Spencerville

She spoke, as if to herself, and said, "Hey, remember no bras, and see-through blouses, and nude swimming, and group sex, and no killer diseases, and no hang-ups, no Antioch rules of sexual conduct, and men and women who actually liked one another? Remember? I do." She added, "God, what has happened to us?"

No one seemed to know, so no one replied.

Keith's mind was not working very well, but he did remember better days, though perhaps his idea of better was different from Gail's or Jeffrey's. The point was, things were once better, and his heart suddenly ached with a sense of loss, a nostalgia and sentimentality partly induced by the cannabis, partly by the evening, and partly because it was true.

Gail did not offer herself to him, which was a relief, because he didn't know what he would have said or done if she had. The evening ended with him sleeping on the couch in his underwear with a quilt thrown over him, and the Porters upstairs, in their bed.

The incense burned out, the candles guttered and died, a Simon and Garfunkel album ended, and Keith lay in the quiet dark. At dawn, he rose, dressed, and left before the Porters awakened.

Chapter Twelve

It was a few days after dinner with the Porters, a Friday night, and Keith Landry, reacting to some remembered behavior of farm life, decided to go into town.

He put on slacks and a sport shirt, got into his Blazer, and headed for Spencerville.

He'd seen no sign of Annie during the past few days, but that was not for lack of vigilance on his part. He'd been home, he'd stayed within earshot of the phone, he'd checked his mailbox a few times a day, and he watched the cars that went by. In short, he'd reverted to a lovesick adolescent, and the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

The day before, he'd seen a blue and white patrol car from Spencerville pass about noon, and that morning he'd seen a green and white county sheriff's car go by. The sheriff's car might have been a random thing, but the town police car was a long way from home.

In any case, he kept his Blazer out of sight, and he didn't know if they'd discovered his new automobile, unless, of course, they'd run his name through the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

It was sort of a low-key cat-and-mouse game at this point, but Keith knew it had the potential for confrontation.

He drove up Main Street, which was quieter than he'd remembered it on Friday nights. In those days, Friday was called market day, and there had been a huge farmer's market on the blocked-off street north of Courthouse Square. Now, everyone, including the farmers, bought most of their food in supermarkets, prepackaged.

The commercial strip outside of town probably got the majority of Friday night shoppers, Keith thought, but there were a few shops open downtown, and the bank was open late. Also open, with cars parked nearby, were Miller's Restaurant and the two taverns — John's Place and the Posthouse.

Keith pulled into a space near John's Place and got out of the Blazer. It was a warm Indian summer evening, and there were a few people on the sidewalk. He walked into the tavern.

If you want to know a town, Keith had learned, go to the best and the worst bar, preferably on a Friday or Saturday night. John's was obviously the latter.

The tavern was dark, noisy, smoky, smelled of stale beer, and was inhabited mostly by men dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The T-shirts, Keith noticed, advertised brand-name beers, John Deere tractors, and locally sponsored sports teams. A few T-shirts had interesting sayings such as, "Well-diggers do it deeper."

There were a few video games, a pinball machine, and in the center of the tavern was a billiards table. A jukebox played sad country-western songs. The bar had a few vacant stools, and Keith took one.

The bartender eyed him for a moment, making a professional evaluation that the newcomer posed no potential threat to the peace of John's Place, and asked Keith, "What can I get you?"

"Bud."

The bartender put a bottle in front of Keith and opened it. "Two bucks."

Keith put a ten on the bar. He got his change, but no glass, and drank from the bottle.

He looked around. There were a few young women, all of them escorted by men, but mostly this was a male domain. The TV above the bar broadcast the Yankees vs. Blue Jays in a tight pennant race, and the sportscaster competed with some country singer sobbing about his wife's infidelities.

The men ranged in age from early twenties to late fifties, mostly good-old-boys as likely to buy you a beer as split your head with a barstool, and meaning nothing personal by either. The women were dressed like the men — jeans, running shoes, and T-shirts — and they smoked and drank beer from bottles like the men. All in all, it was a happy and peaceful enough crowd at this hour, though Keith knew from experience it could get a little rough later.