“Another toast,” said Martin. “To Tom, the future doctor!” We lifted our glasses.
“What kinda doctor are you, Honey?” By now the woman's greasy smile had slipped to the side of her face. She hung nearly half out of the booth, one arm dangling at her side.
“He’s gonna be an ENT.”
“A nee-tee what?” The woman turned an ear toward Martin and struggled to right herself on the slick leather of the booth.
“An oto-rhino-laryng-ologist” answered Martin carefully in a slightly slurred version of the voice I’ve heard him use when dictating his patient notes. “Ear, nose, and throat, and auxiliary structures.”
“Like the tongue,” Tom added, giggling a little. “Don’t forget the tongue.”
“Ah, yes.” Martin drew himself up a little straighter. “The ever-important tongue. I’d say the tongue was important, wouldn’t you, Kay? Wouldn’t you say the tongue was ever-important?”
I laughed. “I’d say you two have probably had enough champagne.”
“The ever-important tongue,” Martin persisted. “Look.” He picked up the first champagne bottle’s plastic stopper and stuck it on the end of his tongue. He waggled it at me. He waggled it at Tom. The stopper bobbed crazily on the end of his tongue like a bizarre mushroom-shaped wart. Tom picked up the other stopper from the floor behind his chair. He brushed it on his shirt and stuck it on the end of his tongue. He waggled it at Martin, then at me, then at the woman in the booth.
“Don’t be waggin’ that thing at me, boy,” she scolded. The two men laughed. Martin’s stopper dropped off his tongue and rolled across the table.
The woman was roused now. “What’s so funny? You makin' fun of an ol’ lady? Don't you go makin' fun.” A wet thread of sauce hung at the corner of her lips. “Harris!” she shouted toward the kitchen. “Your customers ain't got no class! Comin’ in here, makin’ fun of an ol’ lady. Slummin'. Think it's funny.” Her complaints ran down, and with a little moan, she slumped back in the booth.
Tom waggled his tongue at me one more time, then took the stopper off and studied it. Martin poured more champagne in our glasses. He half turned to offer some to the woman in the booth, then seemed to think the better of it. She was leaning against the wall of her booth, her eyes closed, her beer can tilted precariously in one hand.
Mr. Harris came back in with another pan of cornbread. “You all want more barbecue? Got some left.”
“Thanks, Mr. Harris,” I said, “but I think we've had enough. We'd better get going.” The three of us stood and brushed cornbread crumbs from our laps. “It was good, though. A great birthday dinner.”
Martin picked up the champagne bottle. “Wait.” He drained the bottle into an extra glass and handed it to Mr. Harris, who took it with a slight bow.
“One last toast,” said Martin. “Happy Birthday to Kay.” We all clinked glasses, leaning far over the table from behind our chairs. Mr. Harris drained his glass with one gulp and smacked his lips.
Martin took some bills from his wallet and pressed them into Mr. Harris’s hand. The three men began moving slowly into the front room of the restaurant. “Thank you mightily for comin’,” said Mr. Harris.
I turned and groped among the debris on the table. “Give me those stoppers,” I muttered. “Want ‘em for a souvenir. My thirty-fourth birthday at Harris Bar-B-Cue.”
The woman in the red leather booth roused herself again. She blinked and swallowed a dainty hiccup. “Yeah, you'd better hang on to them things, Honey,” she said, “'Cause it don't last long.” She peered at me over the top of her beer can. “Men come sniffin' ‘round for a while, but then they sniff on. Then all you got left is your goddamn souvenirs.” Her voice trailed off liquidly. “All you got left is nothin'.”
Martin and Mr. Harris were standing at the cash register near the front of the restaurant. I put the stoppers in my pocket and turned to find Tom leaning against the dining room door jamb, watching me. As I sidled past him, he grinned and waggled his tongue. “Best in the West,” he whispered. Maybe, I thought, but don’t be too sure.
* * * * * * * * * * *
In a way, the fire was beautiful: sparks from the roof hung in the trees like twinkle lights, and each wooden slat on the house was outlined in gold. The front door was gone now; the interior showed solid flame. I remembered Mr. Harris’ one room: the sagging couch, the crackling tv set, the bed pushed behind a screen in the far corner. The huge photoboard covered most of the back wall; a hundred smiling faces shone in the dim light of the shadeless floor lamp.
I imagined the photoboard frame glowing now with a red it never knew in paint. The edges of the photos begin to curl, the emulsion behind the images bubbles, and foreheads sprout boils that consume whole faces. Martin and I huddle together, clutching the heart-shaped chocolate box. My face, pressed close against his, strains hotly to hold its smile. Black edges in and swallows us.
The roof on the restaurant went first, groaning and bringing down its supporting rafters. The roof of Mr. Harris’ house outlasted its walls; the whole structure listed to one side and slid gently to the ground like a fainting Southern belle. The flames went out in the rise of dust and smoke. I held your hand on the way back home.
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
