Chapter 4
Thunder that rivaled the noise of a heavy metal band awoke Bernie on Monday morning.
Lightning zigzagged through the sky so close to her bedroom window that she was sure it almost parted her red hair.
She threw a pillow over her head and shook her fist at the ceiling.
Without a doubt, her pious sister had called down rain from heaven to ruin the fireworks shows in southern Oklahoma and northern Texas to punish her for taking Clara in.
In between bouts of rain slamming against the window, she could hear Pepper whining not far from her ear.
“For once the weatherman could have been wrong,” she muttered as she threw back the covers. “Dog, you really do not want to go outside, but if you do, know that I’m not going with you. If you want to brave this storm to add more water to a bush, then you are on your own.”
She padded down the hall in her bare feet with Pepper right behind her.
The electricity blinked off when she reached the kitchen, leaving the apartment in near-total darkness, but she didn’t need light to find her way outside.
She had lived in the place long enough that she could get around with her eyes closed, even after drinking one too many double shots of whiskey.
She reached for the doorknob and stepped on a slug at the same time.
The slimy little booger squished up between all the toes on her left foot, and she let out enough cuss words to blister the pale-yellow paint right off the walls.
She tried to shake the gooey mess off, but evidently it had a healthy dose of superglue DNA in its system.
“Aunt Bernie, are you all right?” Clara’s high-pitched voice cut through the next blast of thunder.
“I’m fine, but there’s a dead slug between my toes.” She walked on the heel of her foot to the back door and opened it.
Pepper ran out like his little tail was on fire, and another flash of lightning lit him up when he hiked his leg on one of the patio chairs.
Bernie didn’t even have time to grab a paper towel to wipe the slug away before he scratched on the back door to be let back inside.
She stood on one leg like a flamingo, or maybe it was an ostrich, and got off-balance when she tried to open the door.
When she took a step, a second slug went to meet its maker.
She backed up and plopped down in a chair and let out another string of swearing that could have easily peeled the drywall right off the studs.
“Sit still, and I’ll bring paper towels and a warm washcloth,” Clara said as she came into the room with a flashlight.
“I hate anything that crawls,” Bernie declared, “and these miserable things are at the top of my list. They can’t possibly serve a purpose in life, except to test what little Jesus I have inside my soul.
Check the floor before you come in here.
Where’s there’s one, there’s usually half a dozen leaving a trail of shiny slime all over the floor. ”
Pepper ran over, sniffed Bernie’s foot, and growled deep in his throat. Then he shook from his eyeballs to the tip of his tail, leaving water that smelled like wet dog on her feet.
“Why didn’t you chase them off before they wound up between my toes?” Bernie snapped. “You are a lazy mutt, but then Hershal didn’t ask for your résumé or your pedigree when he stole you, did he?”
“Here you go.” Clara handed her a roll of paper towels, then shined her flashlight around the floor. “Looks like those were the only two.”
Bernie jerked off several sheets and swiped at her feet, shivering the whole time. “If these things smelled as bad as they feel, they could run a skunk some serious competition. Lord, I hate this. It feels like glue mixed with snot on my skin.”
Clara shivered. “That is gross!”
“That doesn’t begin to describe it.” Bernie scrubbed at her feet with a warm, soapy washcloth. “This is definitely not starting out to be my favorite Independence Day.”
“No matter what happens, it will always be the best one in my eyes,” Clara said. “Even with the thunder, the rain, and the slugs, it beats where I was last year.”
“Then next time you can deal with the slugs, and we’ll see if that changes your mind.”
***
The rain stopped and the sun came out at noon, but by four o’clock dark clouds had rolled in from the southwest. Nash arrived a little early and came inside the bar with water droplets clinging to his silver hair.
“The weatherman gets a gold star for being right,” he said.
“Or a bullet from folks with whining kids because they couldn’t go outside and shoot off firecrackers all day,” Bernie grumbled.
Clara stopped putting peanuts and pretzels in the colorful bowls and stared at Nash with wide eyes.
He wore a sleeveless muscle shirt under a pair of short overalls with red-and-white legs and blue stars on the bib, black cowboy boots, and a hat that had been created out of plastic wrappers with Budweiser logos.
Bernie nudged her on the shoulder. “Pretty sexy, huh? His hair says he’s older than thirty-five, but his body and that getup tell a different story.”
“I have never seen anything…” Clara’s gaze traveled from Nash in his short patriotic overalls to Bernie and then down at her own short skirt.
The rooster crowed and two of Bernie’s regular customers dashed inside. “Happy Fourth,” one of them growled.
“I don’t know why you are so grumpy,” the other one said as he led the way to the bar.
“We have always spent the holiday right here. Don’t matter if the sun is shinin’ or we’re dodgin’ tornadoes.
And we’re never disappointed. Look at all the decorations and…
Oh, my! Bernie and whoever this delightful little lady is she has working tonight are both a sight for sore eyes. ”
“Amen to that,” Nash said. “What can I get you guys?”
“A pitcher of beers and some good music,” Mr. Unhappy answered.
“Coming right up,” Nash said.
Bernie picked up a whole roll of quarters from beside the cash register and headed for the jukebox.
She plugged in the maximum amount and began to push buttons.
She started with Billy Ray Cyrus’s song, “Some Gave All,” and then went on to choose a couple by Toby Keith.
When the machine told her to add more money, she went back to the bar.
