Perfect Proof
Gordon Laws
Elena took the empty tumbler from Carl, slid the bill to him, and said, “Can I get you anything else?” She wiped the bar around him with a soft rag as the dark-haired man in the gray Stetson said, “I’ll take another. Same as the first.”
Now she stopped wiping. “Really?”
“Uh huh,” he said, and he tapped his right ring finger’s silver ring on the bar, something he did often as he waited on something.
“Never seen you order two. Is it gonna be a habit?” She grabbed the tab, then turned away from him to get the Southern Comfort Black.
“Never known you to ask me questions,” he said.
She didn’t turn, just poured two fingers into a fresh tumbler and spritzed it with a dash of water.
“My perfect proof,” he had said to her the second time he was in. “I do believe I’ll come back if you can do it like that.” Monday through Friday at 6:15 pm, he strolled in, took his usual spot, and got one Southern Comfort Black. It’d been that way for seven years.
“Didn’t mean nothin by it,” she said, and she slid the tumbler to him.
He sipped it then said, “You did, though, and I ain’t offended.”
“That’s good cuz I didn’t mean no offense,” she said.
She used her black shirt sleeve to wipe sweat from her forehead, pushing her sandy blonde hair back in the process.
“Kinda flattered,” he said. “Cuz I know why you asked and it ain’t so but I appreciate it nonetheless.”
She glanced at the TV in the corner of the wood-paneled room. The Monday Night Football pregame show was on.
“Why’d I ask? I wanna know cuz I ain’t sure myself.”
“To make sure I hadn’t decided to become a drunk. And I haven’t.”
“I reckon I couldn’t stop you even if you had.”
He swirled the drink but didn’t sip it, then glanced at his gold watch. “She’s late. Been late her whole life.”
“You have a lady friend?”
He shook his head. “Forty years ago. Not now.”
An older lady at the other end of the bar called for Elena to settle up. She turned away from Carl, headed over, made change, and cleared the woman’s half-drunk beer away. When she turned back, she saw two women standing near Carl—the older was heavier than the younger with streaks of gray through brown hair that was bobbed at the shoulders. The younger stood three inches taller than the older; she had chestnut hair, blue eyes, and freckles across her nose. Carl hugged each of the women in turn then raised his hand to Elena who shuffled over. Elena locked eyes with the older woman and recalled both her face and name from their teenage years—Jackie Simpson.
“Ladies? What can I get you?”
“Blue Moon for me,” said Jackie.
“Sam Adams Summer for me,” said the younger woman. “Can I get it with an orange slice?”
“Of course,” said Elena and she moved to the taps to pour the beers.
When she set the tall glasses in front of the ladies, Carl said, “Elena, this here is Jackie, my partner in crime, I guess.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say it that way,” said Jackie. “Nice to meet you,” she said to Elena.
“She went on the lam with me for a month,” said Carl.
Of course, Elena knew this—everyone all over South Texas knew it at the time. The word was he had kidnapped her … but he hadn’t.
“And this here is her daughter, Sofia,” said Carl.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Sofia. “Even while he was in jail, Carl was more like my dad than my real dad.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” said Elena. The daughter was pretty like her mom, reminded Elena of when Jackie was that age. Of course, she had known of Jackie mostly through the press reports and then seeing her around school after authorities brought her home. Jackie was two grades ahead of Elena, but the high school was small—a tick over a hundred people.
“All set, y’all?” she said and got nods from them. “All right. Holler if you need to be freshened up or want food or something.”
She backed away and closed out two other customers just in time for three more to show. But she kept her eyes and awareness on Carl. Of course, she was aware of everyone at the bar, all their tells of when they needed something before they had decided they needed it. But she had never seen Carl with anyone before. She understood why, never questioned it. Here, though, was someone with him. And not just someone—her, the girl he had run off with that terrible day decades ago. They had all been teens. They couldn’t have had kids—too young and then he went to jail. The bond would surely have died. Right?
There they were, though, sharing drinks, talking, laughing, with some of their youth creeping back into their faces. Sofia looked like their daughter—anyone walking in would have assumed they were family.
The Monday Night Football game started, and patrons started paying attention to that. Elena moved among them, putting down platters of chicken wings and jalapeño poppers, picking up empty beer glasses, and returning with more beer. A couple of the older guys in the corner were compulsive gamblers who followed every stat with rapt attention but never betrayed how they felt about what was happening.
All the while, Carl, Jackie, and Sofía talked and laughed. Carl worked his whiskey slowly, ever so slowly. He would not have another, but Jackie and Sofia? They were more liberal, and as Jackie drank, she grew more familiar with Carl, touching his arm, throwing an arm around his shoulders when she laughed.
Elena kept them refilled but watched Jackie warily. Something protective surged within her each time she saw Jackie move in. Why?
When the ladies had finished at least three, Carl waved Elena over.
