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Hand drying the wine goblets, the Old-Fashioned glasses, and the beer mugs came so automatically to Mary that she effortlessly daydreamed in her sadness, staring off with eyes not focused on anything. Now in their tenth month of business, Colin and she had been lazy the night before. Exhausted from a hard ten hours serving drinks, they had locked up with dirty barware ignored, a rare but well-needed omission of duty, for everything seemed a strain in not having received an e-mail from Martin.
During earlier wars when there were no computers or Internet connections, communication from soldiers in the field was limited to letters. Surely there had been less tension when word was not received for days. But with advanced technology came expectations of daily reports from their Marine; and if no e-mail was received for a day, fear began to creep in. By four days, as was their case, their minds had braced for awful news. Mary and Colin did not speak of this in the superstitious belief that mentioning dreads might cause them to happen.
A laptop was a regular feature on the bar top ever since Martin was deployed, logged into Google mail, and checked periodically to make sure they had not been logged out. They used the laptop for no other purpose; it sat there testifying to how technology continuously intruded into the lives of parents of a child stationed in a war zone. They despised the spam that their best efforts could not block, for it would ring the tone of incoming mail and ignite hope that word had arrived only to be dashed with messages about cheap meds from Canada or pornographic come-ons.
Colin entered the bar from the back office asking, “Did you check the e-mail?” and pulling Mary out of her daydream. The question irritated her. Of course she was checking it at regular intervals and need not be reminded. However, it was a no-win situation for Colin. Had he not asked she would have been irritated by his seeming disinterest.
“Ten minutes ago when you last asked,” Mary growled in response, and then instantly regretted being so testy. From her frowning face, she forced a smile as she looked at Colin, and it well-served as apology in the tacit communication of this happily married couple. His look back to her expressed his desperation for any word from their son and the love he had for this woman.
“It’s been four days, should we start to worry?” he asked. A silly question for fear of the worst was evident in them both after only two days had passed.
“When did we stop?” Mary replied.
“What did he say in the last one, again? Did he mention anything about leave?” But these, too, were silly questions. Mary knew Colin had memorized every word of the last e-mail, and these questions were desperate hopes that somehow he had missed something.
“You know he can’t say much about anything,” she reminded him. Then changing the topic from this torment, Mary asked, “Did you bring up the red wine from the cellar?”
“Why bother? Nobody’s going to come in on Christmas Eve.”
“Some of the regulars will,” Mary predicted.
“What makes you think so?” Colin wondered. This bar was a new venture for them both, and they could only make guesses as to how their clientele would react to the holidays.
“Because they have nowhere else to go,” Mary answered. “Not an indictment, just an observation. Molly will want her red.”
“All right,” Colin conceded, “I’ll go down.” Then he added, “I’ll bring up more of the Cuervo Gold, too.”
“Since we opened the Captain has never missed a night,” she laughed; just thinking about the odd, old character whose orations created so much fun for all brought a smile. But then back came her frown as she thought aloud, “Maybe I should send another e-mail to Marty? Maybe he never got the last one?”
“Every day, religiously, since he was deployed,” Colin joined her in her thought. “He has never missed until now.” He was dangerously near to what they both feared to say.
“Maybe he couldn’t get a connecting line to a server?” Mary continued, although she seriously doubted this explanation.
“Maybe,” Colin echoed with as little enthusiasm as she held to this possibility.
The bell on the door jingled. An old woman opened it, stuck in her head to see whether there were any patrons, hesitated for a moment as she decided whether she would enter, and, having decided, stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind her. Then she looked up at the little gold bell. This was her ritual repeated every evening at six o’clock sharp ever since the bar had opened. Never had she opted against coming in, but this procedure signified the guilt she felt being an older woman coming into a bar unescorted, a sentiment the confident younger women of the day would scarce understand. That nice women did not go into bars by themselves had been drummed into her as a child, and it took being a lonely widow for too many years to convince her otherwise, and yet those qualms came to her every time. Nervousness beset her until, like clockwork, Mary and Colin chimed together a warm welcome saying, “Merry Christmas to you, Molly!”
