This is the second part in a series of excerpts from Dallas writer Callie A. Bentley’s unfinished novel A Legend of Fire. To read the first part, click here.

Present

The bar is slow tonight—which is expected, since it’s Tuesday, and that’s the slowest night of the week for us. It’s just Larry and me and a few regulars. He’s in the back doing the weekly order; I’m chatting, cleaning, occasionally making a drink for someone.

Around eight the phone rings. It’s Larry’s wife, Susan, and there’s a lot of commotion in the background wherever she is and she sounds a little frantic. “Amie,” she’s gasping, “Amie, get me Larry quick, will you? Please.”

I run with the cordless into the office. “Larry, it’s Susan,” I say as I hand it to him. “She sounds like something’s wrong.”

Frowning, without a word to me he takes the receiver. “Baby? What is it? What’s going on?”

I leave—pull the office door closed behind me, and return to my patrons, whose number has by now decreased to only two. I’m worried—Susan’s a levelheaded woman who’s not easily upset or rattled, so I know something must really be wrong.

I don’t have to wait long to find out. Within five minutes Larry has emerged from the office, his face white, looking a little shaky.

“Larry!” I exclaim, hurrying to take the receiver from him and replace it on its cradle, because he’s standing there holding it like he has utterly forgotten what it’s for and what he’s supposed to do with it. I give his arm a squeeze as I remove the phone from his hand. “What’s wrong?” I want to know, because clearly he needs prompting.

“It’s Jessy,” he says, and he’s having trouble talking without choking on the words—and it takes a couple of seconds for it to penetrate my brain that he means his Jessy—his little girl, Jessica—not mine.

I think the color drains from my face too, and my hand is shaking a little as I fumble to replace the receiver on its cradle. “What? What happened?”

He takes a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “Sh-she and the boys had the go-cart out—just in the neighborhood—and—and some fucker came flying around the corner out of nowhere, going way too fast—” He wipes sweat from his forehead. “Hit the go-cart, flipped it on its side. The kids had their helmets on but the way they landed Jeff was on top of Jessy, and she’s so much smaller—” He gulped, eyes bulging and desperate. “She’s…not unconscious anymore and…and they think her back and neck are fine but she’s got a broken arm and probably a broken collarbone, and a concussion. Susie was calling me from the emergency room—she said it was the first chance she’d had to call, and the boys are beside themselves. Jessy was screaming bloody murder, she wanted me to talk to her.” He paused, then, “Fucker didn’t even stop.”

“Jesus Christ,” I say. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”

He gapes at me like he doesn’t comprehend. “Larry, you need to go to the hospital,” I try to explain gently, as I squeeze his arm. “I’ve got things under control here, don’t even think about this place right now. You go be with Jessica. She won’t hurt nearly so badly once her daddy’s there. And call and let me know how she is, when you have a chance.”

I know this is exactly what he was hoping I’d say, but he’s unsure. “Oh, Amie, darlin’, I don’t know. We probably oughtta just close the place for the night. I hate for you to be up here all by yourself…”

“I’m not by myself,” I insist stoutly. I wave my hand toward the two old men sitting nursing their beers at the end of the bar. “Fred and Earl are here.” I smile to encourage him. “And I’m pretty smart and self-sufficient, Larry, you know that. I’ve got the call button to page the cops if anybody hassles me, and I’ve got my Mace and my cell phone.” I squeeze his arm again. “If it were Ava,” I say, “you’d be yelling at me if I were still standing here. Get the hell out. I’ll call you if I have any problems. You go be with your baby girl, right now.”

With a small, anxious smile, he consents. I know that it’s not that he doesn’t trust me or think I can handle it—it’s just that it really is dangerous for anybody, male or female, in this day and age to try and man a bar completely alone. I know Joe can’t come in to keep me company; he’s got an early class on Wednesday mornings. And Riley’s got other gigs during the week. But…I’m feeling especially apathetic tonight anyway. Whatever happens, happens. I can handle it…or, if not, who really cares?

