We saw the smoke from our third-floor window in the Fargo Arms. I thought it must be the tire store, and you said the Kwik Stop. But when we put on our coats and walked over that way, passing those places, they were okay. It was farther up Fourth Avenue, and soon we could see that it was Harris Bar-B-Cue--not only the restaurant, but Mr. Harris’ house next door. The fire trucks had arrived quickly, but those buildings were so old, and it had been so dry that summer that the firemen soon put down their axes and concentrated on spraying the African Bethel Methodist Church on the corner to keep it from burning, too.
We got pretty close--across the street--and we watched the fire eat up first the restaurant and then the house. Old Mr. Harris wasn’t in there, of course, and I was glad, now, that he was dead a year and didn’t have to see this. The heat wasn’t as bad as you’d think, even after we crossed the street and stood on the curb, although every once in a while there’d come a big THWACK! from inside the restaurant that made us jump back. We began to hear explosions: large, wet pops--the gallon jars of sauce bursting--and the air was redolent with the smell of barbecue.
* * * * * * * * * * *
We could smell the barbecue as soon as we got out of the car. The pink neon light--“Bar-B-Q Best in the West”--was flickering, and the rip in the screen had gotten bigger since last time, but the spring was new, and the door caught Martin on the heel as we went in. Mr. Harris heard it slam and came hobbling out from the kitchen in the back of the restaurant, rubbing sauce off his dark hands with his apron.
“Howdy, folks. What'll it be? Barbecue?”
“Yes, Mr. Harris. It's my birthday, today.”
“So you came down to old Harris' for a party. And who are these fine gent’emen?”
“You remember my husband, Martin. You’ve got our picture on your board. And this is Tom. He goes to the University and rents our apartment.”
Tom transferred the paper bag he carried to his left hand, and the three men shook hands. “A mite sticky,” chuckled Mr. Harris. Tom laughed, too, and wiped his fingers on his jeans. Martin stared into his palm, then shook his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and picked off the tiny glob of barbecue sauce that clung to the heel of his hand. He carefully refolded the handkerchief, soiled side in, and transferred it to his back pocket.
“Well, c’mon in and set yourself down.” Mr. Harris led us into the dining room of the house-turned-restaurant. There was only one other customer in the place, an older, shiny-faced woman sulkily drinking beer in one of the booths that lined the front wall. The booths were upholstered in cracked red leather. Grimy tin Coca Cola trays were nailed to the wall over each booth, and above them, faded posters advertising Nabisco crackers and Pear’s soap curled away from their tacks.
We took mismatched chairs around a painted wooden table in the center of the small room. Mr. Harris elbowed his way past Martin, pushed a chair in behind me with a courtly flourish, then pulled one up for himself. He sat with bowed legs curled around either side of his chair and leaned an elbow on the table. “Got a batch of cornbread just about ready. Barbecue’s comin' right up.” He turned to Tom. “Best in the West. Used to cook for the Union Pacific Railroad,” he explained. “The Portland Rose. That was a great ol’ train. I cooked my way from Portland to Denver and back again for twenty-three years.”
Tom nodded attentively. “Twenty-three years, huh? That’s a long time. How’d you wind up in Pocatello?”
“Well, I met me a girl. On a stopover one night. She was servin’ cornbread and pourin’ coffee down at the old Yellowstone Hotel. You know, down ‘cross from the railroad depot?” Tom nodded, and Mr. Harris went on, folding his arms on his chest with the air of someone settling in for a long spell of yarning. “Sumthin’ ‘bout the way she sliced me a extra big piece of cornbread and asked if I wanted honey on it made me think I oughta hang around a little longer.” He paused and stared out the dingy glass of the dining room window. “She’s been gone, now, fifteen years.”
A slightly scorched smell wafted toward us from the kitchen. Mr. Harris pushed his chair back and stood up. “Speakin’ a cornbread, it’s pro’bly done by now.” He hurried back into the kitchen, his bandy legs rocking him from side to side.
I leaned low over the table toward Tom. “The rest of the story is, he married her, they opened this restaurant, and they had a daughter they named Portland Rose.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. ‘Course she went by Rose, not Portland. Worked for the railroad here in town, ‘til she was killed in a motorcycle accident.”
“You never told me that,” interjected Martin. He sounded surprised and slightly injured.
“Guess I thought you knew. I’m pretty sure it was when you were working the Emergency Room.”
“Sounds like kind of a tough character,” said Tom.
“Not really. ‘Course, I didn’t know her well.”
Tom nodded toward the kitchen where Mr. Harris’ off-tune humming competed with the crashing of pots and pans. “He’s sure a character.”
“Something like that,” said Martin. “By the way, are we going to have some of that champagne you brought?”
I turned over three of the thick, scratched glasses that sat upside-down in the center of the table. “Yeah, let’s get this birthday celebration underway.”
Tom drew two sweating green bottles from his paper sack and held them up by their necks like trophy pheasants. Martin reached across the table and took one from him.
“I’ll do the honors,” he said, turning the bottle and scrutinizing the label. “Oh, a domestic brand.” He peeled the foil from the top of the bottle. “With a plastic stopper. I see we won’t be needing a corkscrew. Not that there’s likely to be one in this place.” He put his thumbs on either side of the stopper and toggled it up out of the neck of the bottle. “Kay drags me here two or three times a year,” he explained to Tom. “I’ll admit the food is good,” Martin held his glass up to the light, turning it this way and that, “but I make sure my tetanus shot is up-to-date before coming.” He chuckled at his own joke, and Tom smiled politely.