“If you say so,” came Molly’s response, for boisterousness would not be considered part of her nature.
“The usual?” Colin asked, although he knew in advance the answer.
“Yes, but just one,” Molly replied, “I can’t stay long, there’s so much to do.”
“Give me a minute,” Colin said, “I have to run down to the cellar,” and down the staircase at the back of the bar he headed. Once downstairs, he funneled red wine out of a cardboard cask into a magnum bottle. This little deception he carried out each night as it gave Molly the appearance of getting something better than boxed wine, although it would not really matter to her. Paying as little as she could was of more interest to Molly than the quality of the drink. Surviving several economically difficult times in a long marriage had made Molly a bit of a spendthrift. So although she could well afford to pay for the best wine the bar had to offer, her habit of being thrifty was an integral part of her character; spending less made her happier than the taste of better wine could ever achieve.
Mary chatted with Molly as they waited for Colin’s return, asking, “Christmas keeping you busy?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” Molly replied. “I still have decorating to do, and some cards I still haven’t written. There won’t be mail until Monday, I guess, so those cards will just have to be late.” While idly chatting, Molly’s brain was half occupied on another thought as she looked around the bar one more time to make sure that no other patron was there. Then with deliberation she plopped down on the barstool that was next to the bartender’s station and the only stool around the curve of the bar that faced south, all others facing west. This barstool not only allowed its occupant to slyly steal maraschino cherries from the bartender who was well aware that the cherries were being filched and didn’t care, it also allowed the lucky patron sitting there to face all others during the conversations that filled the bar in a chairman-of-the-board type of position.
“Now why would you go and sit there again?” Mary clucked. “You know the Captain is just going to make a big squawk about it.”
“He can just go to blazes,” Molly responded with indignation at the Captain’s claim to this bit of real estate. “I’m a customer, too.”
Colin reentered the bar with the magnum of red and a gallon bottle of Cuervo Gold and quickly poured Molly her glass of wine, asking as he handed it to her, “Tempting fate again?”
“The big blowhard can just stick it where the sun don’t shine,” Molly courageously and loudly answered, coincidentally at the same time as the bell jingle announced that another had entered the bar.
“The big blowhard is here!” the Captain shouted with a laugh. “And who knows, if you tell me exactly what you want me to stick there, I just might oblige, although if you are referring to my barstool, I don’t think the physics of such an operation are going to work.” He strode over to the bar, stood next to Molly and beamed a sinister smile at the old woman.
“Hello, Colin and Mary, merry, merry Christmas. I’m back from a day of fighting the world’s greatest ocean, defeating Neptune once again, with a hold-full of fish that fetched a handsome price. There’s money in my pocket, so please keep the shooters and beers coming, and I will celebrate the eve of Christ’s birth in your warm and hospitable, with one exception, company.” Then, in a feat of strength admirable for a man of his years, Captain Mac grabbed Molly up in his arms as if she were some toy doll and deposited her on a chair at the nearby cocktail table. Then smoothly moved Molly’s wine glass to her new location, bounced back to the now-empty barstool and sat on it as if it were a regained throne.
Molly was flabbergasted and protested to Colin and Mary, “Are you going to let him treat me like that.”
In response, Colin and Mary, in accordance with a script that had been repeated almost every evening for ten months shot back in unison, “You were warned.”
Colin set a shooter of tequila and a beer in front of Captain Mac who pronounced, “Now all is right with the world, my barstool beneath me, a shot of Jose’s finest and a beer to chase it down. What more could a man ask for holiday cheer?”
“Word from our Martin would be nice,” Colin glumly replied.
“Still no e-mail?” Mac asked.
Mary piped in, “Mr. Patriotism here says to him Join the reserves, the benefits are great, and if they call you up, you will be behind the lines. Well what do you do when there are no lines?”
“That’s the way it was in Nam,” Mac somberly replied.
