To her own surprise, her hands were steady. Inside her, there was nothing now but a hard, frozen calm. She locked the apartment where her daughter’s laughter would never be heard again and, without looking back, stepped into the night.
Before long, the heavy front door of The Meeting Place creaked open, letting her into a cloud of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and sour air. Some cheap country song blared from old speakers. At sticky tables sat worn-out men and hard-faced women whose expressions carried the mark of too many disappointments.
Helen paused just inside the doorway, giving her eyes a second to adjust to the dim light. In the crowd she spotted them almost immediately. Crow, Brute, and Birdie were at their usual table in the back, laughing loudly and drinking beer from cloudy mugs.
Helen took one deep breath and walked straight toward them. The sight of the grieving mother in a place like that had an immediate effect on the room. Conversations died down and turned into tense whispers.
People stared at her—the quiet widow Carter, who had buried her only child just a week earlier, now walking into the town’s roughest bar dressed up and wearing lipstick. The three men fell silent too, looking at her with open surprise. Crow was the first to recover.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said with a mocking grin. “Mrs. Carter, what brings you to a place like this? Come to drink to your daughter?” he asked. Brute and Birdie burst into ugly laughter.
Helen stepped right up to their beer-sticky table and stopped. She looked Crow in the eye, and there was no fear in her face—only a cold, almost curious contempt. “I got tired of sitting alone,” she said in a steady voice that carried over the room.
“Four walls can get awfully quiet. Looks like you boys know how to keep things lively.” It wasn’t the answer they expected.
Crow frowned, trying to figure out what game she was playing. He was used to people pitying her or avoiding her, not standing over him with her chin raised. “So what is it you want, Mrs. Carter?” he asked, more cautious now.
Helen let her eyes drift over their cluttered table. “Looks like you’re out of anything worth drinking,” she said. “And that watered-down beer is no way to spend a Friday night.
I brought something stronger.” With that, she tapped her large handbag. “If you want, I’ll share. Just not here..
This place is too noisy, and it smells like old mop water,” she said with a slight grimace. There was something in her tone that any half-drunk man in their condition would take as an invitation. A lonely woman in her forties, clearly not in her right mind from grief, seemed to be walking right into their hands.
