30. Michael

The Boar's Nest hasn't changed a bit. I figured it'd be the same. Small towns don't change. And if they do, it's gradual, like evolution, something you wouldn't notice in your lifetime. The Dodge Charger is still there. The only glory this town has ever seen. And it's really not. It's an illusion. A hollowed-out vehicle set on the roof of the only business still afloat. The same men are bellied up to the bar. Older. Grayer. Less room between the bar and their stomachs. And the same bartender is slinging drinks. She's not young and vibrant anymore. She's grown into her acceptance of an unexceptional and mundane life, her appearance following suit. Nicole and Beth enter first, taking a pair of seats at the bar. All necks crane in their direction... not because they're lookers but because they're something new to look at. I can tell by Beth's shoulders, which are practically pinned to her ears—she'd rather be anywhere but here. That makes two of us. I suggested coming here because I couldn't stand being in that house anymore. Too many memories. Plus, I had to pry my sisters away from their "investigation" which has just been a chain of maybes. Nothing concrete. It's all speculation, and it's distracting us from what we're here to do... settle Mom's estate.

Beth looks to me and says, "Beer?"

I nod. I don't want one, but I'll have one. It's how I feel about most things in life.

Nicole and I take a seat on either side of her. My eyes flick to the clock on the wall. I know the time is off by at least forty-five minutes. Behind. Not ahead. A place like this would never be ahead. No one here cares though—because for them, there's nothing to look forward to, so you may as well slow it down, savor the futile moments.

Pool balls rack and crack. A dart thuds into a board. The jukebox roars a Toby Keith song. And there's laughter and chatter... All small distractions from their small lives.

The bartender slides a beer in front of me and smiles. Between her skimpy clothes, her bleached blond hair, and her Fake Bake tan, it's obvious she's trying to appear younger than she is. It's not working though.

"Hey, Michael. It's good to see you." I recognize her now. We went to school together. She was two grades above me. In another life, she didn't know me. In this one, she does. But I don't know her. Funny how things change. I tell her the same back because it's the polite thing to do.

She asks me what I've been up to. I tell her that I'm in California now and ask her the same, expecting a short answer... maybe a word or two, Same ole, same ole. But she goes on and on, dragging out the most pointless of things. She has two guinea pigs. She told me their names, but I already forgot. She's in cosmetology school or was in it, I don't know. She recently took up some dance fitness class, Roomba or Zumba, or something like that. It's always the least interesting people that have the most to say, like their existence would cease if they didn't speak of it. I know I sound cruel. But how else do you survive a place like this and manage to get out? A place no one knows about unless you tell them. You get perspective. A townie whistles at the end of the bar for another drink, putting an end to this fruitless conversation. I should buy him a drink as a thank you.

"First round's on me," Beth says, holding her glass up.

I clink mine against hers and nod. First born, first round. Makes sense. But as the last, the youngest, I know what that means. I'll clean up the mess.

"I'll get the next," Nicole says, and I know I'll actually be paying for her round, but I don't mind. Even though she's my older sister, it hasn't felt that way in a long time. Age doesn't always mean maturity. Sometimes it just means they've spent more time on earth, and the only things to show for it are diminished bones and skin etched with deep ridges. Not wisdom. Not value, just time. Nicole pulls out her phone and buries her head into it, purposefully turning her body away from us. Whatever she's doing, she doesn't want us to see it.

"So, what do you think?" Beth gestures to the bar.

"It's how I remembered." It's a truth... just not a whole one, and I've learned that's where life exists, in between the wholes and the halves.

"I actually haven't been to the Boar's Nest in years," she says, scanning the bar.

I'm not sure why she tells me that. Maybe it's her way of separating herself from the other locals. She sips her beer while a beat of silence passes between us.

"Did you ever think you'd end up back here?" she asks. I can tell it's not the question she wants to ask. It's just the one she starts with.

I nod because I knew I would. There are only two types of roads in Allen's Grove: ones that lead out and dead ends.

"Never wanted to, but here I am," I add.

Beth slightly frowns into her glass.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. My intention is never to hurt her. But I already have, just by being here, a reminder of what could have been. It's one of the reasons I didn't want to come back. No one wants to be someone else's monster.

Beth's frown becomes a straight line, and she nods. She's not saying she forgives me. She's saying she'll let it go... for now.