Molly bristled and snidely challenged, “Are you going to brag and tell us you were some hero in Viet Nam?”
“No hero,” Mac quietly replied, refusing to take Molly’s bait to argue. “I was just another schmuck of a sailor trying hard not to get killed. I’d been in the Navy for some time, pulling soft duty. Then from ‘69 to ’71 they stuck me on a gunboat in Nam on river patrol. Changed the hell out of me; killing men is killing men, makes no difference that they call it a war.”
Disappointed that she could not catch the Captain in a brag, Molly instead chided him, “You have a fine way of cheering up Colin and Mary here.”
“You’re right,” Mac conceded. “So what are you two doing for Christmas?”
“With Marty overseas, it doesn’t even feel like Christmas,” Colin commiserated.
“We haven’t even gotten a tree this year,” Mary added.
“No family coming over?” Mac asked.
“Mary’s and my folks have all passed,” Colin replied. “Mary’s mom was the last to go, and after that, none of her siblings seem to want to put in the effort to get together. And all my relatives live on the other side of the country. No, it’s just Mary and me. Maybe we’ll go out for a nice restaurant meal. Molly, what’re your plans? You got family coming?”
“No, no family,” Molly said with sadness. “With my Bertram gone, the holidays are quiet time for me. I’ll go to Mass in the morning, and then I always cook a ham and yams and all the fixings. And after dinner a little eggnog with just a bit of rum, and I’ll sit down and watch our copy of A Charlie Brown’s Christmas. That was Bert’s favorite, God rest his soul. He knew every line, and he would be whistling all the music for days.”
“And you said you were finishing up all of the decorations,” Mary added. “That is so admirable.”
“What’s so admirable about it?” Mac threw in a caustic barb.
“Well, just that she keeps up all the traditions by herself,” Mary defended her.
“Sounds more like someone keeping busy so that they don’t bore themselves to death,” Mac scoffed.
“This from a man whose idea of sentimentality is crying when he can see the bottom of a beer mug,” Molly snapped back.
“Play nice, you two,” Colin gently chided. “How about you, Captain Mac? What are your plans?”
A smile came to the old man signaling to all that they were in store for a bit of oration, “As for Christmas Eve, I’m doing it now. Shooters and beers and conversation with two friends and another person I will not name who I can tolerate.”
Then he realized that in talking about the libations he had a thirst for more. “Pour me another, Colin, of that sweet, sweet nectar.” Colin quickly obliged with another shot of tequila which Mac downed, waved for another, and then downed that next shot with a flash of his wrist. “What better way to celebrate a birthday,” Mac beamed.
“Then, come sunrise,” he continued his oration, “when the water in the bay is like glass, and the sounds of the town are still just a murmur, I’ll pull the Persephone out of her slip and head for the breakwater. It’s there your face gets hit with that wonderful mist of saltwater that lets you know you’re really alive. I’ll point the boat south towards warmer climes, and after days of fishing and drinking and basking in God’s great gift, I’ll round the tip of Baja and pull into Cabo for a day. There is this delightful senora who’s always ready to give me some comfort, and she enjoys throwing me into a tub and scrubbing away the smells of the briny.”
“A senora!” Molly clucked in disapproval. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Ashamed?” Mac shot back. “Why would I be ashamed? We both bring something to the table. Come the next morn, I’ll head up the Sea of Cortez to a small town called Loreto that is a little bit of Eden in this troubled world. Oh, there are those who have tried to turn it into a tourist hell, but the town just seems to ignore them, staying the same for decades on end. I’ll anchor offshore and take the little boat in. A short way down the road from the town square there is a small motel practically covered in bougainvillea and surrounded by jasmine whose sweet perfume wafts to you when you are still blocks away. On the way I’ll pass a tiny home with some sweet sisters of mercy. A man can find some comfort there. At the motel, for a pittance I’ll get a comfortable bed and three squares, and, if you are kind to the cook, she’ll turn your day’s catch into the most delicious ceviche on the planet. With that and shooters and cerveza, one can take in the evening with your feet up and be tempted to get one’s land legs again.”
