The Second Sight of Moira Grantt

Moira Grantt was born in Banffshire, Scotland in 1779 on a cold, blustery day in November in the coastal village of MacDuff.

Her mother, Georgina, a member of the upper class Duffs, began the labor of bringing her tiny daughter into the world at six o’clock of a Sunday morn. Her father, Ian, was a direct descendent of Sir Laurence and Maurice Grantt, the first official sheriffs of Inverness in the 12^th and 13^th century.

The tiny, unborn infant Moira would reach epic recognition for another, more peculiar reason. The Scots called it the “sight of seers” or second sight.

Georgina sensed difficulty with this child’s birth. She endured, as the family crest emblazoned, “Stand Fast,” with frightful pain for more than five hours. By late afternoon, Moira took her first breath, although in short heaves to the concern of the attending midwife.

“I believe this child wants special care,” Anna Kilgore, Georgina’s midwife said.

She handed the squalling, scarlet-hued infant to its mother.

When the infant’s sea blue eyes opened so suddenly, Georgina was frightened. It was as if the minutes old infant was looking through her. She feared this was an omen that this child had the “sight of the seers.”

By the time Moira was a toddler her eyes grew more electrifying. She had the habit of turning her head so quickly it seemed she could literally revolve it in a full circle, flipping her mane of copper hair to the four winds.

The child’s mother watched as the little girl recoiled from unseen dangers. Moira burst into tears at the mere sight of the portraits of long dead ancestors hanging on the walls of their upper class home.

When Georgina taught her daughter needlework, the child embellished the stitches she was taught, so that the final work was that of a seasoned proficient.

Moira Grantt grew into a reedy, fresh-faced lass whose ochre tresses and tourmaline eyes, her most astonishing features.

Lads avoided her to the consternation of Ian and Georgina Grantt. It wasn’t because she wasn’t the prettiest lass in Banffshire. It was because she knew more than the boys who bothered to engage her in conversation.

“Mam, why do the lads not like me?” Moira asked.

“I think the lads would like you best if you did not make them appear as dumb as oxen,” Georgina said.

Moira pondered this even as her ever roving thoughts strayed.

“What time will Aunt Elsie be arriving?” Moira asked.

“How did you…Moira, I do not recall telling you my sister was visiting this day.”

“But, she will. I know it,” Moira insisted.

This was not the first time Moira knew something she had not been told.

But, how? Georgina thought.

Georgina remembered the darting glance Moira gave her mother minutes after birth.

Was it true? Did Moira have the sight of seers? Georgina wondered.

When their terrier, Archie was lost, Moira was the one to know where he was. Just like she knew were her father’s pipe was and where the needlework shears were, after exhaustive searches.

It frightened Georgina that MacDuff villagers were already whispering about Moira’s unusual ability. The old women were repelled by Moira’s second sight. Children laughed and jeered when she passed by. Moira ignored all of it.  The village men warned Ian such a child of his could bring bad luck on MacDuff and possibly the whole of Banffshire.

Ian thought of his daughter’s gift as “talk” and not much more.

MacDuff hugged the sea and the gritty sandy shore. Fishing was the main source of food and business. Such proximity to the sea brought many fierce storms and seamen lost, even with many cairns lighted to guide sailors’ way to shore.

One autumn week before one of these sudden, violent storms struck the coastline of MacDuff, Moira sat quietly on a garden bench looking toward the sea. Her long tresses tossed lazily in a gentle wind. She was dressed in her copper wool frock and for warmth, her hand woven wool tartan shawl in clan plaid of gold, black and scarlet. She worked with needle and thread on a rose for a pillow.

When she glanced back toward the sea, she saw a large fishing vessel, waves reaching nearly to its masts and taking on sea water. She blinked; but, the image was gone.

Moira often captured the “sight” of people or things that floated across her field of vision like flashes of dreams she had while asleep.

Once, she even saw a flying machine soaring across the great crown of blue Banffshire skies. She most always dismissed them.

Other times, she felt a strange sensation, as she felt at this moment, like a ghost walking across a grave.

She usually forgot these visions. This time, the sinking fishing vessel remained like a tangled vine over her mind.

Moira sensed the powerful image foretold of a disaster at sea. Would it be the sailors in MacDuff in that fishing vessel? She decided that evening to say her prayers, just in case the vision came true.

Whenever she saw these images, she felt as if she could think of nothing else, especially when every detail was so clear in her mind.

The fishing vessel she “saw” had clinker planking like the Vikings in history once used for their ships. She could still see the two muslin top sails and the black, spidery, trawl nets clinging to the ship’s side, like a drenched mane of hair. MacDuff fishing vessels hauled cod and herring. In her mind’s eye, she saw two sailors trying to make their way to the ship’s belly, groping for some sense of stability. A big wave hit and the two men were gone.

Moira stifled a scream.

“Moira, child, what is it?” Georgina asked.

“Mam, which fishing vessels are at sea at the now?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?”

Moira didn’t want to reveal what she’d seen for fear of being admonished by her Mam.

“Aunt Elsie will be here when the storm of three days comes. I will prepare my sleeping quarters for her,” Moira said.

Georgina watched the girl climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Ian arrived for the evening meal and saw the anguished expression on his wife’s face.

“My dear, is something wrong?”

“Husband, are there warnings of a storm ahead? Have you heard any news from the fishermen coming in about a storm?”

“No. It was perfectly good and fine weather. Now, what is this about a storm?”

“Tis likely only your daughter’s ramblings,” she replied.

Georgina sensed that she had begun to trust in her daughter’s moods and perceptions of things that had not yet happened.

In less than a fortnight, the skies over the shire grew dark and threatening. Aunt Elsie arrived as rain began to open from the leaden clouds.

“Oh, my! I bring the rains,” Elsie said.

            Georgina knew it wasn’t Elsie who brought the rains. She was frightened that her daughter saw the coming storm. Would there be a wreck at sea? It was not as if it hadn’t happened before.

Fishermen in MacDuff believed rain produced an abundance of fish. Some of the smaller vessels had already headed out. The biggest fishing vessel finally finished bringing supplies aboard.

Moira watched from an upstairs window. When the wind blew the sails wider, it was as if her vision returned. She rubbed her eyes. The ship’s anchor was pulled and the sails carried it further out to sea. The ship was real and not imagination.

As the wind howled into the early evening, Moira felt anxious. She helped prepare the evening meal, constantly looking out the window toward the sea. Each time she did, Georgina grew more anxious.

“Sister, are you unwell?” Elsie asked

“I would speak of my worry when we are alone,” Georgina said.

The rain came down in long, silvery sheets and pounded against the slate shingles on the roof.

“Father is late arriving,” Moira said.