"Cheers," Nicole says, rejoining the conversation. Her cell phone is stowed away again. She clinks a vodka soda against our beers. We all toast, strained smiles from me and Beth. It's the polite way to treat an addict. Thank you for being here with us... still.

Nicole slurps nearly half of her drink, and her lips relax as she releases the straw. I consider telling her to slow down, but I know she'd do the opposite, so I keep my mouth shut.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" Nicole asks.

She's referring to Mom's funeral, if it can even be qualified as one. We haven't really talked about it, aside from listening to the instructions from the lawyer, that her ashes should be spread around our land. It feels so lackluster. Like emptying a dustpan into a garbage can.

"We'll walk the property and spread her ashes at sunset," Beth explains. "It was her favorite time of day, when the sun would slide past the horizon, creating a mosaic of colors. Mom said it was the only thing she could count on in life." She gulps her beer.

"That's pretty depressing," I say.

"Well, do you blame her?" Beth looks to me. "Knowing what we know now."

Nicole leans over the bar, so she can address both of us. "I'd like to read something I wrote at Mom's funeral."

I'm not sure if she's asking for permission or just telling us.

Beth nods. "That's fine. Also, Lucas and Susan are stopping by... just for a bit."

Nicole's eyes double in size. "What? Why?"

Beth shushes her. "Because he asked. And what was I supposed to say? ‘That's not a good idea, because my mom and dad had something to do with your sister's disappearance, so it'll be awkward for us'?" Beth clenches her jaw so tight her teeth just might crumble into dust.

"Well, how are we supposed to act with them there?" Nicole huffs.

"Like you never saw that tape."

"And what about Christie Roberts?" She eyes Beth and then me.

"You agreed you'd give it a rest until after Mom's funeral," I remind her. "We've got a lot to do, and..." I lower my voice, craning my neck toward her, "pinning every unsolved missing person case on Mom and Dad isn't the best way to honor Mom's memory."

Nicole rolls her eyes. "I wasn't pinning it on them. I was just asking questions."

Beth chugs the rest of her beer and slams the glass against the bar top, signaling the end of the conversation. The bar lady notices almost immediately and offers her another one. This time Beth orders a double whiskey, specifying that she wants rail. I'm not sure if she orders that because it's all she can afford or because she's trying to punish herself.

"Hey," I call out, putting my hand up to get the bartender's attention. Her eyes flick to me. They're dull, clouded over. Her body's defensive mechanism to mask the reality of her surroundings.

"Yeah, Michael," she says in a cheery voice.

I wish I remembered her name, but I don't. She's an Edith, a Ruth, or a Maureen, something unremarkable and dated.

I scan the whiskey bottles set on the glass shelf behind her. It's a dive bar, so they don't have the best, but I pick out the best they have.

"Make it Elijah Craig instead, and put it on my tab."

If Beth is set on punishing herself tonight, at least I can make sure it tastes good.

The bartender grins. Generosity and money always garner a smile. "You got it," she says with a nod. "Anything else?"

I finish the rest of my beer and pass the glass to her. "Yeah, I'll have the same as her, and whatever you want, put it on my tab."

Her dull eyes seem to brighten, only for a second or so. It's all they have in them. She thanks me and starts pouring drinks.

"I was fine with rail," Beth groans.

"I know."

There's no point in arguing with her because I know she'll drink it... begrudgingly, but she will.

The entrance door opens with a high-pitched squeak, and a gust of cold air floats into the stale bar. I notice a change in Nicole. Her posture straightens like a marionette being yanked taut. She smooths out her hair and adjusts her oversized top. I follow her gaze. A police officer enters the bar. He's dressed in a waterproof shell jacket and a two-tone uniform, dark brown on top and light khaki on the bottom, complete with a tie and high-gloss oxford shoes. The patch on his shoulder tells me he's from the Walworth County Sheriff's Department. The gold badge pinned to his chest tells me he takes himself seriously. His chin isn't held high, so I know he's not here on official business. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when they land in our direction. He looks familiar, but like the bartender, I've forgotten him too. The officer strides toward us. He's taller than nearly all the patrons he passes by. Many exchange greetings with him. Others look away, slumping their shoulders like they're trying to appear as small as possible. I assume the ones shrinking into themselves have open warrants.

"Hey, Casey," Nicole greets him in a warm voice.

The officer nods and says, "Hey, Nicole."

Casey. Casey. My brain searches for familiarity. I catch a glimpse of his name tag. Dunn. That's it. Casey Dunn. He was good friends with Nicole in high school, and it looks like he's made something of himself.

