I sigh. “Cigarettes, old farts, and new farts.”
“And safe.”
“It’s Monty.”
Monty Elkhorn: forty-nine years old, lives in stained mechanic’s coveralls too small for his enormous beer belly, sporting a graying hobo-Santa beard, stinking of BO and American Spirit cigarettes…given to rambling in his heavy, grumbling voice about whatever enters his head. Monty lives alone in a single-wide about six or eight miles outside of town, in a little clearing—he calls it a “holler”—with electricity he ran himself. Lock your keys in your car? Call Monty, he’ll shim your window. Break down? He’ll tow you, or run you to the gas station so you can pick up some gas. His tow truck is a Vietnam-era military surplus two-ton truck he modified into a tow truck himself. Monty is super helpful to have around town, and we’ve all needed his help at some point, but using him a cab service seems…I don’t know. Weird.
She just waves her hand at me. “Exactly. It’s Monty.”
I sigh. “Fine, whatever.”
“Now that that’s settled, go talk to Mr. Prep Academy over there.” She indicates the handsome newcomer with her drink.
“That’s judgmental. Just because he’s dressed nicely doesn’t make him a nerd.”
“His chinos look like they’ve been pressed and starched.”
“They’re just new.”
“Go talk to him!”
“No!”
She eyes me with mischief in her eyes. “I’ll sign you up to sing again…and I’ll make you do ABBA.”
“Fine!” I huff, because I know Cora well enough to know she’ll do it, and ABBA is sacred—you don’t do ABBA karaoke unless you can pull it off, and I definitely can’t pull it off…I’m sober enough to know that much.
I run my fingers through my hair, glancing at Cora. “Is my makeup okay?”
She winks at me. “You’re sexy. Now go!”
I get up and suck in a deep breath.
I’m about to make my way to his table when I hear a smooth, warm voice. “I hope you’re not leaving already,” the voice says. “I was just coming by to see if you wanted another drink.”
I look up, and it’s him. Up close, he’s more than handsome—he’s breathtaking.
3
“I was just coming over to talk to you, actually,” I say, and I’m proud of myself for not freezing.
His warm, kind, intelligent brown eyes pierce mine. “I thought you sounded awesome, by the way. Almost as good as Bonnie Tyler herself.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Okay, whatever you say.”
“For real! You and your friend killed it!”
“Well, thanks. Are you doing a song?” I ask.
He gestures to the bar, and I go with him. “You want another drink?”
I nod. “Sure.” Sam the bartender comes over, and I catch his attention. “One more of whatever it was Cora had you make us.”
“And another Labatt Blue, and the tab to me.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
He just laughs. “Well, that is how buying a lady a drink typically works, you know.”
“True,” I say. “So, you never answered. Are you doing a song?”
He laughs again and shakes his head. “Heck, no! I didn’t know this was a karaoke place when I came in.” The bartender slides us our drinks, and my new friend hands over a credit card, then turns to me. “My name is Jamie.”
“I’m Elyse,” I say, and we shake hands—his hand is warm and strong, and he doesn’t let go right away, his eyes drilling into mine.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Elyse.”
“Same.” I consider asking him if he’s new in town, but it’s pretty obvious he is, so I don’t. “If you don’t know Field’s is a karaoke joint, then you probably haven’t been to Vinnie’s either.”
He shakes his head, taking a swig of beer. “Nope. This is the first place I’ve been.”
“Vinnie’s has live music on Fridays and Saturdays,” I tell him. “The cover band is a bunch of local guys, but they’re pretty decent. Good enough to dance to, at least.”
“You want to finish these and head over?” he asks, gracing me with a bright, friendly smile—his eyes, though, are more than friendly, and the look in them gives me butterflies.
“Sounds good to me,” I tell him. “Let me just tell my friend the plan.”
Jamie indicates the table Cora and I had been sitting at—it’s empty. “Looks like she had other plans.”
I sigh, turning back to the bar, and to Jamie. “She’ll be at Vinnie’s.”
“Probably not that many other options, huh?”
I laugh. “Nope, not really. We went to José’s for dinner, and then here for karaoke, which only leaves Vinnie’s for dancing. There are only the three places in town. You want something else, you have to go over to Hanover, and that’s almost six miles away, or York, and that’s almost twenty.”