“Lots of mud from the heavy rains makes the horse slower,” Aunt Elsie said.

As the hour passed the time for their evening meal, Georgina had an uneasy feeling.

Had something happened to Ian? She wondered.

She watched Moira’s face carefully. If something bad happened to Ian, Moira would be first to know it.

It was nearly midnight when Ian finally arrived. He was soaked from head to toe and his boots sloshed with each step.

“Husband, where have you been?”

“On the beach. The cairns were lighted but…it crashed…the fishing vessel of Thomas Kilduff,” Ian answered.

Moira lowered her head, her tangle of hair drooping on her shoulders.

Georgina’s eyes darted toward her daughter.

Moira knew about this. She said as much when she asked about the storm.

Later that evening after all had gone to bed, Georgina told Ian what Moira said.

“How could she know wife? Are you saying she has the sight of the seers?”

“Husband, I tell you. She knew the storm was coming, as sure as she must have seen that ship sink,” Georgina said.

Ian’s expression told his wife he sensed it too.

“It did trouble me when you asked about a storm. There are always storms, here in Mac Duff,” Ian said.

“There aren’t ship wrecks. On the morrow we should pay our respects to the men who died,” Ian added.

“I am grieved for Deirdre Kilduff. How will she and her two children survive with Thomas gone?” Georgina asked.

“The village takes care of our own. She’ll not be wanting for food or a place to live. I’m as sure Thomas had some funds put by. Time for sleep, wife. There’s much to do on the morrow. Say nothing about Moira’s vision…if a vision it was,” Ian said.

Moira Grantt would have many more of these “visions” some during daylight hours and others in her sleep. She kept a log of them to ease her mind when nothing came of a vision.

Ian and Georgina came to fear them and yet, relied on them for protection.

It was Moira’s vision of a drought that prevented Ian’s loss of his crops.

Often, she would sit before a fire and felt her mind floating into the pictures in the dancing flames. Other times, she would see images in the well from whence she drew water.

One event that would cause Moira to flee occurred when she was nineteen. She sat quietly with Georgina, whilst doing their needlework of a late summer afternoon. One of the Kilduff sons, James, strolled past the wooden fence at the front of the Grantt compound.

Moira was seized with a vision sharper than she’d ever seen before. James was lit afire. She blinked and watched the young lad cross over the road into the woods beyond.

“James! No! She called.

“Moira what is it? Georgiana asked.

“James…He is in danger. We must stop him.”

“What kind of danger? He is just off to play with the other lads, my dear,” Georgina said.

“No, Mam. I am sure he is in danger. Fire...all over him.”

Georgina knew that to go after the lad would expose Moira’s visions to all of MacDuff. Still, she would not risk a lad’s life.

“Let us follow him, daughter.”

With that, Georgina and Moira hurried along in the foot path of James Kilduff.

They saw him sitting at the edge of the narrow creek with something in his hands. It was a torch he was about to set ablaze.

“No! James! No!” Moira called.

Before she could reach the boy, a live spark fell onto his wool tunic and began to burn. Within seconds, his breeches lit afire and James Kilduff was engulfed in flames.

His screams were terrifying to Moira and Georgina.

Moira reached him and rolled him on the ground and into the water’s edge. But, it was too late. The child was in shock and badly burned.

The whole of MacDuff blamed Moira for calling out to the boy and startling him.

The town’s anger didn’t subside when the whispers about Moira added to the Grantt family’s scandal. Ian and Georgina were shunned for having such a daughter.

Ian decided to send Moira off to live with his sister, in Portnoy, some fifty miles northwest of Banffshire.

Moira’s heart was broken to leave her parents and MacDuff. She knew the death of James Kilduff was not her fault.

She packed her things in an old sewing duffle and kissed her mother goodbye. She and Ian, heavy of heart, rode silently to Portnoy. Moira felt frightened by the prospect of living in a large town with so many more people.

When they finally arrived in Portnoy, it was late afternoon and the sun was already dipping low in the sky. Portnoy, like MacDuff was a portside town. Her Aunt Adairia and Uncle Edward Clarke hurried to greet them.

The home resembled a manor house with two floors and a large sitting room beyond the heavy oak front doors. It was twice the size of her childhood home. It had a front and back courtyard of moderate size and well tended gardens and small bowers of trees.

Moira had not seen the Clarkes since she was a bairn.

She saw clearly where she got her copper tresses from. Her aunt wore her’s atop her head in a small roll. Uncle Edward looked startlingly similar to her own father, except that his bushy hair was snow white.

Aunt Adairia prepared their evening meal and then Moira bid her father goodbye. She would never again see him or her mother.

For a time, Moira kept busy which her aunt and uncle. She slept in a room of her own just as she had in MacDuff.

Her aunt never mentioned the incident. She needn’t have. It was from Aunt Adairia that the sight of seers passed to Moira.

By the winter of that year, Moira began having the dreams again. She vowed she would not allow these dreams to cause trouble for her aunt and uncle.

“Moira, you are having dreams, aren’t you?” Aunt Adairia asked.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I have those same dreams. It is from the Grantt curse,” Aunt Adairia said.

“The Grantt curse?”

“Yes. Many, many years ago, a child was born to your great, great, great grand mam with the strange ability to see things from the past and those of the future. The members of our clan were horrified and had the child drowned to protect them from evil.”

“How do you know my thoughts?” Moira asked.

“It’s part of the Grantt curse. Some who have had the sight of seers also had the ability to read thoughts. Not all thoughts mind, you, lass. Just those thoughts that are nearest to our own senses,” Aunt Adairia said.

Moira didn’t quite understand.

“Who placed the curse on the Grantt clan?” she asked.

“In those days, things that were different were believed to be a curse. Such like a child born deformed or a sudden storm that causes shipwrecks. It’s our men who look to place blame who things that don’t happen often,” Aunt Adairia said.

“Why was I cursed? Why not my brothers?” she asked.

“You were the last born after three sons. That, of itself, is a curiosity for a clan that has so few women.”

“Me mam told me when I was born the midwife saw in my eyes the sight of seers. How could that be in a tiny bairn?”

“Old women in clans hold fast to their old beliefs. You have unusual color in your eyes. There are blue eyed, brown eyed and even a few green eyed Grantts in the clan. None have your strange blue-green color. When the midwife saw your eyes, she saw their quickness and the color and knew you were carrying the Grantt clan curse. It is a well known curse. Your uncle and I moved away from MacDuff before the talk started about me,” Aunt Adairia said.

“What shall I do to hide it here in Portnoy?” Moira asked.

“Keep your thoughts down deep…even if you see bad things.”