“My God, that sounds good,” Colin chimed in with his head rolled back as he absorbed in the pictures that the Captain painted. “Take me along?” he begged.
“Is that so?” Mary scolded her spouse. “And which is the more enticing, the women or the whiskey?”
“It’s the fishing and the freedom,” Colin defended himself with a chuckle.
“And you would leave me here to do all the work?” Mary continued her scolding.
Colin came to his wife, hugged her and kissed her forehead. “We opened ten months ago and haven’t had a day off since. We could both do with some R&R, so what do you say, Cap? Have you got room for two?”
“He should say yes,” Molly chimed in with sarcasm, “and save himself from his loneliness.”
“What’s that?” Captain Mac snapped back.
“I was just saying your excursion sounds like an old man desperately trying to stave off his sad, lonely existence.”
“This from a woman who comes in here night after night ordering one glass of wine because she supposedly must rush off to something else, then manages to nurse that glass for hours on end listening on the edge of other people’s conversations, throwing in her occasional acidic remarks. Living your lonely life, you’re going to criticize an expedition through the most wondrous of Christmas presents, our beautiful Pacific with its bounty?”
“It’s hard to be sure given all the garbage words you throw at a soul, but are you saying you are not lonely?” Molly challenged the Captain.
“I have friends in every port,” Mac refuted.
“Be honest for once in your life, you old buzzard, and admit you are lonely,” Molly insisted.
“Christ, I am lonely all the time,” Mac confessed. “Are you happy? Have you won?”
“C’mon guys,” Colin interrupted this too-intense exchange. “What do you say, Captain Mac, do you have room for a couple of mates? We’ll pay for our keep, and I know my way around a fishing boat.”
“What about Marty?” Mary voiced her concern. “How would we keep in touch?”
“I’ve got satellite access to the Internet,” the Captain assured her. “You could stay in touch. And the Persephone will sleep eight. There’s plenty of room.”
“And we could keep you company,” Colin added as much trying to convince his wife of the merits of their joining the trip as trying to convince the Captain.
“Then it’s settled,” Mac agreed.
And Mary nodded her assent to complete the pact; however, she surprised Mac when she then asked, “What about you, Molly?”
“What’s that you are saying?” Mac quickly asked, although he well understood, and it was as much a protest as question.
“Well, you said there’s lots of room,” Mary reminded him.
“Well, there is but…” Mac started to reply.
But before he could register his complaint, Mary cut him off, saying, “Then it’s settled. How ‘bout it, Molly?”
“You expect me to spend two weeks with this blowhard, braggart of a man?” Molly sniped.
“You’ve spent the last ten months with him every night,” Colin reminded her. “I can’t see that two weeks would be that much different. I think it’s a wonderful idea. You two feel so much like family it would be great. No one should be alone for the holidays. What do you say, Cap?”
“She’d have to share the load,” Mac hesitatingly agreed. He turned to Molly and sized her up for a second. “Do you know how to cook?”
“Do I know how to cook?” Molly replied testily. “For twenty-eight years my Bertram always had a wonderful dinner when he got home.”
“But the man died young,” Mac countered.
“What a terrible thing to say,” Molly shot back, offended by the suggestion even if in jest. “Do you really think he and I could spend that long on his boat and not be ready to slit each other’s’ throats?” she asked of Colin and Mary, although they could see in her eyes that her protest hid her real interest in the proposition.
“I think you two might be surprised as to how much you have in common,” Colin observed.
“Molly and me?” Mac called Colin on his suggestion. “What could we possibly have in common?”
“You’re both old,” Colin lamely responded.
“You’re both single and alone,” Mary added with better success.
“You both seem to delight in sparring back and forth,” Colin added.
“You’re both pleasant to look at,” Mary added.