“I can’t believe you still have one of them old jukeboxes that play real records,” Nash said as he filled pitchers and set them on a tray along with beer mugs.
“If you buy the place, are you going to trade it in for a digital one?” Bernie asked.
“No, ma’am,” Nash said. “Does a man still come around to change out the records?”
“Nope,” she answered. “When he retired, I bought the records I wanted from him for a quarter each and made him teach me how to change them out. If I retire, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“That is a jewel that I would never get rid of,” he vowed.
Clara picked up the tray and carried it back to the table where the first customers were seated. Bernie noticed that Nash seemed frozen with a bar towel in one hand and a dreamy expression on his face as he watched her walk across the floor.
“She’s pretty cute in that getup,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” Bernie agreed.
“Is she in a relationship?” he asked.
“Are you?” Bernie fired back at him.
Nash wiped down the already clean bar. “No, ma’am. Eighty-hour weeks didn’t leave much time for dating.”
“No, she is not seeing anyone,” Bernie answered.
The rooster crowed again to let it be known that more customers were on the way.
By the time Toby Keith had finished singing “Made in America,” the place was half-full and more people were steadily coming in.
Most usually Bernie was busiest on Independence Day after the local fireworks shows had all finished, but not that night.
From the time the doors opened at six o’clock until she figured it was about time to turn on the television above the jukebox, the tables were full, the small dance floor was crowded, and the barstools were all taken.
Bernie put the jukebox on pause and yelled, “Our fireworks display here in Ratliff City has been rained out, but that doesn’t mean it’s raining in New York City.
Everyone put your hats or your hand over your hearts and sing with me.
It doesn’t matter if you sing off-key or out of tune, just show your appreciation for this great county that we are privileged to live in.
” She started singing the national anthem, and when they reached the “rockets bursting in air,” she hit the remote’s play button.
The television screen lit up with a brilliant array of fireworks being shown live from the East Coast.
“That was impressive,” Nash said.
“She’s amazing,” Clara agreed. “Are you really still thinking about buying this place?”
“Not only am I thinking about it, but I’m going to write Bernie a check the minute she gives me the green light. I was happier than I had been in years on Saturday night. And that wasn’t a flash in the pan, so to speak, because tonight has been even more fun,” he answered.
When the fireworks show ended, Bernie started up the jukebox again. “Letters from Home” by John Michael Montgomery was playing when she went back to the bar. She expected most of the people to call it a night, but several couples made their way to the dance floor for a slow country waltz.
“I’m almighty glad you are both here,” she said as she made a half-dozen margaritas and set them on a tray. “This has been my biggest night in the history of the bar.”
“When’s the next big shindig?” Clara asked.
“Labor Day weekend. I usually do that one on Saturday night and have Sunday to clean up the place,” she answered.
“That’s after the six weeks is up,” Nash said.
Bernie handed Clara the tray and pointed to a table in the corner with six middle-aged women. “Yep, so this could be my last big hoorah. If it is, I couldn’t ask for a better send-off!”
“Do you think Clara will continue to work for me?” Nash asked.
“That’s between y’all,” Bernie told him.
“The apartment has two bedrooms. If you offer her the room she’s staying in right now as part of her bonus package, she might consider it.
My advice is that you should wait a while to even talk to her, to be sure that you can stand to work together six days a week.
I tried hiring a few helpers. Some were lazy.
Some had trouble taking orders. Others were consistently late to work. I finally gave up.”
“Sounds like good advice.” He took four bottles of beer from the cooler and hurried down to the other end of the bar.
Clara brought back an empty tray and wiped it down. “I’m sure glad you told me not to wear high heels.”
“I’m smarter than your grandmother gives me credit for.” Bernie chuckled.
“There was never any doubt about that,” Clara told her as she drew up four mugs of beer.
Usually there were a couple of hangers-on when Bernie flashed the lights to let anyone left in the bar know that it was closing time, but that night more than twenty customers started toward the door.
“Fantastic party, Bernie,” one of them called out when he set his empty mug on the bar. “My friends and I were going to the Duncan fireworks show, but when it got rained out, someone mentioned driving over here.”
Another one of his group winked at Bernie. “And I got a date with a beautiful woman out of the deal. Sparks flew all around us, and if things work out, by this time next year she may be my wife.”
“If she is, you remind Nash here of the fact you met her here and he will give y’all the first round of drinks on the house,” Bernie told him.
“You won’t be here?” he asked.
“Probably not,” she replied.
“How about that gorgeous red-haired bartender?” The third one in the group pointed at Clara.
“Come back and find out,” Bernie teased, amazed that she had a bit of humor left in her after the hectic night.
“Oh, I will,” he said and flashed a bright smile toward Clara.
Bernie locked the door behind the last of the customers and sat down in a chair at the nearest table. “I would love to have a double shot of Jameson on the rocks, if one of you will bring it to me. My butt is dragging so badly that we probably won’t even need to sweep the floors.”
Clara fixed the drink, took it to Bernie, and then sat down across the table from her. “Thank goodness we don’t have to clean up tonight. I’m almost too tired to breathe.”
Nash set a beer in front of her and dragged over another chair. “This might help restore enough energy to get you to bed.”
“I wish every night would be just like this one.” He twisted the top off his beer and took a long gulp. “That was the fastest eight hours I’ve ever spent.”
“Me too,” Clara agreed. “But I’m not so sure I want every night to be like this. How did you ever manage all alone, Aunt Bernie?”
“You do what you have to do,” Bernie answered.