The Heavenly Table

57

THAT SAME EVENING, a frustrated and demoralized Bovard took a cab into Meade with the sole intention of getting plastered. Not only had his dream of dying with Wesley by his side been ruined, but even worse, rumors were now floating around that the 343rd might not ship out until next spring. What if the war ended before he got there? The prospect of sitting around uselessly in Ohio for five or six more months while great battles were being waged just a weeklong ocean voyage away was too depressing for words; and the thought that he might be cheated out of his destiny was weighing heavily on his mind when the driver dropped him off in front of the Candlelight.

He had just started in on his sixth scotch and was bemoaning his predicament to Forrester, the bartender, when the Lewis Family, still sweaty from their performance and accompanied by several females, came in and commandeered three tables at the rear of the room. All of the tension and animosity they had felt toward one another before the show had been forgotten, and within minutes their earsplitting laughter and swinish behavior had shattered the quiet, sophisticated atmosphere that had always been, at least for Bovard, the Candlelight’s main attraction in the first place. By the time the troupe ordered their second round, all of the other patrons had hurriedly paid their tabs and slipped out the door. Bovard turned and watched in disgust as one of the Lewises forced his tongue down the throat of one of the women. Now, it is a fact that a man will sometimes go to great lengths, even risk life and limb, to defend the sanctity of his favorite drinking hole; and so, when it finally became obvious that Forrester wasn’t going to do anything to restore order, the lieutenant decided it was up to him. Adjusting his officer’s cap, he staggered back to their corner, and, after giving them a thorough dressing-down that ended with a long quote from Horace, threatened to beat them all into bloody pulps unless they started acting decently. Within seconds, three of them, including one of the females, were pointing derringers at his head, and the bartender had his arms pinned behind his back and was gently but firmly escorting him to the door. “Sorry, sir,” Forrester said softly in his ear, “I don’t like ’em any more than you do, but they’ll spend more tonight than we usually take in all week.”

For a while, he walked aimlessly around town, sipping from a flask and trying to imagine the monument his parents would erect in his honor in the family plot when they received word of his death at the Front. That is, goddamn it to hell, if he ever got there! Eventually, he ended up down near the paper mill. He had just started to head back uptown when he spotted a light still on in the Blind Owl. Hoping Malone might be there, blotto and reliving all his old horrors again, he cut across the street and entered.

To his disappointment, there was no sign of the sergeant; the only customers were a shabby, middle-aged couple arguing at a table by the door. He ordered a whiskey and beer, and Pollard served him without a word, as usual. Probably because he was drunk and in a foul mood, Bovard pictured the barkeep, with his wide nose, his broad sloping forehead, and his flabby, hairy body, as a direct descendant of the chimpanzee he’d seen performing with that family of simpletons the other night over at the Majestic. He had read newspaper articles about the search in certain parts of the world for a suspected missing link; well shit, folks, here it is tending bar in Meade, Ohio. Bovard giggled to himself and sloshed his drink down the front of his uniform as Pollard tromped back to the other side of the room. Recalling the chimp then led him to thoughts of Lucas. Maybe he’d stop by the theater on his way back to the camp, see what he was up to. And he’d go visit Wesley tomorrow in the infirmary; he felt a twinge of guilt about leaving him so abruptly yesterday morning, without even saying goodbye. It was certainly no way for an officer to behave, no matter how much of a mess the boy had made of things.

Lost as he was in his own thoughts, Bovard didn’t hear the squabbling couple get up and leave, nor notice Pollard walk over and lock the front door. He picked up his beer mug to take a drink, and that’s when he saw in the mirror the barkeep standing close behind him. He didn’t even have time to blink before he was hit squarely in the temple with a fist twice the size of a normal man’s. A bright blast of light filled his head as he tumbled off the bar stool, and he vaguely felt his shoulder smack the wood floor. Then nothing.

“How do you like them apples, you sonofabitch?” Pollard said in a low, taunting voice. “Let’s hear ye laugh at me now.” He turned out the lamps and grabbed hold of the lieutenant’s boots and dragged him through the door that led to the back room. He went through his pockets and found some identification papers and a set of keys and thirty-four dollars in his wallet, along with two cigars in a leather case. Then he chained his arms and legs to the floor and stuffed a filthy rag in his mouth that he had used to wipe up some stains left by the late carpenter. Sitting down in a straight-backed chair, he lit one of the cigars and studied his latest victim. The soldier was tall, slim, and handsome. To Pollard, he looked like a ladies’ man, something he had never had a chance to be. Never had he been to a sweethearts’ dance, or had sexy words whispered in his ear, or slipped his finger up some panting girl’s hot gash. Hell, he’d never even been kissed by anyone other than his mother. He thought about the only time in his life that he’d ever dared to ask a woman out, some stupid shopgirl in Jackson. He was eighteen years old, and so scared he thought for sure he’d piss his pants. But he told himself she’d be crazy to turn him down; after all, she wasn’t any prize catch herself, with her double chin and the muddy brown birthmark on her forehead and the way her nose was squashed to one side. He had stood in the back of the shop on a Saturday evening for over an hour, sopped with nervous sweat and pretending to look at little trinkets while waiting on the place to empty out, and when it finally did, he marched to the counter on rubbery legs, feeling as if he was going to faint. Eager to seal the deal and get it over with, he blurted it all out in a rush, his invitation to go with him to a horseshoe-pitching tournament over in McArthur. Oh, how she had howled. Laughed so hard she choked on some sick, spat it in a wastebasket right in front of him. He’d run out the door and down an alley, knocked over an old bum who was picking through somebody’s trash. With the girl’s shrill laughter still ringing in his head, he had kicked the fucker’s ribs in, and it had felt so damn good just to hurt somebody else. Like this did. Then he leaned over and ground the stogie out on the palm of Bovard’s right hand.