“Well, thank you,” Mac replied to Mary’s last compliment, and looked at Molly in a way he had never before. In his mind, he agreed that the old woman was pleasing to the eye.
“You need each other,” Colin tossed in.
“You think I need this big mouthed…” Mac started.
But Mary cut him off again, saying, “Colin and I opened this bar getting close to a year ago, and most people would say we sell booze to make our living, but that isn’t what we are selling at all. Anyone could sit at home and drink themselves silly. So when people come to our tavern, it’s not for the booze, although it helps. No, it’s for the company. That is what we sell. There’s no shame in admitting that we humans need other humans. We need their company. And with the holidays, the greatest gift we can give each other is ourselves, with conversation and jokes and songs and the delight of hearing what is on each other’s minds.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Colin praised his wife’s observation. “Come on, you two, it will be a great adventure,” he pressed Mac and Molly.
“Well, there is room on the boat,” Mac conceded.
“I’m welcome only because there is room on the boat?” Molly challenged.
“That’s not what I mean,” Mac growled back, and then a side of the old sailor showed up that the other three had never seen. “Your company would be nice,” he said with sincerity.
“Nice?” Molly responded, surprised by the compliment.
“Yes, nice,” Mac repeated with a warm chuckle.
“Well, if you are all sure,” Molly replied as a smile came to her face.
“I am the commander of the grill, though,” the Captain insisted. “You can help with all the other cooking, but the grill is my domain. Agreed?”
“All right, you grizzled old thing,” Molly assented.
Just then the laptop beeped the alert that a new e-mail had arrived. Colin and Mary both dashed to the machine, Mary getting there first to open it.
“Is it from Marty?” Colin anxiously asked.
“Just give me a second, now,” Mary scolded his impatience.
“Here, I’ll do it,” he pressed.
“Back off, Colin,” Mary snapped back.
Seldom did this sweet woman ever get that specific tone in her voice, and Colin obediently backed off with an apologetic, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Here it is,” Mary announced with excitement and started to read the missive. “He just got off patrol… two days straight… He’s apologizing for not writing.”
“What else,” Colin pressed again.
“Let me read it!” Mary glared at her spouse. “He lost a friend… Whitey Burns from Pittsburgh.”
“Oh my God, is Marty okay?” Colin begged, impatient for the news he was desperate to hear.
“He’s not hurt… the patrol was hit pretty bad… he’s being rotated out.”
“What?” Colin gasped, overcome by the news and needing assurance he hadn’t dreamed it.
“He’s coming home!” Mary shouted in glee. “Oh, Colin, our baby’s coming home. He’ll be here in three days.”
“It’s a Christmas gift if ever there was one,” Mac congratulated them on the news.
“I’m so happy for the two of you,” Molly added. “He’s coming home!”
“He’s coming home!” Colin and Mary crowed in unison.
“He’s coming home!” Mac and Molly echoed their joy for their friends’ wonderful news.
“We have so much to do,” Mary reminded Colin with concern. “We haven’t put up a single decoration. He’ll be here for the holidays, and we haven’t done one thing to make it look like it.”
“We have a few days,” Colin responded. “We can pull out the Christmas boxes and string some lights and garlands and… ” He stopped himself short asking, “Do you think it’s too late to get a tree?”
“You’re right,” Mary agreed, “they’ll be closed down by now.”
“Not a worry,” Molly piped in. “I have one sitting in my home, just waiting to share in such joy. It’s small, so you can just take it out through the sliding doors with all the decorations on it.”
“Oh, Molly, are you sure?” Mary asked, bowled over by this generosity.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Molly insisted.
“Sorry, Captain Mac, I guess we will have to pass on the Loreto excursion this time,” Colin apologized. “It sure sounded like fun.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” the Captain insisted. “I envy you your joy. There will be another time you and Mary and even Marty can climb aboard the Lady Persephone, and we’ll ship off for that southern Eden.”
“That would be nice,” Mary replied, warmly smiling for his kindness and understanding.
“I had better be heading home now,” Molly said. “Mass is early in the morning.”