“Know this, not a Scotsman has lived who has not been wanting for a battle. Long before you were born, Scotsmen fought kings’ armies. The very year of your birth, there was a battle waged, it was the battle of Flamborough Head. The brave Scotsman, John Paul Jones, fought the British Navy. When his ship the Bohomme Richard sank, he escaped by capturing the HMS Serapis.”

“Aunt? May I tell you of a vision I had? It fears me such I cannot force it from my mind,” Moira said.

“Your visions are safe with me.”

“I see many Scots dying in the streets of the town, Paisley. I see Scots bent over in pain, unable to eat for the disease in their bodies. I see fear throughout the town and the undertaker hurrying to build wooden coffins and bodies in those coffins laid to rest,” Moira said.

“Oh my dear. Do not ever speak of this vision to anyone. The vision you speak of is it from the past? The present? The future?”

“I cannot say. The sickness goes as far as Glasgow,” Moira said.

“You must never speak of this. It would cause a panic. If it is just a vision. Let the vision lie where it may.”

Moira felt comfort with her aunt who understood her visions. Often, the two spoke wordlessly to the chagrin and disdain of Uncle Edward.

Moira remained with her aunt and uncle for a period of nearly five years, longer than an unmarried lass should. Aunt Adairia and Uncle Edward thought of Moira as the child they never had. Moira felt protected and safe in Portnoy. But, she feared she had remained too long.

One night, just as she planned to leave, she had a vision of the Clarke manor being completely empty. She saw Aunt Adairia lying in a coffin in a black dress with a white lace collar. Beside her coffin was that of Uncle Edward. He wore his Sunday suit with the stiffly starched collars.

Moira sprang out of her bed thinking the vision was not a dream. She glanced around the room and recognized her room.

The next morning, Aunt Adairia knocked on Moira’s bedroom door.

“Come quickly. I need you to get help. Uncle Edward has fallen ill.”

Moira hurried to don her cape and hurried to the home of Doctor Pilkin. He saw the young woman at his surgery door and bid her enter.

“What is it, my child?” Doctor Pilkin asked.

“It’s Uncle Edward. Oh do hurry! He’s fallen ill.”

By the time Moira returned home with the doctor in tow, Uncle Edward was dead.

Aunt Adairia was beside herself with grief. Moira tried her best to comfort her aged aunt to no avail.

Moira had another vision of her uncle. In the vision, Uncle Edward was looking down from billowing clouds and reaching for something. Moira was aghast when she saw what it was: Aunt Adairia.

Her aunt took her husband’s hand and disappeared with him into the clouds.

It was in 1831 that Adairia, frail and detached from the world around her, shared a final vision with Moira.

She saw a malevolent storm, a pitch black sky and many boats lost at sea. She told Moira of one hundred bodies of sailors, who drowned.

 Adairia repeated over and over, “bad day for Scots.”

Moira’s vision of the people of Paisley dying in droves came to fruition. In 1831, cholera spread like wildfire from town to town across the whole of Scotland and beyond into other European countries.

In Portnoy, Doctor Pilkin rushed from place to place trying to prevent the disease from spreading.

Aunt Adairia took ill in the month of September in 1832 and died within a few days of contracting the disease. It was left to Moira to bury her aunt.

Now, Moira was all alone in Portnoy. She thought she might return to MacDuff. Nearly two decades passed since she left the town of her birth. Her parents were growing old. Her brothers all had families of their own to care for.

Moira suddenly realized she was a spinster and had no place she called home.  Days after her aunt’s death, there was a letter from Uncle Edward’s solicitor, Dennis Jamiston. He requested her presence in his office in town.

Moira arranged for the carriage to take her to the premises of Mr. Jamiston. She had never been in a solicitor’s office before. She was wide-eyed with wonder at the size of the building and Mr. Jamiston’s office.

The odor of oak wood was pervasive. Moira loved the gleaming antique look of the paneled walls.

“Do be seated, Miss Grantt. I am charged with the duty of reading your Uncle’s last will and testament.”

Moira sat silently, feeling overwhelmed as Mr. Jamiston read the will.

“Miss Grantt, it appears you are the sole inheritor of your Uncle Edward and Aunt Adairia’s estate.

Moira’s face went pale.

“What does this mean?” she asked.

“It means that you have an endowment of 5,000 pounds per year.  The Clarke home, property and all of its furnishings belong to you,” Mr. Jamiston said.

“I see,” was all Moira could reply.

“Your aunt and uncle had no children and you are the only child who lived with them since your youth,” he said.

“Is there anything I need do” she asked.

“Just sign all of these papers and that is all that is required,” Mr. Jamiston said.

In the carriage ride back to her aunt and uncle’s home, Moira felt as if she was dreaming. It was strange that she had never had any premonition of what her aunt and uncle planned to do. She hoped maybe she no longer had the sight of seers.

When she arrived at the front door, she felt as if she was in a very strange place, very strange indeed.

She pondered what her inheritance meant. She would always have a home and enough of an annual stipend to banish any concerns.

The very next day, she decided to visit her aunt and uncle’s grave. The shrill September wind was at her back.

“Oh Aunt Adairia, Uncle Edward, how good of you to provide for me so generously,” she said to the cold marble headstones.

She sat down at the bench provided for mourners and began to cry.

As she sat with the stillness of the cemetery of St. Andrew, she felt that odd aura surrounding her. This was always the start of those visions she hoped she no longer had.

She gave a slight shudder and pulled her wrap around her shoulders tighter. Her eyes still fixed on her aunt and uncle’s tombstone, Moira saw a great war. A war like no other she had ever envisioned. Hundreds of men in uniforms marched across great fields of farmers. Some already lay dead or bleeding.

What is this vision? She wondered.

Scotland in the 1830s was at peaceful. The country was benefitting from the huge new machines that provided work for men in shipyards, the mines and textile mills.

“Aunt, I need your help. Wherever you may be, I ask for your guidance. You are the only one who understands these visions. How can I know if this awful vision of war will happen?”

Moira heard only the whistle of the wind. She hurried home.

It took her a few months before she was fully accustomed to her new role as mistress of the house. She welcomed several visitors who had been friends and acquaintances of her aunt. All offered their condolences even as cholera was still a threat.

Fortunately, by the end of 1841, the disease was all but forgotten in memory. Moira was thankful for that.

Moira had a very small social circle of ladies who had been regular guests of Aunt Adairia. She felt she wanted to open her home to others. Moira was nearing thirty-five years old. She believed she would never marry.

She planned an evening soiree on Christmas Eve 1846. She delighted in decorating the large sitting room with greenery. Ladies of 1846 were Edwardians in every sense of decorum. When Moira’s guests arrived, they were dressed in their finest. For ladies of these ages, that meant their velvets and laces, their favorite hand-carved cameos and long strings of pearls with precious gemstone clasps. In their silvery hair, they wore jeweled hairpins that sparkled and caught the light.