“Wow, six whole miles, huh?” he says, teasing.
“Around here, that’s a long way. If you live in Clayton, you rarely leave Clayton.”
His eyes twinkle. “I mean, what else could you possibly want? You’ve got three whole bars.”
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t mind a Walmart or a Starbucks.”
He just waves his hand. “Nahhh. Overrated.”
I laugh. “Yeah—convenience and variety…so overrated.”
“Right? Shop local!” He frowns, rubbing his chin. “Where do you get groceries around here, though?”
“Well, you have two options. Clayton General has pretty much all the essentials—soda, milk, juice, cereal, canned goods, alcohol, frozen stuff, meat, cheese, produce, all that stuff. Benny’s Keg Stand, which we all just call Kegger, has a few other basic odds and ends in a little section near the back, and he’s open later than the general store.”
He shakes his head. “Wow. So, what if you need more than that?”
I shrug. “These days, you order online. If you want to shop in-person, you have to go to Hanover, because they have an ALDI, a Food Lion, and not one but two Walmart Supercenters.”
Jamie sighs. “Ahh, so Clayton is small-town living.”
“For most of us, it’s all we know, and we wouldn’t trade it for all the Walmarts and Starbucks in the world.” I finish my drink. “You ready to check out the glory and wonder that is Vinnie’s?”
He tosses back the last of his beer and sets it on the counter. “Sure am. Lead the way.
I laugh. “Well, it’s literally right across the street, so if you get lost on the way, you have issues.”
Jamie laughs as we exit Field’s and stand on the sidewalk. “Yeah, kinda hard to get lost around here, I guess.”
Our main street is US-30, running east to west—if you’re coming east into town it’s called Lincoln Highway, and if you’re exiting town to the west, it’s called Lincoln Way West. Bisecting downtown into quarters are Carlisle Street to the north, and Hanover Street to the south; where Carlisle, Hanover, and US-30 all intersect is a large traffic circle, so we don’t even have a stop light—otherwise we’d be just another one-stoplight town. We’re not even that…we’re a blip on the map, a quick bump around the traffic circle through our cute, quaint little town, and then out again onto US-30.
The island at the center of the traffic circle is known, ironically, as the Town Square. It’s a small, round park crisscrossed by sidewalks in a pattern that resembles a tic-tac-toe board. At the center, in the very middle of the island, is a fountain, ringed by concrete, with a flagpole in the middle, and war memorials listing the veterans from Clayton who have served in wars ranging from the Revolution through Desert Storm. There are park benches here and there on opposite sides of the Town Square, and you’ll often find locals sitting there, chatting, exchanging gossip, feeding the pigeons, and watching the sparse traffic wheel slowly around the circle.
Field’s is on the southwest corner, Vinnie’s is on the northwest, Clayton General is on the northeast corner, and Kegger is
on the southeast. There’s a post office next to Vinnie’s, a pharmacy next to Kegger, and a few mom-and-pop retail shops fill in the rest. Clayton Methodist is on Carlisle to the north, and Emory Presbyterian on the corner of Hanover and Lincoln Way West, a few doors down from Kegger. There’s a dentist, a family medical practice, our town’s sole lawyer—John Michael Gregory, Esquire—as well as a few private homes, owned by the wealthiest and most influential citizens. José’s is east down Lincoln Highway about half a mile, and there’s a VFW lodge about a mile west on Lincoln Way West, but you only go there if you’re a military vet, or desperate for one-dollar-pour off-brand light domestic beer served in reused Solo cups
It’s a quaint, quiet, sleepy little town that hasn’t changed much at all in the last hundred and some years. Walking through Clayton is kind of a time warp back to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—especially when Pa Chantry rides his vintage buckboard into town, pulled by his mules, Ethel and Lucy, or when Jim Parnell, Mack Lackey, and Harrison Graves decide to ride their horses to Vinnie’s instead of driving a car. Nobody local blinks an eye at that stuff, although the rare tourist or visitor we sometimes get usually does a heck of a double take. Pa Chantry gets the majority of the confused looks, though, with his chest-length black beard, meerschaum pipe, and faded black Stetson—this being Pennsylvania, most assume he’s an Amish transplant or visitor when, in reality, he’s just one of the town oddities.
