In the Woods, Bears

Chapter 4 - A Photograph

Okay, maybe the only reason the hotel ever had customers was because the place was the lone option in town. That, or the alcoholic regulars at the connected bar, chose their plaid bedspreads over a DUI enough nights each week to keep them going. The room felt moist, as if the employees sprayed the place with an orchid mister hourly. There was a smell, covered over by air freshener and a hint of bleach, animal, faintly metallic, similar to ozone. She couldn't place the illusive aroma. As she unpacked her meager selection of clothing and hung them in the open closet, the hinges on her suitcase snapped apart. Fuck. After years of loyal service, her suitcase died. She understood. Kennedy didn't care much for the hotel either.

The painting above the bed, an arrangement of lumpy blue flowers, looked to be the product of someone's aunt's first art class or a Bob Ross obsession. No happy trees here, though. In the movies, bartenders knew everyone, so she planned to start there. After washing her face, she painted her lips a bright berry red and pulled on a shirt that clung to her. Cleavage sometime worked as well as saying please. She pinched her cheeks and used the edge of her thumb to tidy her eyeliner. The mirror wasn't solidly attached to its frame. A gap of burnt orange paint exposed its hidden past, a previous incarnation of the room. Because the bottom edge of the frame was adhered to the wall, the mirrored glass didn't fall to the floor. Turning to the side, she shrugged at her reflection. No time like the present.

Hand-lettered in white chalk, "No Smoking" was written above the entrance to the bar. Cramped by a pool table and a handful of booths, there was a platform of raised wood in the corner that was most likely an excuse for a stage. Since it was early, only one scarecrow of a barfly wobbled on her stool next to the wooden bar. The bartender watched her but didn't offer a greeting as she came in. He was older than her parents, with graying hair, long and thin, pulled back in a ponytail. Over his left eye, he wore an eyepatch. When she headed toward him, he said, "I.D.?"

Kennedy fished it out of her pocket. Grizzled and spotted, his thick-knuckled fingers claimed her card. "This legit? We don't want trouble."

"It is. Whiskey, please." Decades of smokers had marinated the room, and an invisible yellow mist surrounded her.

"You headed somewhere? West to the canyon?"

"No."

His brow knitted. "You probably should." He poured her a fair measure. "This bar ain't the best place for town girls."

As if finally noticing her, the bar fly looked in her direction with beer-clouded eyes. After a slow up and down, she croaked, "I know why she is here."

Kennedy placed some cash on the bar. "I bet you don't."

"I can smell you."

Resisting the urge to sniff herself, Kennedy glanced at the bartender, hoping he might explain. The woman was drunk in the middle of the afternoon. Her fragile arms and rounded belly spoke to long-term alcohol use.

Kennedy asked, "Is she okay?"

Leaning forward, he took a deep inhale. "Depends on what you consider, okay."

Pinching her face sour, the lady pushed her empty bottle toward his side of the counter without a word. With no hesitation, he opened another beer and placed it in front of the woman. She reached for it with her pointed chipped nails, the tips curled toward the flesh of her fingers.

Lifting a dull gray rag, the bartender asked Kennedy, "Are you going to drink that or what?" He tilted his head quizzically and looked her up and down. "Were you called home? Who are your people?" As if it was a habit, instead of a conscious choice, he slid the worn rag along the top of the counter.

"I'm glad you asked that." Kennedy took a quick sip from her whiskey and fished the photograph out of her pocket. "These are my birth parents. Do you know where this lake is?"

"It's Bell Lake, over on the back side of Bell's property, close to where it edges against state land. They don't like trespassers, so mind yourself if you get nosey."

"Do you recognize them?"

"The kids in the picture?" He lifted it and looked closer. "Can't say I do, but I keep to myself. Why are you asking?"

When he handed the photograph back, she reclaimed the relic. Staring at their faces, she said, "I just want to know something about them."

"Were the folks that raised you, people?"

Kennedy blinked. "Well, yeah, I wasn't raised by wolves."

Confusion flickered across his face. "Are they from around here?"

"No, my dad was from Tennessee. He met my Mom the summer before their senior year on a mission trip."

Shaking his head, the bartender poured another shot into her glass.

"I only wanted one."

"That one is on the house. How long are you here in town... nosing around?"

"Just a week." She slid the Polaroid back into her pocket.

"Young pretty girls aren't common in this joint. Come in when it gets dark and I'll give you drinks as long as you are willing to dance with the locals. Nothing top shelf, though."

"Men." The old woman gave a derisive snort. "All the same. Leave her alone, Bill."

"Fuck off, Kay, or I will call your kids and have them come collect you."

She growled at him and slid off her stool. Weaving a bit, her beer gripped in her hand, she made her way to the smallest table in the darkest corner. Kennedy could feel her black eyes on her back, and goose bumps crawled up her arms.

When the bartender scratched the bridge of his nose, his patch lifted and she glimpsed the scarred hollow underneath.

"What happened to your eye?"

"I got in a fight with a bear."

Kennedy lifted her glass and took a burning sip.