Moira offered the prerequisite before dinner sherry. When the dinner bell rang, the ladies sashayed gaily to the dining room where a groaning board was filled with wonderful dishes prepared by cook and served by Moira’s newly hired parlor maid, Anne.

When dinner was through, Moira led the ladies to the parlor. Anne served them hot spiced punch from Aunt Adairia’s cut glass punchbowl.

“Ladies, your attention if you please,” Moira said.

The room went silent.

“I was hoping we could enjoy a parlor game this evening,” Moira said.

The ladies all nodded in agreement.

Mrs. MacPherson suggested a word game. Anne provided small pieces of paper and pencils. Each of the ladies was to write down the first word that came to their mind. Then, each player would guess the word written. When it was Moira’s turn, she wrote down a single word, “War.” She had no idea why she wrote that particular word.

None of the ladies guessed her word. When she announced what it was, her guests went silent.

“Miss Grantt, why was “war” the first word that came to your mind?” Mrs. Olcott asked.

Moira didn’t know if she should say. The women pressed her to tell.

“Miss Grantt, some of us have heard you have second sight,” Mrs. Olcott said.

“How do you come to hear that?” Moira asked.

“I have a nephew, Arthur, who married a lass from Banffshire,” she replied.

“Is it not true?” Mrs. MacPherson asked.

“Yes. I am once from Banffshire. My parents live there still. It is a sad story I wish not to recall,” Moira said.

She didn’t want to tell about her vision of the shipwreck or the child, James Kilduff, killed by fire.

The women played their game until it was time to leave. She saw each guest to the door and retired for the evening. She wanted to keep a record of the guests and the event in her journal.

She always kept a journal since she was a young girl. As she prepared for bed, she sat propped in her chaise lounge writing her recollection. The stillness of the night brought on another vision. She began to write what she saw:

She saw a very terrible, bloody war. Men from the highlands and lowlands joined large armies. In the vision, she saw the enemy firing and men dying on open fields. She wanted the vision to end, but nothing shook her from the aura of the sound of war or the sight of the battlefield filled with dead bodies, blood running in long rivers everywhere.

When the vision ended, she sensed the smell of smoke. It shook her to her conscious mind, she realized she had left her shawl near the fireplace in her room and it caught fire. The smoke was blinding. She screamed for help.

Anne ran to her aid. But, the smoke was so thick in the room. Anne hurried out to the street to alert the garda. By the time, the firemen arrived, Moira Gantt was dead.

When her body was removed, only her singed journal had survived. Her effects were sent to her parents in Banffshire. Her books and journal were donated to the library where they remained.

In 1914, a traveler, Anne Findley, happened onto the journal. She was fascinated that it survived the fire.

“Do you know the author of this journal?” she asked.

“Why yes. It was that strange woman, Moira Grantt. She lived in Banffshire many years ago. She moved away to Portnoy, after she predicted a ship wreck and the fire that killed that little boy, James Kilduff. It’s said she also predicted the cholera plague, though that was not always certain,” the librarian said.

“Have you read this journal?” Anne Findley asked.

“No mam. And I shall not either. Tis a curse upon anyone to read the words of Moira Grantt.”

Anne Findley was consumed with desire to own this journal though she knew not why.

“Would you sell this journal then?” she asked.

“Nay. Why would you want it? No one ever touches it for fear of some evil curse upon them.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you ask for it,” Anne said.

“You may have it. We will be well rid of such a thing,” the librarian said.

She handed the journal to Anne as if she was unloading the most fearsome object of her life.

Anne Findley read the journal accounts Moira Grantt had written. It was the last entry that made Moira Grantt famous. She had predicted in her final entry the First Great World War.

The Haunting at Rolly's Bar

           The day started innocently enough for old Billy Arnholz. Autumn just arrived the week prior and the fresh air outdoors ringed with nostalgia for days gone by as autumn days always seem to encrypt into its scenic phases. Autumn is, after all, a time of recollection and harvesting of thoughts.

            Billy Arnholz dumped the small bag of trash into the aluminum container just outside his condo’s rear patio. The wooded area just beyond was ablaze with a riot of reds, oranges and gold that now and again released a colorful leaf or two into the gentle wind. He sniffed the fresh, clean mountain air that drifted down from the Berkshires, his chest expanding as he inhaled.

            He felt an uneasy edginess this day. It was as if the pages of his entire sixty-nine year span of life was slowly turning back to earlier times when his friends gathered at Rolly’s Bar in Three Bridges.

            There really weren’t three bridges in town. More like a tangle of railroad tracks over three not so large hills. Still, Three Bridges served as home for Billy for his entire life. It’s the way it was with lower middle class men.

            Their parents settled in Three Bridges after World War II, had a family and supported them by working for the railroads, the local Mom and Pop shops in town or in the factories east of Three Bridges.

Their kids attended Three Bridges Elementary School which began in the early 1800's as a one-room schoolhouse and expanded to a formal three-story brick building. No school buses were needed. The school and homes were practically built on top of each other. Well, not really. Still, school children could be seen trekking to school in the late 1940's and early 1950's on foot in any kind of weather.

            The older children attended high school out of the town of Harringen. A high school wasn’t needed in Three Bridges, a town with a population that never exceeded more than three hundred fifty people at any given time.

            There was no movie theater and the only grocery store, Ernestine’s, was also a gas station and Laundromat. People in Three Bridges grew what they needed in their small backyards and what they couldn’t grow, Ernestine’s would sell at prices most towns couldn’t afford to.

            Once six in the evening rolled around, Three Bridges became a virtual ghost town. Except for the lone night spot, Rolly’s Bar.

            At Rolly’s the working class men watched black and white TV on a set placed above the center of the bar.

            The owner, Rolly Volante, must have had pretty big dreams when he first built his bar. The bar itself was enormous. Took up most of the entire floor of the rectangular building. Around the perimeter of the bar were squeezed two small, heavy pine tables and chairs for the wives who would be seated away from the raucousness of the working men at the bar.

Later on, Rolly had two large, hand carved booths placed near the front door of the place.

            Rolly and his wife, Silvie, lived with their four kids in the rooms above the bar for the first ten years. Silvie helped her husband by cooking specials for the men at the bar from Tuesday to Friday of every week.

            The specials weren’t much...sometimes just stuffed cabbage, other times her specialty, pans and pans of lasagna.

            Rolly’s had it regulars who started the day’s business at 7 AM. Rolly always arrived by 6 AM to greet the beer trucks ready to deliver and any other supplies that were needed for the kitchen and bathrooms.

            The 7AMers, as Rolly called them, were 3^rd shift workers at the factories. These were the shot and beer chaser guys with thinning hair who worked for more than two or three decades for the same companies.

