Faces in Time (17 page)

“So, if you dislike Shrew so much, why haven’t you changed your last name back to your maiden name?” asks Chester before taking a sip of his soft drink, talking about something that holds his interest for the first time since he was with Rhonda at the party.

“My maiden name is Glasscock.”

Gushing and burning its way up the back of Chester’s nose is the cola that he has just sipped.

The petite brunette laughs and smacks his shoulder, “You making fun of my daddy’s name?”

He shakes his head in negation, the nasal fizzing still a bit too distracting to allow talking.

Smacking his shoulder again, “Just messin’ witchya, Chaz! My maiden name’s Morton.”

Chester
laughs.

“Shrew should have been a sign to all women everywhere to never marry that man. I never changed it because I want to remember how much I hate it and make sure I don mt end up with another dummy. I ain’t changing it till I get married again; this time for good.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“Think so?” she poses, starting to blush.

A little confused at the rising of blood to her cheeks, he says unevenly, “Yeah, sure.”

Janet leans in close to Cindy’s ear and whispers something. They head off to the restroom which is to the right of the bar.

“Told you they’d be in there for most of the day,” says Lucky with an unintentional snort.

“Yep,” says Chester, not particularly thrilled with the prospect of conversing with Lucky, who has consumed four more beers during the first two quarters, alone for the duration of half time.

“I’m gonna pay you, but I’m gonna pay you for the spread—not that side bet that you were talking about,” Manny explains.

“No, it’s the side bet that we agreed upon,” words flying out of Chester faster than he’s used to.

“Well, it’s too weird—too crazy to have worked out like that. That’s why I don’t like taking those kinda bets,” spouts Manny.

“But you did take this one—already happened. A little late to back out now.”

A voice inside Chester screams for him to take the spread money and to not worry about making two to one since regular payout would cover his bills for another week or so, but there’s something new inside of him that keeps the voice quiet and allows him to breathe nearly normally while cruising into the red zone.

Lucky’s rough voice booms, “I lost more’n five thousand bucks to ya last playoffs. Remember that?” stepping his voice up louder with each subsequent word, “I think you’re gonna pay me and my friend all the money ya owe us.”

Pool stiang in the air or serve as leaning staffs to everyone in the room. The ceasing of clacking balls wails trouble more powerfully than a blaring alarm.

Lucky feels the tension and its power over the room, and he continues, more boisterous than before, “Unless you’re gonna back out on your bet. We got our stubs right here.”

The tiny betting stubs with Manny’s childlike scribbling on them are clenched in and sticking out of the top of Lucky’s fist, a pair of daring accusations of dishonor, writs of distrust, declarations that their issuer renders a sham business; one stub horribly crumpled and one as straight as a torn stub can be.

Manny looks around the room, and people don’t take their gazes away from him as they usually do. Their eyes pulse as do their chests as they think of their own little folded-over rectangles in their pockets. For a moment, the eyes of the tall man dart from one spot in the room to another, and his mouth snarls up in one corner, drops back down to a frown, and finally lurches into a forced smile that has little verisimilitude.

Long, thin lips break, “‘Course I’m gonna cover ya bets, but I don’t take these crazy deals no more,” he pauses waiting for the room to respond, which remains silent, “Never.”

Lucky smiles, “You’re a good man, Manny; that’s what I thought. Knew you’d stick to your word.”

Most of the breathing in the room regains a natural rhythm, and as they see Manny reaching for his back left pocket they slowly return their attention to table-top geometry, chalky felt, and bottled spirits. Had he reached underneath his shirt at the small of his back, they all would have dived to the floor.

Chester
, who has no knowledge of the tall man’s habits, watches the emaciated, giant hand intently. Its five bony digits remind him of Charon, the ferryman of Hades, and he waits to see if he’ll be granted permission to cross Acheron or drown in its current trying to traverse it.

Nearly five minutes later, following a final restroom stop of the two ladies, they are outside, and Chester feels the wad of money in his pocket. It feels all the better knowing it’s the full amount he bargained for. Getting what was just from a challenging person is not something that he’s used to. The feeling is but a thousandth of what he felt when Rhonda first smiled at him at the party, but it is something more than what he’s experienced in the past few weeks and for most of his life before traveling back here.

