laugh. “Who sings this song?”
“This is Jackson Browne, Call it a Loan,” Drummond said. “Paul seems to like it.”
Drummond always knew the singers’ names. As the moment’s levity faded, Ellen put one hand on the backrest of the stool next to him. It was one of those soft vinyl ones, dark red cushion on a stainless steel pole. It looked inviting, but she did not sit, and he did not look back at her.
“They play the same station in here all the time,” Drummond said. “The same songs, over again. Nothing changes.”
Ellen pried Drummond’s long-emptied drink from his grip and slid it away from him. She peered into the empty pint glass as if it were a periscope that could show her all the things beyond her line of sight. What panic had been coursing through him, in that moment on Granger Street, to flee like that? She pressed her thumb hard against the muscle tissue on the top of his hand, as if to say to him that his deepest fears were false: he was good, he was strong, he had done his part. She looked around the room and noticed Tom and Jenna Stevenson, a younger couple who also attended Pastor John’s church. They were toasting something, smiling, showed no signs of noticing anyone else in the bar.
“Drum,” Ellen said. “Every family within ten miles is going to know what he did. It’s not jail time, but he won’t go unpunished.”
Ellen thought about Mary’s blank expression when the judge dismissed the case, the look of a woman burrowing in. She wanted to tell Drummond he was mistaken, that they had made a difference last night when Mary appeared at Ellen’s doorstep late the night before, crying, heaving, retching, and reenacting a near-epileptic pantomime version of the incident. They had helped her call the police, helped today.
Yet she could picture Mary at the women’s shelter, trying in vain to sleep, shaking, shivering, emptying out, and she knew too well the kind of satisfaction her husband would want. She imagined Drummond driving to the preacher’s house in a fit of volcanic rage, standing on the man’s lawn in the middle of the night, and shouting for the criminal to emerge and answer for his sins. Was this the impulse coursing through him, a man who was often reluctant to roll through a stop sign, or drive above the speed limit? Or was it Ellen? Did some part of her wish that God would visit upon Pastor John the rage of a thousand vengeances? Tenfold retribution for a hypocrite.
Paul came around to Ellen, still standing, and Drummond, still deteriorating. The bartender was now mouthing the words to a song Ellen had never heard before. He made a circle in the air with his outstretched finger and, continuing to lip-synch, produced a facial expression that said concisely, “What can I get you?”
She leaned forward, waved at the darkest beer they had on tap, and moved her pointing hand like a windshield wiper from the coaster in front of Drummond to the spot in front of her where a drink would go. As she seeped into a slouch, the stool cushion gave against her lower back, cradling her.