Speaking of whom—Pa’s buckboard is parked outside Vinnie’s, Ethel and Lucy chomping happily in their feedbags, tails swishing idly.
Jamie does what most nonlocals do at the sight: he tilts his head, frowns, and then glances at me curiously. “Is that part of a reenactment or something?”
I laugh. “Nope. That’s just old Pa Chantry. He’s a quirky sort of guy. You’ll know him when you see him. He lives on a hundred-some acre farm south of town, and he works it the same way as his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather did, without any modern tools or equipment. I’ve never been to his place myself, but I hear he doesn’t even use plumbing or electricity, even though he has it.”
Jamie quirks an eyebrow at me. “Takes real dedication to the old ways to use gas lamps and an outhouse when you have electricity and a toilet.”
“Dedication…yeah, that’s one word for it.”
We head across the street, cutting across the empty town square; the fountain splashes merrily, the spraying water and gently flapping American flag, Pennsylvania flag, and M.I.A/P.O.W flag lit by a quartet of yellow floodlights. All the parking spots around the circle are all full, and Vinnie’s is thumping and chugging with the strains of “Smoke on the Water” as covered by Johnny and the Walkers, Clayton’s only musical act, who have played classic rock covers at Vinnie’s every weekend for the past twenty years. The door to Vinnie’s is propped open by an empty keg, on which is sitting a bored-looking Al Vincent, a burly ex-Navy veteran and owner of the town “gym”; the quotes are because the gym is literally just an old abandoned warehouse with boarded-up windows, which Al has filled with cast-off, secondhand free weights, benches, stands, and machines, and charges five bucks a pop to go in and work out; he makes decent money at it, too, because it’s the only place, except the big box gyms in Hanover, to lift weights.
“Elyse, how are ya?” Al says, extending his closed fist to me.
I tap my knuckles against his. “Okay, Al. You?”
He shrugs a heavy shoulder. “Eh, it’s all good. Busy night for these parts.”
I snicker. “Meaning Bob and Rick already went at it?”
“Bob said the Nittany Lions suck, and Rick said the Steelers suck even worse, and then they started swinging.” Al shakes his head, shaggy black hair shaking. “Had to pop Rick one on the jaw to get him to slow his roll. They’re arguing strategy, now, so it won’t be long before one of ’em tries swinging again.”
“I’ll be sure to stay out of the way then,” I say.
Al just laughs, a hearty chuckle. “Ehhh, they’re both clobbered. You could knock over either one of ’em yourself.” He turns a baleful, interested gaze on Jamie. “Don’t know you, bub.”
Jamie doesn’t seem fazed by the less-than-friendly welcome from Al. “That’s because I’m not from around here.” He extends a hand to Al, which I foresee him regretting in three…two…one: Al squeezes hard, and I watch Jamie go pale, wincing, but he doesn’t make a sound and doesn’t let go until Al does, and then Jamie only makes a fist once and then shakes his hand a couple of times. “I’m Jamie. Nice to meet you.”
Al nods, suitably impressed by Jamie’s “manly” endurance of his notoriously brutal handshake. “Yep. You too.”
We head in, and the intense vibrations from the perpetually too loud sound system wash over us, bass thudding in our guts, drums rattling and thudding deafeningly. Johnny’s guitar shrieks and howls as he works on one of his extended guitar solos. The air is smoky, despite the statewide ban on smoking indoors. Vinnie still allows it, and so do the rest of us. The stage is in the front by the plate glass window, with a few stage lights on the ceiling bathing the band in bright yellow, red, and blue; the bar itself runs the entire length of the building from front to back along the right side, with a little space cleared in front of the stage for dancing. Booths line the left side, and round four-top tables fill the rest of the space. The back door is propped open as well, with Matty Murphy, the other Clayton tough guy, sitting on another empty keg, playing a game on his cell phone.