            Usually, there was a breather by 10 AM until the lunch crowd came in. These were men who were either never married, widowed or whose wives worked night shifts.

So these men came in for Silvie’s famous four-inch thick sandwiches they washed down with cold beers in summer or winter. After a time, Silvie added a little slaw and potato salad to the lunch menu.

            Rolly’s satisfied the town’s needs for working men. The few women who patronized Rolly’s were not the kind who attend church regularly. These were the loud-talking, flashy women who eyed the guys at the bar, married or not.

            Rosie Forchiere was one of them. Rosie was well past her prime even though she kept herself in low-cut blouses and tight skirts well past her forties. Madelyn Paverno, Della Tomczuk and Terry Lou Naravnik, all Rosie’s comrades in arms rounded out the “women at the booth”.

            These ladies meet after bowling or Bingo, probably the closest any of them ever got to churches where Bingo was held over at The First Methodist Reformed Church.

            You couldn’t really call the “After Work Crowd” at Rolly’s the dinner crowd. These guys, Toddy (Tank) Clements, Mike Worden, Jack Ahearn, Jimmy Thomas, Frank Cannera, Werner (Worry) Heinemann and Danny Norham each filed in from four o’clock until the last of them, Billy (Bull) Arnholz took his place at the bar on the same stool he’d occupied since he left high school. Actually, Rolly took to allowing Billy to have a few beers in his junior year even though he had yet to reach legal drinking age.

            Billy Arnholz was always called “Bull” because he was built like one of those bronco bulls. Toddy Clements earned his nickname “Tank” after he successfully ejected one of the few brave bikers who ever entered the hallowed halls of Rolly’s uninvited and very drunk.

            Werner Heinemann known to his “One Drink Before We Go Home” crowd, as “Worry” always wore an expression that appeared anticipating of some major disaster. Given the extra large size of Worry’s wife, Hilda, it was no surprise to his drinking buddies.

            Rolly’s was a town meeting place as much as it was a working man’s watering hole. The only strangers who ventured into the place were lost travelers looking for directions to anywhere but Three Bridges.

            Funny thing about Three Bridges, it was banded by a major highway at the southern end and yet, the only major artery was a dirt road that dead ended where Rolly’s was located.

It seemed appropriate passersby on the highway wouldn’t bother to stop at Three Bridges. It would take three hops over those three hills and railroad tracks old enough to rip out the entire base of a car to locate the bar.

            The homes in Three Bridges were spread far apart on two sides of MacClinton Road giving it the appearance of a ghost town.

            Not even the sparse number of street lights revealed Rolly’s from the highway. Only the factory workers who chose Rolly’s to avoid their nosy neighbors talk in their nearby towns knew Rolly’s Bar best.

            Some knew more about Rolly’s Bar than they should. Others would never reveal what they knew about a rather inconspicuous town bar with many reasons to keep its secrets.

            Inexplicably, this autumn day, Billy Arnholz decided to go for a ride. After all, it was perfectly beautiful weather. Not a dark cloud in the sky. He jumped into his large luxury sedan, one of the few he allowed himself. He was a big man and one of those pocket-sized cars would make him uncomfortable, particularly on long drives.

            Billy knew where he was headed. He had an urge to visit Three Bridges. He didn’t really know why…other than a vague sense of return to a place where he’d spent many years of his life.

            Billy never married. So, he never had a reason to rush home for dinner. He much preferred to watch baseball or football games with his buddies at Rolly’s.

The married guys all had a private joke among themselves. They’d held up an index finger if Rolly called them to the phone and their wife was on the line. The raised index finger meant, “Tell her I’m not here”.

            If Rosie was too close for comfort with one of these guys, Rolly would ring the bell over the bar’s shelf for wine and special drink glasses, when a wife appeared in the front doorway.

The bell was intended to ring only when a new bartender was on board for the night. Mostly, this only happened when Rolly and Silvie had a prior engagement out of town, which was rare.

            If a wife showed up, Rosie and her paramour high tailed it out the kitchen door to the parking lot. Rolly didn’t want trouble. It was easier to cover for these guys than to end up in the middle of some husband/wife battle.

Silvie may have laughed watching the exit out her kitchen door; but, she knew Rolly could be Rosie’s next conquest…if he wasn’t already.

            There were battles at Rolly’s more times than Billy Arnholz could remember. There was the time Betsy Gilliam and her old man were three sheets to the wind and started arguing at the bar.

When Betsy got drunk, she got what the men at Rolly’s called “sloppy drunk”. Funny thing though. Betsy was just as nice a woman as anyone could meet when she was sober. Elegance to the teeth, she was, Billy recalled.

            Jerry Gilliam was never sober. He was one of those guys who took whatever life through at him and spent most of his free time drowning his sorrows at Rolly’s.

            They were a pair those two. As laid back as Jerry was, Betsy was full of vim and vigor. It should be said Jerry Gilliam must have been a pretty decent looking guy in his younger days. Too much booze changed most of that.

His platinum blonde hair was now streaked with grey and his fairly stocky Irish frame had become bloated with age.

            Betsy was the fashion plate between the two. Never a hair out of place, nor a single precarious mismatched color in her entire wardrobe.

            In her sober hours, Betsy was a career woman with an itch for ambition. When she and Jerry got one of their famous drunks on, it was as if Betsy turned from career woman to charwoman.

            “Goddamit, Jerry! You knew I needed the oil changed on my car. I’m the one who makes the money in this family, remember?” she bellowed, with an affected air.

            “Why don’t you tell the whole bar our family business?” Jerry answered.

            Rolly stood behind the bar glowering at them as he poured another “brewsky” for Billy and his friends.

            When the Gilliams began getting too loud, Rolly used the threat of “flagging” both of them. In bar lingo, this meant they wouldn’t be served for the rest of the night.

            It was funny to watch Betsy and Jerry make a quick decision to tone their voices down in favor of continuing to get a drunk on.

            The night they got into a real brouhaha was different. Betsy was a hugely possessive woman where her man was concerned. That particular night, their battle was more vicious and ugly.

            It started around midnight. Rolly’s closing time was two in the morning. A woman and her companion walked in to Rolly’s one Saturday night. The woman was absolutely the kind men cannot miss. A figure like a model and long, shimmering red hair in that puffy style women wore in the 1960s.

            She sat down in the empty seat next to Jerry. Instantly, Betsy’s hair stood on end. She kept her eye on the woman in case she got too close to Jerry. Mind you, Jerry was already too drunk to know who was sitting beside him.

            There must be something in women, Billy thought. They have some sort of need to make mountains of mole hills. Not that Betsy was a drama queen in any way. Just give her a few drinks too many and mole hills grew into mountains.