“See ya next week, Chaz?” Lucky asks.

“Well, I don’t know about Manny. Do you know any other bars to bet at?”

Smiling the smile of one who’s greatest talent has been stumbled upon by another, “With a name like Lucky? I know all of them.”

“Your name is Lester. If you were lucky, we’d have gone to Hawaii last year,” shoots his wife.

“And we—if you—if you’d stop nag—nagging me, I’d still have all my hair.”

One pair of female eyes rolls and quivers, but the other pair twinkles as their owner coos, “Bye, Chaz!” while waiving her arm as if painting the air.

If his love were not already molded in the shape of a redhead who has told him not to follow her, he might be tempted to see if his affection could match the twinkling brunette’s form, but he’s still holding the shape of Rhonda in his heart.

He smiles, nods his head, and makes his way toward the rear of the parking lot and his car.

As he walks he thinks over the exchange between Lucky and Cindy when he told her that he had indeed bet on the game and won one hundred and fifty dollars. Although Chester knew that Lucky had technically only profited one hundred dollars since he had put up fifty for the bet, he kept his mouth quiet and his senses alert to their interaction.

Cindy’s eyes welled up as though she would cry, and she raised her hand to smack his shoulder. But she ended up shaking her head and saying, “Damn it, Lucky. When’s it going to be enough for you?”

He said, “Baby, we won. A hundred and fifty bucks! Chaz here told me it was a sure thing, and, damn it, he was dead on.”

That was a cue for Janet to grab Chester’s arm tightly and press her face against his shoulder. This made Cindy’s face lighten.

Chester
was expecting more of a scene. He had actually expected Lucky to concoct a plan worthy of Fred Flintstone to collect the money without the girls noticing at all. He certainly wasn’t expecting Cindy to get over it so quickly. Chester reasons that her reluctant acceptance of Lucky’s vices is why they are still marri

Before his jaunt through time, he would never have parked his Chevelle amidst the vehicles in a crowded bar parking lot, especially during a sporting event. Today he hasn’t thought about any possible damage to the car. He doesn’t even make his habitual walk completely around the vehicle before getting in and backing out of the space.

A half smile surfaces when he realizes he has money to get his pillows and a mattress cover.

He turns left on the street out of the parking lot and navigates toward the mall. The trip to the shopping center is a familiar series of turns that requires little of his attention, and his thoughts roam along the events at the bar.

At least once a minute, his mind steers him off course to focus on green luminance flickering beneath waves of flowing red. He derails his serotonin surge from her image and aims it back at his hours in the sports bar and the lump of cash in his pocket. He’d still rather think of her, but he has to make it through his mall shopping in order to sleep easier tonight. There’ll be ample sleepless time to think of her then.

He comes to a stop at the last light before the entrance to the mall. He sees an odd-looking dog on the end of a multi-pointed leash walking up the sidewalk in his passenger mirror. The owner’s pants shift on the skinny legs beneath as he walks behind the tethered animal.

A memory comes into focus.

The leash.

It’s not a dog at all.

It’s a cat. His cat.

He knows he should look away immediately, speed through the red light, and uphold the safety of mankind, but he can’t look away.

He has to see.

A cat it is for sure; its features clear now—its walk unmistakable. He’s watching the ill-fated cat leash adventure that he embarked upon two decades prior. Scratches, hisses, rah-ow-ooos, unplanned stops, obscure obstacles, and cat limbs adamantly wrapped around the blue straps of the leash are all that his efforts had warranted him. A memory rushes through his mind of the cat hugging the right side of the sidewalk and cowering as each car passed.

Chester
sees his past self staring at the blue Chevelle. He hates the idea of what hebout to do, but he doesn’t see another alternative.

As the man and the feline approach his side mirror, Chester revs his engine. The furry one lunges to the far side of the sidewalk, and the owner grasps the leash tightly. The kitten rolls onto her back off the sidewalk and onto the grass, fastening her limbs around the leash.

Chester
glances at the light—still red. Cars from the left side of the intersection start turning. He knows his side of the traffic signal should be next, hoping the disturbance with the cat will distract his counterpart long enough for him to escape without being seen.