”What’s that?” Mac asked.
“Mass. Early morning,” Molly iterated.
“There’s no time for Mass, we ship out on the morning tide.”
“You don’t have to keep to that,” Molly replied, giving him an out. “Colin and Mary pretty much compelled you to invite me along.”
“Compelled, did you say?” Mac came back to her.
“Yes, compelled.”
“I wasn’t compelled,” Mac argued.
“You most certainly were,” Molly argued back.
“You stubborn, stubborn woman,” Mac chastised Molly. “There was only one time in my life I’ve ever been compelled to do anything and that was on that boat in Viet Nam. I swore after that I would never be compelled again. Not by any boss, not by anybody. And I’ve kept that vow and risked all I had coming out of the service ─ bought a boat, not just any boat, but a fishing boat, the Persephone, and she has served me well. The only thing that compels me is to go out on that Pacific puddle and face Triton’s forces and scorn to be my own man.”
“And that’s why you never married,” Molly observed.
“What?” Mac responded, not believing how the old woman always seemed to twist everything to an insult.
“That is why you’ve been alone,” Molly echoed.
“You must be the most frustrating woman on the planet,” Mac shouted at her.
“If you don’t mind me putting in my two cents in, Cap, I think she wants to be invited,” Colin offered.
“Invited, you say?” Mac repeated in disbelief.
“Yes, invited,” Mary agreed.
“I’ve already said there is room,” Mac stated the obvious.
“That’s not it,” Colin replied, shaking his head.
“I said it would be nice,” Mac reminded them getting frustrated.
“Still not quite there,” Mary observed.
“All right,” Mac surrendered. “Molly Fields, would you do me the great honor of accompanying me on an adventurous excursion to my home away from home, Loreto, where we can bask in the sun and drink all night and live like a king and queen and forget that there is any other world beyond?”
“My, you use a lot of words,” Molly noted, finding it hard to give up her caustic ways. “What about your senora and your sisters of mercy?” she pressed.
“Well, they will just have to do without me this trip,” Mac humbly answered.
“Then, yes,” Molly gave answer.
“Yes?” Mac pressed to make sure of her decision.
“Yes,” Molly repeated with a charming little laugh.
“Well you better get home and get your stuff together,” the Captain issued his first order.
“Why don’t you come with me,” Molly coyly offered, “and show me what I need to pack.”
“To your home?” Mac asked her to confirm, a charming blush coming to his cheeks.
“Yes,” Molly replied.
“Right now?” Mac stuttered.
“Yes, you silly man,” Molly giggled.
“Well, all right,” Mac agreed.
“But don’t expect any sex,” Molly warned.
“Molly, you are shocking us,” Mary laughed.
“Well, he shouldn’t be expecting anything just for a boat ride,” Molly matter-of-factly replied.
“It’s understood,” Mac promised.
“Well then, come along,” Molly instructed the slightly discombobulated, usually self-controlled old man.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mac obeyed, his visage breaking into a huge smile.
“Colin and Mary, give our love to Marty,” Molly said.
“We will,”
Captain Mac offered his arm to Molly as they stepped to the door to leave the bar. And just before passing through that portal, the Captain turned and boomed out, “Merry Christmas and goodbye to our little Eden of the North.” Then he risked planting a kiss on the old woman’s cheek, and they were gone into the night.
John Bolen is a novelist/playwright/actor living in Southern California. He has been published by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books (Hal Leonard Publishing), Eunoia Review, Indigo Rising, Scars Publications, The Write Place at the Write Time, OC180news, and YouthPLAYS. John’s novel Aurelia’s Magic is available on Amazon.com. He has just completed a collection of holiday-themed short stories, Nothing for Christmas & Other Holiday Tales, adapted from his plays produced throughout the USA. John is the Producing Artistic Director of the New Voices Playwrights Theatre & Workshop.
P.O. Box 53394, Irvine, CA 92619
j.e.bolen@gmail.com
310-990-2418