I’ve always lived probably three-quarters inside of my head—part of being a scholar probably. That’s the thing about bartending—you can be engaged physically and somewhat mentally…but it doesn’t require all of your mental capacity, only the surface. So I can make drinks, chat, and all the time have something else entirely cooking inside of my head. I’m a daydreamer, but that’s okay because it goes with the territory. I create most of my best ideas and historical theories, make most of my enlightening connections, in the midst of daydreams. Which, in case you wondered, is why I have a Ph.D. and I still bartend (which was my job of choice as I worked my way through eight years of school). As I try to explain to people (but unfortunately, in this day and age of career-driven corporate businesspeople who won’t raise their fingers to do anything that won’t look good on a resume, no one understands), I never went to school all those years to promote a career: in fact I despise the word itself. I think it undermines everything that matters in a life. I went to school for the learning, for the knowledge, because the study of history inspires and excites me. If I had wanted a career I would have gotten my doctorate, and my master’s, and my bachelor’s, all in something other, something less specific than Oklahoma history, the lost culture of a people and a state not considered worthy of anything by most of the rest of the country. What’s Oklahoma, right? A bunch of backwoods rednecks or bitter Native Americans running casinos on their reservations. On one of my few physical excursions outside of its borders, I’m shocked when people have actually asked me, with complete seriousness, “So do you have restaurants and malls and stuff in Oklahoma?”

In any case, it’s hard to find those who go to school, anymore, for the academics, for the pure excitement of the acquisition of knowledge, for the discussion of things that truly matter. History; art; literature; poetry; the theatre. Scientific and mathematical theories. Philosophy and theology. All of it is so important; it gives our lives meaning. But no. What do people go to school for, these days, in corporate-run America? Business. Communications. Marketing. Sales. Hospitality, for God’s sake. To be sure, it all has its place. But…in the great scheme of things…oh, I know I’m a snob. To some people those things are the important things…and the SUVs and the 2.5 kids and the cookie-cutter house in the suburbs and everything else. Not everyone loves school; not everyone is a scholar and revels in academia, absorbs the atmosphere like it’s life’s blood. I know all of that. But. To each his own. I’m the bartender with a Ph.D. who doesn’t watch T.V. but listens to late-night radio shows about reincarnation and white noise. Sometimes I am snotty to particularly obnoxious patrons who have already gotten under my skin and then make the mistake of calling me “Miss.” I turn around, flash an ironic grin and say, “Actually, it’s Dr.,” and motion to the copies of my diplomas that Larry framed and hung over the bar. Bobby and Jolie would be proud. Yes; I could teach. I might someday. But for now, as far as a job (I won’t use that other word again), I’m content enough to make drinks and pursue my research and scholastic endeavors.

Thus involved in daydreaming I don’t even notice when the two men, considerably younger than Fred and Earl, walk in. I’m humming, wiping down the shelves in the refrigerator, utterly lost in the chaos and oblivion and mazes of my mind. Fred and Earl are still nursing their Budweisers and contentedly watching basketball, or something. (Something one of them said has made me imagine it’s basketball but I haven’t actually glanced at the television the entire time I’ve been here.)

Anyway, so one of the younger guys clears his throat, and I jump and then stand up, laughing a little. “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t see you. What can I get for you?”

They’re both probably in their mid-twenties, good-looking in a fresh, wholesome, outdoorsy, friendly sort of way. One has sandy hair, a little rumpled, and is tan with scruff on his chin; the other has red hair, curly, and a goatee. “Hey,” they greet me. “So…” the redhead says. “We’re guessing you guys don’t have a band playing tonight? We’d heard this was a good joint to hear the local talent.”

I smile. “No,” I say apologetically, “I mean—it is, for sure, but not on Tuesday nights. Generally we have bands playing Thursday through Sunday…occasional Wednesdays.”

“Well, we would come on the off-night,” the blond grins at his friend.

The redhead just grins back, winks at me. “Ah—I don’t think it was a completely wasted trip. You got any drink specials, doll?”

I shrug, again smile apologetically. “Nah. Again, not tonight. On Mondays we’ve got dollar margaritas, on Wednesdays dollar domestic drafts and two-dollar imports,” I add hopefully.

The blond grins again, and winks at me too. “All right. We’ll take a couple of whiskey and waters, short. You got a jukebox?”

“In the corner,” I motion, and smile as I turn to pour their drinks.

Look for the third and final part on Renegade Bus tomorrow.