Lord knows, I should of been gone, And I wouldn't have been here, down on the killin' floor, Yeah
Chester Burnett, Howling Wolf's Recording - The Killing Floor
* * * * *
"Hey, Jim. When'd ya get back?"
"Last night. How ya' doin' Hector?"
Looking up from his newspaper, Jim Mason nodded, and gestured to the opposite side of the booth, inviting the man to join him. He folded the paper precisely along the creases and aligned it so that the masthead was exactly parallel to the edge of the table. Jim pushed his plate up so that it sat centered, just to the right of the newspaper.
His guest looked on with bemusement at Jim's fastidious nature.
Jim appreciated his old teammate not staring at his scars. He had gotten used to solitude, but still enjoyed eating at the town's diner. The fluorescent lighting, Formica, and smell of cooking-oil reminded him of better time, and he desperately needed those memories.
Barely able to fit, Hector slid his huge bulk into the booth. With his black leather vest, handlebar mustache and an array of tattoos, he looked like an extra from a seventies biker film. Jim had gotten used to people staring at him, but it was an odd sensation seeing the other customers' furtive glances at Hector. They knew who he was and how he made his money.
Unlike the stares usually aimed at Jim, which were full of pity and macabre curiosity, the stares leveled at Hector were tinged with fear and disgust. Today wasn't the best of mornings for the patrons. Two objects of distaste were interrupting their normally pleasant breakfast. Fuck them and their little plastic lives. Jim made a point of staring at anyone who looked their way.
The biker grinned widely. "Good. It's all good. You staying around for a while or just dropping in to see the old place?"
"Don't know yet." A little ice entered his voice. "Is that a problem, Hector?"
They both looked up as the waitress approached with the check. Hector looked back at Jim as she spoke.
"Hey, Hector. Get you a coffee?" she asked as she took the plate. She was a pleasant woman in her fifties who had been working there since they were in high school. He ignored her and continued looking at Jim.
"This is your home. Of course, it's no problem." He looked up at the waitress as he pulled out his wallet and left a twenty on the table. "Nah, I'm good, honey. And he doesn't pay if I'm around. This man's a fucking hero."
Reaching over, he shook Jim's hand. "Good to see you, man. Come by on Sunday. We'll catch the games." Jim held his hand for a fraction too long and stared at Hector. He nodded his head stiffly.
"Sure, Hec. I'll be seeing you around."
Hector lurched back up and made his way to the exit. Jim listened for the roar of the Harley, stood and limped out to the parking lot.
* * * * *
Standing just inside the hospital's door, Ann pulled her gloves on and wrapped the scarf around her face, leaving her eyes uncovered. It would help cover the stench from the slaughterhouse at McAllister's Provisions that permeated half the town. They were the largest employer in the area, and one way or another, their influence was always present.
After bracing, she pushed the door open and stepped out into the blistering cold. Hunched over, and looking at the ground in front of her, she made her way to the cement stairs and down to the walkway.
She didn't notice Jim until he called out. "Hey, Ann. Give you a lift?"
Jim stood next to his father's old truck, a well worn and scuffed leather jacket his only concession to the weather. She stood there and looked at him for an uncomfortably long time.
"Go home, Jim, wherever that is now. There's nothing here for you." Her voice was muffled by the scarf, but he heard every strained word. She kept walking and made her way to the bus stop at the edge of the hospital's property, standing next to the darkening slush of yesterday's snowfall.
He watched her for a moment before getting back in the truck. It took him a minute or two to decide what to do. He pulled up next to her and got out.
"Get in. Please. Can't I give my cousin a lift? I'm just going to stand out here in the cold until you let me drive you home. Do us both a favor and get in."
Peering down the road and seeing no sign of the bus, she looked at the gray skies for a moment before getting in the pick-up. She noticed the scars on the left side of his face as he limped around to the other side to get in.
Jim saw the fatigue that the scarf had had hidden. Her eyes were slightly sunken and she slumped against the door. Ann spoke softly. "I'd like to say that I'm glad you got home okay, but I guess that's not possible. Are you out for good?"
He stared straight ahead through the windshield, avoiding her gaze. "Yeah, not much call for a gimped and half-blind Green Beret. You still staying at your folks?"
"Mmm hmm. Truck looks good. How did you know where I was?"
"Your dad. He thought it was too cold for you to take the bus and told me where you were. He still living off Granpa's money?" She wasn't dressed for this weather. He knew his uncle's money went to the local bars and liquor stores, but couldn't help but be disappointed.
"He gets a check from the estate every six months. It's not a lot, but it keeps the roof over his head and gives him some spending money. Good to hear he was sober enough to have a coherent thought."
"So, are they, at the hospital... is it helping?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I get it." The bitterness in her voice stung him. "Listen, you're not still angry at me, right? I would have stayed if I had known. I didn't just disappear on you. Dad served, Granpa served. Since I was a kid, it was always—"
"I'm not angry. I was never angry about that. I'm dealing with my own shit. Not everything is about you."
The ride was quiet for a while.
"Have you been to the grave, Jim?"
Glancing over at her, he wondered how often she went. "No. I'm not sure where she's at."