            Rolly served the redhead one of those drinks that are rarely ever ordered in his bar. The lady asked for a “Gibson” with three cocktail onions. She barely glanced at Jerry, as Rolly brought her drink to her. Her companion sat to her left.

            Jerry was so drunk he swayed too far to his left and ended up on the redhead’s chest. That was enough for Betsy to start in on Jerry.

            “What the hell’s wrong with you? You got a thing for Miss giant bazongas there?” Betsy screamed.

            Jerry had no idea what Betsy was talking about. He tried to focus his eyes on the redhead. He leaned back as if to get a better look, hanging onto the bar tightly.

            Betsy gave Jerry a shove off his bar stool which landed him on the floor. He didn’t right himself all that quickly. When he did, he grabbed a small tray on one of the tables that lined the wall of Rolly’s Bar and slapped it on Betsy’s head.

            Betsy retaliated by taking Jerry’s full glass of beer and poured it over his head. When she slapped the glass back on the counter, Jerry threw it at her missing Betsy and hitting a guy sitting to Betsy’s right.

            The Gilliam battle was in full bloom before Rolly could stop it. Betsy grabbed her vodka tonic glass and threw it at Jerry, missing his face and ending up in his forehead.

            Blood gushed from the wound.

            This was probably the only time either Gilliam ever battled without words.

            “Hey, hey…that’s it. You two are flagged,” Rolly said.

            “You think I give a fat frig?” Betsy screamed. Her voice sounded as shrill as a witch in heat on Halloween night.

            “Betsy, take your old man and get out of here or I’ll call the cops and you two can sit your keisters in the clink for the night,” Rolly threatened, hoping they’d go.

            “My old man’s bleeding for Crissakes. Give me a towel, so I can staunch the blood, dammit,” Betsy screeched.

            Rolly threw Betsy a towel and she quickly applied it to Jerry’s wound. He pushed the towel away.

            “Leave me alone bitch. Get out of here before I kill you,” Jerry snarled.

            “That’s it. Betsy get your drunken ass out of my bar now!” Rolly demanded.

            “Hey, Rolly…Don’t you talk to my wife that way or I’ll, I’ll…” Jerry struggled for words.

            “Or, you’ll what?” Rolly said.

            Betsy preened at Jerry’s defense and emphasis of “my wife”.

            “Let’s go Jerry. We don’t need to stay in this hell hole anyway,” Betsy said.

            It was hard to believe that only moments before the two were about to have a knock down drag out brawl.

            The problem for Rolly was how that kind of scene always cleared the bar of  patrons who were big spenders.

Betsy and Jerry would be back the next day. Rolly was certain of that.

            Rolly was a shrewd businessman. He knew the patrons who were “regulars” kept his bar financially stable. That’s why he refused to evict Betsy and Jerry permanently.

            “Why don’t you throw those two out for good,” Tank Clements asked.

            “If I did that, I’d be throwing you guys out too. You get into it now and again. I don’t throw you out for good. Do I?” Rolly said, defensively.

            It was true. Tank and Danny Clements had one of their rows only a few weeks before the Great Gilliam Battle.

            Danny Clements was a smart ass, drunk or sober. He had a habit of talking out of the side of his mouth like a gangster. Usually, when he had a few too many, he became obnoxious enough to start in on Bull, Worry or Frank because these were the guys who rarely looked for trouble.

These three could drink kegs of beer and never look drunk for a minute. They knew to keep their mouths shut when a smart ass like Danny Clements or Mike Ahern started to get “a smart mouth” with the rest of the guys at the bar. Most of the time it started over sports bets.

            Sports betting wasn’t allowed in the state; but, that never mattered to the guys at Rolly’s. Every season of the year was a season for sports bets. Whether it was hockey, basketball, football or baseball, these guys had a sports “league” betting game on.

            Rolly knew if the alcohol commissioner found out, they could close his bar down. He told the guys this. They understood the importance of Rolly’s Bar in their lives and kept the betting on the QT just in case. All bets were cleared outside the bar when the winnings were due.

            Sunday afternoons at Rolly’s was the highlight for the guys who bet on the games. Still, games played from Monday to Saturday were also up for grabs with the Rolly’s guys.

            Frank Cannera was a gambling man and the guys at Rolly’s knew he couldn’t pass up a chance to get in on a bet. Frank was an opaque sort of guy. He loved the ladies and didn’t think the fact that he had a marriage license was a good reason to curtail any flirtations he might encounter at Rolly’s.

            To his credit, Frank kept this side of himself from the guys at the bar. He was tight-lipped about his extra-marital activities. He made a great display of bringing his wife, Jenny,  to Rolly’s and setting the scene for her to see how innocent his hanging around Rolly’s was.

            Rolly liked Frank because he was one of those you hardly knew was in the bar at any given time. Rolly knew Frank had a tendency toward gambling; but then, so did Rolly. For that matter, so did Silvie, the extent of which Rolly had no real idea.

            Rolly had an inkling Frank overbet on his games when he saw what he  recognized as a loan shark walk into the bar. Frank hurried over to talk to him. Then, the loan shark disappeared out the door.

            Whatever business Frank had with the guy, Rolly was certain he didn’t want to know. Owning a bar meant knowing too much wasn’t as good, when knowing too little was better.

            Silvie counted on that particular part of Rolly’s nature. What he didn’t know about her own gambling couldn’t hurt him or, for that matter, her.

            Silvie lived most of her life at the bar out of necessity. She reasoned that if she worked to help make the bar profitable, she was entitled to have a little of the profits.

What Rolly didn’t know was that her addiction to those “Ladies Night Out” card games led to regular trips to Las Vegas, where Silvie spent weekend “vacations” playing Blackjack with no sleep.

            At first, it was okay because she was on a winning streak. Most of the time, she only broke even. Other times, she spent more on the Blackjack tables than she knew Rolly would ever allow.

            Their marriage was solid; but, it wasn’t always on an equal footing. Rolly loved that Silvie didn’t mind working the kitchen five days out of seven. On weekends, Silvie hired a woman to help out.

            Silvie usually arrived on Saturdays and Sundays to get the kitchen started and then left the rest to Ginger Beagans, their hired help, to manage on her own.

It wasn’t as if the kitchen was rip roaring busy on weekends…usually just the guys who watched the games together.

            Silvie cooked up a pot of kielbasa and sauerkraut, put out long rolls on trays for Ginger to make up the kielbasa and kraut sandwiches these guys devoured with gusto.

            Ginger Beagans lived only a few blocks from Rolly’s and was a divorced woman with three school age kids. Her old man abandoned her and the kids a decade before she realized she had to have a job.

