Darkheart

The Present: Bits & Pieces

Biggie's was the bar of choice for residents all year except for the summer, when resorters made it their bar of choice to catch "local flavor." It wasn't unheard of for townies to hang out at Biggie's come June or July; they were just as eager to gawk at the resorters as the resorters were to gawk at them. The only difference was that the one gawked to meet their perceived expectations of rural eccentricity while the other merely wished to gawk. But no one from Port Killdeer seriously frequented Biggie's between May and September. The usual regulars found other haunts, went to the rougher biker bar at the edge of town or drank outdoors in their backyards or on their porches. Some even drove half an hour inland to Red Axe, which probably had something to do with the increased drunk driving accidents on the two-lane road that connected the towns.

Come summer, Cris wouldn't be caught dead at Biggie's, but it was early spring (which meant it was pretty much still winter), and she'd begun spending at least four or five weeknights there since she'd received that card in the mail. Drinking alone at her house felt increasingly unnerving, and even though she didn't particularly like people, she'd begun to feel saner in the presence of others.

Waiting for Kevin and Heather and Jeremiah was like waiting for a sentence to be delivered. Cris couldn't help but feel as if she were on trial for something, as if somewhere, some shrouded jury discussed her impending doom, and she had absolutely no say in the matter. The arrival of the others would mean an end to the deliberation, so it seemed, and whatever verdict had been reached would be revealed. At that point, execution would probably seem preferable to the life imprisonment she'd already been sentenced to.

Over the fifteen years since that summer, Cris had never once wanted to return to the resort. What they'd seen--what they knew was there--she'd not wanted anything else to do with it, and yet it clearly had much more to do with her. It'd kept Cris in Port Killdeer, for one thing. No matter how many times she'd thought of leaving or actually tried to leave, something went wrong. Something changed her plans. Cars broke down, or flights were canceled, or storms blew in. There'd been one time when, in her early twenties and at her wits' end, she'd left on foot, just started running down the road; she'd made it several miles before her sister had found her, tired and crying, and brought her home. The weird thing about it all was that Cris could go some places. She could drive into Red Axe, or she could drive up and down the coast a bit; these things were permissible if she had every intention of returning to Port Killdeer. And that was the freakiest thing about it--whatever was keeping her there knew her mind, knew if she meant to stay or go, and kept her back if it sensed she was trying to get away.

Well, years of fruitless attempts at escape had resigned her to her position. She was the gatekeeper. They'd made her the one to stay and watch, to wait until the time had come, and after her mother had died several years back, she'd started her healing business, figuring if the powers that be wouldn't let her escape that darkness in the earth that kept calling her back, she'd make the earth do a little work for her. And so far, so good. Her humble business kept her occupied and gave her a steady enough income. People liked sparkling pretty rocks, saw something different in them than Cris did, and she'd done a pretty decent job capitalizing on whatever it was they thought they saw.

"Usual?" croaked the woman behind the bar.

Cris gave a curt nod. She'd never realized how nice it was to walk into a place as a regular; she didn't even have to converse with anyone in order to get what she wanted. They knew she always drank the same two pints of the same draft beer, that she never wanted to talk but preferred to be alone, and that she'd pay cash and leave a decent tip. Nobody bothered her, and that's how she liked it.

There were others like her, other regulars, some of whom expected similar silent treatment and others who wanted a lengthy conversation with the bartender. Cris recognized most of them. She wouldn't have considered any of them friends--hardly acquaintances--and she tried to avoid eye contact for fear of misrepresenting herself as an interested party. Sometimes she saw people she'd known back in high school or people well-known in town for various reasons: their lechery, their relatives' crimes, their litigious nature, their pretentious know-how, their kids' by-blows, their back-in-the-day chicanery . . . all manner of small-town notoriety. Cris herself had something of a persona, she knew, linked to her erratic behavior during her early-to-mid twenties, back when she'd been hell-bent on testing the confines of her prison, but what people whispered about her these days--if they whispered about her at all--had probably been dulled by the quiet life she'd led for the past several years. What a pity she didn't turn out like her sister--just needs a man, that one; a good man to set her straight--into that new age witchery stuff, ain't she? That sort of thing. Nothing very exciting.