“Get y’all something else?”
“Nah,” said Carl. He put his arm around Sofia and moved her toward the bar. “Now, Elena, you know where I work, right?”
“Sure,” she said. “Welding at the machine shop where they do all them boat parts.”
“Uh huh,” he said. “And Jackie, here, I’ll bet you could guess.” He paused a moment, Elena said nothing, and he said, “Bob Miller Toyota as an admin.”
“Secretary,” said Jackie.
“They don’t call it that these days,” said Carl. Now he looked at Elena. “Knowing that, what would you suppose that our girl Sofia does?”
Elena smiled awkwardly. “I’m sure she’s great at whatever she does.”
Carl smiled broadly. “Get a load of this. She is a portfolio risk manager for Wells Fargo. Can you imagine? Coming from what she did.”
What Carl said could have been an insult to everyone there, but none of them registered that in their faces. They were all smiles and pride.
“I can’t even figure what that is,” Elena said.
“Right?” said Carl. “In our day, a portfolio was your end-of-year project in art class, and if there was any risk, it was that you were drawing naked ladies and passing it off as art.”
Jackie guffawed and Elena smiled.
“It’s not that big a deal,” said Sofia. “I make a lot of spreadsheets. That’s all.”
“Don’t let her kid you,” said Carl. “She went to UT Austin and did finance and accounting and she is showing up big.”
“Well, congratulations,” said Elena. “Sounds like you’re doing great.”
She turned from the party to the cash register where she tapped out the remainder of the bill. She thought of her own two daughters, one a yoga instructor in San Antonio and the other a mother of two and wife of a Border Patrol agent in El Paso. They all texted once or twice a week, called every other month, and visited each other at holidays. Her ex-husband had died of an overdose two years after their divorce, and Elena had had to handle his arrangements. Because that’s what Ricardo did through their lives—left her holding the bag.
Elena slipped the new bill to Carl who was busy laughing at something Sofia had said. He squinted at the bill, then said, “Elena, I believe y’all undercharged me again.”
“I’m never wrong,” said Elena.
“Said everyone’s ex-wife, am I right?” he said and laughed.
She had never known this side of Carl. She smiled at his joke. He pulled two bills, a hundred and a fifty, from his wallet and dropped them on the bar.
“Lemme get your change,” said Elena.
Carl glanced at Jackie. “Every night’s the same. She says that and I say this.” He looked at Elena. “Keep the change, hon.”
Elena sighed. “If anyone finds out how much you overpay, they’re gonna think something is going on between us.”
“Talk don’t bother me none,” said Carl, and instead of chalking it up to the normal bar chatter, she flushed pink and turned to the cash register. Why did that cause her to react?
She cleared a few more places, and when she turned back to Carl, Jackie and Sofia were gone while Carl was back working slowly on that second whiskey. Elena moved to him and wiped the bar again.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“Should I not be?”
“I figured you was heading out with them.”
“Nah,” he said. “Going home alone.”
She watched him swirl his drink. Something surged in her, and she grabbed the black pen at the register and a napkin. She penned a number on it, then slid it across the bar.
“Here.”
“What’s this?” he said, picking up the napkin.
“My number. You feel the impulse, you call it on a weekend, and I answer, and you pick a place that ain’t here, and we’ll have dinner.”
He stared at it, not looking at her for several long, long seconds. Finally, he looked at her.
“I don’t think you know who I am,” he said.
“I know exactly who you are,” she said gazing back.
“Tell me, then. Who am I?”
She took a deep breath. “Forty-one years ago this October 8, you shot your whole family to death and went on the run with your girlfriend, Jackie Simpson. You was gone for about two months before the marshals caught you in Florida and charged you with murder and kidnapping. But they dropped the kidnapping charge when Jackie said she went voluntarily.”
He lowered the napkin. “So you know that.”
“I was in high school with Jackie.”
“So you known this whole time.”
Elena put her hands on the bar. “Your dad used to beat the shit out of you, your mom did nothing, and your sister made you fuck her.”
He looked away. “My younger brother didn’t do nothing. And I found him hiding under the kitchen sink and shot him through the forehead.”
The air between them was heavy and quiet, though the prattle of football noise and announcers swirled around them.
“You didn’t do that,” said Elena.
He looked at her. “I did, though.”
“Nah,” said Elena. “A seventeen-year-old kid named Carl who had scars on his body and knew women in ways he shouldn’t … he done that. That ain’t you.”
He gazed at her now unblinking, a vague knowing crossing his face. Elena wanted to say something, but felt she shouldn’t.
Finally, he folded the napkin and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s very kind of you.”
“And if you don’t use it, I’ll still be here five days a week making your perfect proof.”
He downed the last swallow of Southern Comfort Black, then stood. He tipped his Stetson to her and said, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he patted his shirt pocket that held the folded napkin, gave her a half smile, and turned for the door.