            Ginger was a good, solid worker and she didn’t take any guff from the drunks. She knew how to handle herself and she ran the kitchen the way Silvie instructed to the letter. Silvie never had to remind her to leave the kitchen as clean as she found it.

            Silvie hired her niece to help out part-time; but, it didn’t work out. The guys at the bar were always making remarks or trying to cop a feel. The kid wasn’t out of high school. Silvie’s sister, Mary Fortunato, put a stop to the girl’s working there when Jimmy Thomas got a little too drunk one weekend and groped her.

            Rolly didn’t see what Jimmy had done because he was at the opposite end of the bar. When the girl threw the tray of sandwiches at Jimmy, Rolly thought the kid was being a little too “prissy” and reminded her she worked in a bar, not some ritzy hotel in a big city.

            That’s when Mary put a halt to her daughter working for Silvie’s husband.

            As luck would have it, Ginger Beagans came into Rolly’s one night with a bunch of her “lady friends”. She offered to give Silvie a hand with the load of food she was carrying to a table.

            “Can I give you a hand with that? I was a waitress up at the Calico’s Diner. You know the one? Up on I-19?” Ginger said.

            “No. I don’t need help now. But, if you really are interested in helping, I’m looking for someone for weekends. It’s not as busy here in the daytime, other than the regulars who come in for the sports games on TV. You think you’d be interested?” Silvie asked.

            “I sure would. Nate Bendrigan had to let two of us go because of that new road they put in near the diner. Took away a whole lot of our best trucker business,” Ginger said.

            “How soon can you start?” Silvie asked.

            “Soon as you want. How about this coming weekend?” Ginger asked.

            “Perfect. I was wanting to get a little time off by myself this weekend,” Silvie said.

            Ginger was always on time and always ready to move when the moving was needed.

            Ginger was a big girl in every way. She stood at least a head taller than Silvie and she was built like a battle tank. Not that she was fat. Not at all. She was one of those women who carried a bigger weight without making it appear she was obese.

            The guys fell in love with Ginger’s affable ways immediately. She could be stiff as a board when it was right and as mushy as a marshmallow when the guys needed what she liked to call, “TLC”---Tender Loving Care.

            Ginger had a familiar saying, “Come into my parlor and Big Mama will fix your aches and pains.”

            Bull, Tank, Jimmy, Danny and Mike knew she would be a “keeper” at Rolly’s. Oddly, Rolly wasn’t as thrilled with Ginger at first.

            Rolly sensed there was more to Ginger Beagans than she made public. Still, she was a good looking babe. Her strawberry blonde hair was always neat and she always wore a uniform to work that was freshly laundered and starched.

            She wore very little makeup; but, her green eyes set off her flawless, peachy complexion.  She wore no jewelry, save her trademark small gold hoop earrings.

            Ginger knew she was on shaky ground where Rolly was concerned. She could tell by the tone of voice he used whenever he barked out kitchen orders. It annoyed Rolly that Ginger ignored his tone completely and went on just as nice as could be in response.

            Ginger knew what kind of man Rolly really was. In fact, he reminded her of someone she tried desperately to excise from her life: her ex-husband. When he left, Ginger started using her maiden name, Beagans, refusing to use her married name, Catanino.

            Sal Catanino was the typical Guido husband. Bitchy as all hell from the minute he walked in the door at night. He was a big time construction contractor whose business had a whole lot of shady transactions Sal never liked to discuss with his wife. Or, as Sal always said, “What goes on in my business, stays my business, not yours.”

            Rolly didn’t really look like Sal at all. For one thing, Sal was taller by at least 3 inches at 5 feet and 11 inches. Ginger guessed Rolly couldn’t be taller than 5 feet and 6 inches. Silvie was just a few inches shorter in height than her husband at five feet and two inches.

            Rolly had that typical curly black hair and olive skin Italian men are known for. Sal Catanino had lighter skin than Rolly and his hair was dark brown rather than black. In that respect, Ginger noted, they were different.

            Yet, Rolly had that same male superiority air Sal also had. Must be an Italian thing, she thought.

            After Sal left her and their kids high and dry, he just up and went off, as if he never existed. Ginger knew it was some kind of trouble.

She was glad Sal didn’t want her to know his business. Oh sure, the cops tried to get her to divulge business information, until they realized she was kept completely out of the loop.

            Ginger was a typical German woman who knew the value of keeping her own little savings for a “rainy day”. When Sal left, it was more like a never-ending downpour.

            She was glad for the offer of the job at Rolly’s. For one thing, it was much closer to home than the diner and made it easier to keep her eye on the kids at home. Not that they were babies any longer. Jimmy was twelve, Patsy ten and Angie eight. Her mother lived with them after Sal left. So, she had a built-in babysitter if anything went wrong.

            Her mother paid room and board even though Ginger said it wasn’t necessary and that watching the three kids was a good exchange for room and board. Her mother insisted and at the end of every week, Ginger put that money in an account for a rainy day.

            Rolly hired a relief bartender, Scott Aquilatto, a half breed Spaniard and Irishman. Scott was usually pretty reliable. The relief bartending job was his part-time work to supplement his income from his full-time job in the manufacturing plant where he was a forklift operator in the shipping/receiving department.

            One night, Scott called out because his wife was in labor with their fourth child. Rolly asked Ginger to help out behind the bar. Ginger was reticent at first. But, the kitchen was unusually slow that night.

            “I don’t know anything about mixing drinks,” she said.

            “Don’t need to. Come here. See this thing? It’s a tap. You can pull the lever down can’t you? Not too difficult for you, I’m sure,” Rolly said.

            “Yes. I know how to pull the tap down. Anything else I need to know?” Ginger countered, sarcastically.  

            “Yes. Call me if there’s a customer looking for a mixed drink. You can watch as I make it and then next time, do it yourself,” Rolly said with a smirk.

            Rolly wasn’t fond of ANY woman behind his bar. This was a Friday night and with Scott out, he knew couldn’t run the bar all by himself.

            Silvie was away. Lately, she took her “weekends off” beginning on Fridays now that Ginger was doing so well in the kitchen.

            Rolly rang the bell and announced the new relief bartender to a howl of whistles and cat calls from the regulars the minute Rolly told them Ginger would take their beer orders.

            “She can take a whole lot more if she wants,” Danny said smartly.

            “Stow it, Danny. It’s only for tonight. Scott’s old lady is having their kid,” Rolly said flatly.

            “Wooooohoooo!” the guys whooped as Ginger’s face went as red as her hair.

            “Are these guys always so hungry for women?” Ginger asked.

            “No more than guys in any other bar. So watch yourself, hear?” Rolly said.

            It worked out okay that night. Rolly discovered a built in quick relief bartender in case of emergencies. He even liked that Ginger’s butt end brushed up against his when they passed the taps to fill drink orders.

