Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

Burt smiled in her general direction.

There was a three-legged cat lounging on an ottoman, because of course there was.

“That’s Clawdia. C-L-A-W-dia,” Betty enunciated, giggling when she obviously noticed me staring at the cat. “Get it? C-L—”

“I get it, Betty,” I assured her. “It’s . . . clever.”

A full house of eclectic misfits. And I was now one of them.

Betty turned and began talking to Clarice, so I leaned slightly toward Haven. “There’s a grave beneath my window.”

“I know,” she said. “I saw it a few days ago when I took a walk down to the dock. Betty says an old barn cat is buried there.” She paused and my shoulders relaxed. Betty had told me the same thing. “Who names a cat Bob Smitherman, though?”

“This hooch gets better by the glass,” Burt said, moving my mind from the supposed barn cat named . . . Bob? . . . Smitherman? . . . with the oversized tombstone below my bedroom window. Maybe I should check the police department’s database later and find out if Betty’s dead husband had been named Bob.

Cricket nodded. “That it does. Of course, not making it in a toilet means it lacks a little something.”

“We’re all grateful for that, Cricket,” Haven offered.

“You think so,” Cricket said, turning to her, “but I’m telling you, the flavor is that much better when excess bacteria aids the fermentation process.” She tapped her head. “Prison science.”

“You should write a book on that,” Clarice said, shooting her a knowing wink.

“I am,” Cricket said. “It’s almost done. Do you want to read it?”

“God, no.”

Cricket laughed, slapping her hand on her knee. “You do have to have a tough disposition to seek out certain forms of knowledge. Some don’t have a choice though. The knowing of things that no one wants to consider finds them,” she said, sagely.

That struck me as true, and wise. We all possessed unpleasant truths, based on where life had taken us, and what we’d encountered, whether personally or professionally. Most people didn’t mention such topics during social hour. Most people didn’t like to think about those things alone in their own head.

Like me. A drowning I’d arrived at years ago came to mind, the way the five-year-old victim’s mother had screamed his name until her voice was nothing but a ragged whisper. And then the memory of a coffin flashed, the way my father’s lips had been sewn shut, the way I’d screamed for him in my head, begging for him to come back. The way I still pictured him sometimes, even in heaven, trying to smile around the tight thread.

Next to me, Haven’s face had gone curiously blank as though she too was reliving a painful memory. I wanted to know what she was thinking. I had this strange urge to take her hand in mine.

I took another drink of hooch, this one more a swallow than a sip.

Easton, seeming to take advantage of the fact that everyone was turned toward Cricket, slunk out of the room, glancing back once at me before turning the corner and disappearing out of sight.

“He’s acting so strange,” Haven said, her brow furrowed, her gaze lingering on the place where her brother had just exited the room. “He didn’t even come over and say hi.”

I took a sip of hooch. It was true, it got better the more you drank. I could only imagine the headache one would wake up with after drinking too much of this rot gut. I set my cup aside. “Well,” I said, “it might have something to do with the fact that I walked in on him in bed with my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend now—last week and, thinking he was a sexual predator who’d broken into her apartment, had pulled my gun out and was aiming it at his head. The big one. Not the one stuck inside my girlfriend at the time.”

Her mouth had dropped open and she clapped a hand over it, her big eyes round saucers in her face. “Oh my God,” she breathed, dropping her hand. She grimaced and then met my eyes. “Your revenge. He’s the object. Oh, God.” Her face had gone colorless.

“Do you blame me?”

She let out a long sigh, shaking her head slowly. “Not exactly.” She paused, her worried gaze moving over my features. “How exactly do you plan on exacting said revenge?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” I flashed her a devilish smile but she remained serious, finally sighing. But in all honesty? I had to admit I’d lost some interest in my revenge, even since that morning. I couldn’t say exactly why, but there it was.

“Maybe he deserves it.” She tilted her head, giving me a sympathetic look. “How serious were you about the girl?”

“I was considering marrying her.” It was true, wasn’t it? So why did that feel like a lie?

“Shit.” She reached out and put her hand on my arm. It was slender and tanned, her nails short and unpainted. The nails of a woman who liked to dig in soil. You’re Never too Old to Play in the Dirt. “I’m sorry. On his behalf.” She looked so incredibly sincere and I felt a small knock in my chest.

“You can’t apologize on someone else’s behalf.”

Our eyes locked for several moments and something passed between us. Something I had no idea how to interpret. Sympathy? Understanding? “No,” she finally said. “I know. I know that. Sometimes I feel responsible for his behavior, though. I practically raised him. For so long, it’s just been him and me. He’s . . . well . . . I don’t even know what to say.”