Vinnie’s is crowded with the usual assortment of regulars—the hard-drinking farmers at the bar, their wives gossiping in the booths behind them, a few of the younger residents dancing and milling by the bar. Vinnie’s is a small place and the modest crowd—a hundred-some souls—makes it seem very crowded. When you factor in the crowds at Field’s and José’s, pretty much everyone who lives within thirty minutes of downtown Clayton is represented here, with a few exceptions, like my parents and a handful of other nondrinkers. Clayton being what it is, there’s not much to do around here at night aside from sitting at home and watching TV, or hitting one of the bars and drinking, and it’s not hard to figure out which one most people choose.
Jamie nudges me. “Bar, booth, or dance floor?” he says, leaning close and speaking into my ear to be heard over the band.
I smirk at him. “Was that your idea of asking me to dance?” I respond, putting my lips to his ear.
He grins back. “It was my way of asking if you wanted to dance, or just sit and talk.”
“Drinks first, then dance!” I hesitate, and then smile even more widely. “And then sit and talk.”
The bar is crowded enough that he grabs my hand and holds on as we weave through to the bar, sliding between Abe Cowell and Grady Masterson, two of the oldest, orneriest, and hardest drinkers in Clayton, who are perched on their usual stools dead center of the bar. They give me terse nods, and stern, wary stares at Jamie, who lifts a hand to catch the attention of Sam, Vinnie’s bartender—yes, both bartenders at Field’s and Vinnie’s are named Sam, one of Clayton’s many odd coincidences. Jamie orders me a tequila sunrise, gets another beer for himself, and then we get a table where we leave our drinks before heading to the dance floor.
Johnny and the Walkers are into a rollicking rockabilly version of “Hard Day’s Night” and we’re in the thick of the crowded dance floor, bumping into people as we move to the music. I’m not the best dancer, but after a few drinks I don’t really care—I’m oddly relieved to find that Jamie is about the same: he won’t win any dance contests, but he’s confident and carefree, and he dances close to me.
His eyes stay on mine, and our bodies sway closer and closer, like two planets being pulled toward each other by the inexorable force of gravity. Time slips and distorts, and I finish my drink—Jamie takes it and vanishes, returning with two more drinks for us, and some water. A nice gesture but, at this point, the water is insufficient to make a dent in my buzz. We drink, and we dance. Johnny and the Walkers play through th
eir repertoire of classic rock covers, from Led Zeppelin to Poison, Van Halen to The Allman Brothers, with a few pop hits turned classic rock thrown in for fun—their most popular pop covers include “Oops, I Did It Again,” “Genie in a Bottle,” and “Bye Bye Bye.” Which are their ideas of “modern pop.” If it’s newer than the year 2000, they won’t play it.
I’ve lost track of time and the number of drinks I’ve had, and the universe is spinning a little when I lean into Jamie. “I need to sit down, and I need, like, forty waters.”
He nods. “Same here.”
His hand in mine, Jamie leads me off the dance floor and to a back-corner booth far away from the dance floor and close to the pool tables and dart boards, where it’s nominally quieter. I slide into the booth facing the bar, and watch as Jamie weaves, only a little unsteadily, back to the bar. He comes back moments later with two empty pint glasses and a clear plastic pitcher of water. He slides into the booth facing me, pours us each a glass of water, and we both drink greedily.
He jerks his head backward, indicating the band. “They’re actually pretty good!”
I laugh. “Good thing, because they’re the only act in town!”
A brief silence, punctuated by each of us refilling our water. And then Jamie leans across the table. “So. Tell me something about yourself, Elyse.”
I decide to lead off with the potential deal breaker. “I’m a single mother to an eight-year-old.”
Jamie just nods, totally unfazed by this information. “Eight is a fun age. Girl? Boy?”
I need a second to recover from his unexpected response. “Boy. His name is Aiden.”
“Aiden, huh? Where is he tonight?”
“With my parents.” I lift my chin at him. “And what about you?”
“Divorced, no kids, just transferred to the area for a new job.” He lets the silence between us stand—a relative silence, since the bar is noisy with the band and the crowd—but only for a moment. “Since I’m curious about you, I’ll tell you about me first: I’m thirty-five, and I was born and raised on the East Coast—Nashua, New Hampshire, to be specific.”
Pregnant in Pennsylvania Page 3