"Hey, Beth," Casey says.

She swivels her barstool around, greets him, and brings the glass of Elijah Craig to her lips, taking a long sip.

Casey extends his hand to me. "Michael."

I shake it and say, "It's nice to see you."

His eyes scan over us as he expresses his condolences. It's that awkward song and dance of thanks and yeah and it's such a shame. No one ever knows what to say. We repeat what we've heard from movies or TV shows or, for some of us, we call on those experiences when death previously touched our lives.

"What brings you here?" Beth asks.

"Oh." His gaze briefly shift to Nicole. "Just stopped in for a drink."

He's lying but I don't call him out.

I flag the bartender down and order Casey a double whiskey. She pours it quickly and slides it to me with a smile.

"Here," I say to Casey, handing him the glass.

He stammers and thanks me, clutching it in his hand like it's a live grenade. He takes the smallest sip. His reaction and reluctance tell me he's still on duty. But then why is he here? Casey makes small talk, asking what I've been up to. I ask him the same, even though I can see exactly how his life has played out. The conversation is stilted and clumsy, like catching up with a stranger. Finally, he looks to Nicole and asks if he can speak with her outside.

That's why he's here. Nicole. And this is clearly the friend who "borrowed" Emma Harper's case file. The two of them head toward the entrance. He sets the nearly full glass of whiskey on a table he passes. I wonder what he's got for her now. Shaking my head, I swivel my stool to face the bar.

"What?" Beth asks, squinting at me.

"He's bad news."

"Who?"

"Casey." I sip my whiskey.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because what he's doing is illegal. You can't just take police case files and hand them out to anyone you want."

"No one's going to notice they're even missing." Beth shrugs.

"Someone might."

"I wouldn't think twice about it," she says. "We've got enough to worry about as it is."

"I guess." I take another sip and glance over at Beth. "Did you decide what you want to do with the house?"

"Not yet. Why?"

"I've been thinking more about it, and I'd like to buy it from you."

Her shoulders tense up, but she quickly relaxes them—not before I notice. She busies herself by rotating the glass in her hands. It's like she's giving herself time to come up with an excuse as to why she won't sell it to me. She said she wanted money, so why not take it from me?

I lean to the side and retrieve a piece of paper from the back pocket of my jeans. Unfolding it, I slide it across the bar in front of her.

"What's that?"

"It's a check for four hundred thousand dollars, well-above market value."

Beth doesn't take it. She just stares at it. Money talks... but only if you're listening. And I don't think she is.

Her brows shove together. "Why do you want the house?"

"Because it's where I'll be able to visit Mom, since she chose not to be buried in a cemetery."

"You didn't even visit her when she was alive."

"I know, and I regret that. But I can't change the past. Plus, Nicole needs a place to live too. I saw where she was staying. It's depressing and not safe. This will give her something more stable and keep her away from the people she's been hanging around."

Beth tilts her head. "Giving her a place to stay won't make her stay clean. Trust me."

"I know but it can't hurt."

"I'll think about it," she says, and she slides the check back toward me.

"What's there to think about? You won't get more than three hundred for it, so you should just take my offer."

"Not everything's about money, Michael."

My eyes tighten. "Then what's it about, Beth?" I ask, but I already know the answer. It's about spite.

"I don't know."

"I think you do."

She clenches her jaw and moves her mouth side to side as though she's deciding what to say. I'm sure she's chewing on the truth, determining whether to swallow it or spit it out.

"Say it, Beth." I'm pushing her because I know she's been doing nothing but lying since I got here.

"I don't want you to have it," she finally admits. Then takes a sip of the whiskey I paid for.

"Why?"

"Because you get everything, Michael. You always have. I just don't want you to get your way... for once."

"You think I've had it my way. Look at our family. Nicole's an addict. Dad abandoned us. Mom's dead. And you, you're barely a sister. I'm your little brother and rather than being happy for my success, you hate me for it." I shake my head.

A tear gathers at the rim of her eye, fattening up before it finally falls. Her bottom lip trembles, even though she tries to hold it steady. She knows I'm right. It's the truth, and it's not my fault it's hard to swallow. I slide the check in front of her again. Her gaze falls on the five zeros. I know she's considering it. That's all I need, because if she considers it then I know she'll make the smart decision. Beth's not stupid. She's just miserable.