            He realized he didn’t even feel guilty about it either. He and Silvie long ago gave up the intimate side of their marriage. So what’s a little butt bump now and then, if I can get it?, he thought.

            Rolly had to admit Ginger could handle herself, the kitchen and work the bar if needed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was wrong about Ginger. A whole lot wrong.

            Ginger noted the change in Rolly’s attitude toward her. One little bumping of two asses and he has a massive change of heart, Ginger laughed to herself. Men are such idiots. They’ll go gaga over anything that gets their motors running, even a has-been like me.

            Still, she had to admit she liked the idea that Rolly thought she was a nice bit of stuff. Course though, she was adamant that it could not change her relationship with Silvie in any way.

            What if Silvie didn’t give a damn about it? Those two weren’t exactly young love birds. Could be Silvie was happier when her old man wasn’t pawing her and making demands, Ginger reasoned.

            Somewhere in the deep pit of her mind, she knew this could be potential trouble for her, Rolly and Silvie. She kept her feelings locked up tightly. This job paid so much better than her waitress job. The tips were huge compared to the tips she received at the diner.

            Guys get drunk and use tipping as a way to get my attention. They tip better if I am nice to them. What’s the harm if my kids benefit from that? Oddly, at Rolly’s the women were the worst tippers. It was as if they had maid service.

            Stranger though, Betsy Gilliam and Rosie Forchiere, though often in competition for First Lady of Rolly’s Bar, backed off whenever Ginger was behind the bar. Rolly relied on Ginger more and more as a relief bartender even when Scott was working behind the bar.

            Rolly realized Ginger had to have a raise. One early Saturday afternoon before the sports crowd rolled in, Rolly asked Ginger to pour them some coffee.

            “We need to talk,” Rolly said.

            “Uh-oh. What did I do this time?” Ginger asked.

            “Oh no...nothing like that. I was just thinking on how you’ve been doing two jobs and need a nice big raise to help you out with those kids of yours. How does an extra two hundred a week sound to you? That’s assuming you’ll work the bar when the kitchen is slow like you’ve been doing,” Rolly said.

            “Wheweeeee! Two hundred a week?” Ginger tried to calculate how much this would add to her present one-fifty a week she was receiving for the kitchen job.

            “Well, it’s only fair. I can’t pay you for one part-time job when you are doing bar work too,” Rolly said.

            This was the first time Rolly had sounded human to Ginger instead of like a machine barking out commands.

            “Thanks. I really appreciate this,” Ginger said.

            “No thanks necessary. You earned it, my girl,” Rolly answered.

            From that point on, Rolly realized how much Ginger appreciated his generosity. He also realized he could capitalize on that if he wanted to…when Silvie was away of course.

            Silvie had been making noises that she wanted a real home for herself and their kids who were now teens and needed much more space than that apartment upstairs offered.

            It wasn’t that the apartment was particularly small. It just felt that way. Besides, the bar was doing spectacularly well and Rolly promised when they first married they’d have a nice home. Silvie knew just which one she had in mind too.

            It was in Westinville, about five miles from the bar. Far enough to where Silvie and the kids could be rid of the drunks and their sloppy bar habits.

The house they bought had five bedrooms…plenty of space with a fully finished basement and large formal dining room. It was equipped with all of the modern appliances Silvie had so much fun shopping for, including a commercial stove and dishwasher.

            “Thank God…no more dish pan hands,” Silvie told Rolly.

            “I hope you enjoy this place, because it’s going to cost us every dime we have in savings,” Rolly said.

            “Rent the apartment and it’ll make up for the cost of the purchase of this place,” Silvie said.

            Rolly had to hand it to his wife. She always came up with great ideas when it came to making money.

            Rolly knew exactly who he’d offer the apartment above the bar to: Ginger Beagans.

            Hadn’t Ginger said that tiny apartment she lived in was too small for her three kids and her mother? The apartment above the bar was twice as large in square footage and Rolly would upgrade any of the appliances Ginger needed.

            When Rolly told Ginger about the vacant apartment above the bar, she couldn’t wait to move in.

            Rolly got Bull, Tank, Jimmy, Frank Cannera, Mike and Danny to help her move. She was out of her old apartment in less than three hours and into the apartment above the bar in less than one hour.

            By the end of their first week in the new apartment, Ginger and her family were all settled in.

            It was all a matter of getting used to the sound of doors slamming below in the large, spacious parking lot. Not really so much different than their old apartment in the complex, where there were twice as many cars coming and going at all hours. At least when Rolly’s closed at 2 AM, there was total quiet.

            Even traffic on the main road in front of Rolly’s came to a dead stop by that time. 

            The apartment was well-insulated from regular bar noise too. Ginger liked that the cost of her gasoline would be a fraction of what it was. All she had to do was walk downstairs.

            School was closer for her kids too, although they would still ride the bus.

 Yes, this is far better even if it is an apartment above a bar, she thought.

Rolly had the security of knowing he had a reliable worker whenever he needed one and Ginger certainly was ready to jump in and make a few extra dollars whenever a relief bartender quit.

It didn’t hurt either that Ginger’s ample figure was a constant in Rolly’s mind. He’d never cheated on Silvie. Yet, the sway of Ginger’s hips as she cleared a table or the bar with cleaning rag in hand was something Rolly took particular delight in.

Now that Silvie finally had the house she’d always wanted, Rolly felt it was his turn to enjoy a little bit of the rewards of his hard work.

Silvie spent a whole lot of their money on furnishing their new home. Then, she  spent her time with women her age who came into Rolly’s after bowling, bingo or the movies.

Silvie had her friends. Rolly had a few of his own, mostly owners of other bars in town or vendors and suppliers who sent their delivery trucks with beer, wines and food goods.

And…hadn’t he always looked the other way whenever Silvie wanted her weekends off? That’s why he needed Ginger. In a way, his preoccupation with Ginger really was Silvie’s fault.

It happened one night in an inconspicuous way. It was one of those things that anyone would ignore. Ginger was behind the bar filling a table order of drinks. The small receipt pad she kept in her waist pocket fell to the floor. Ginger bent to retrieve it with her back to Rolly.

When she stood up, Rolly bumped into Ginger’s behind. It was the closest he’d ever gotten to her since she was hired.

He hoped his face hadn’t flushed because he knew he felt a tingle of excitement as the two stood face-to-face. He saw Ginger’s face redden as she hurried away.

Ginger hadn’t been this close to a man since her own old man left her. She had to admit it didn’t feel all that bad.

She went into the kitchen to prepare several table orders. As she did, she watched Rolly behind the bar, fascinated that she hadn’t noticed in his rugged sort of way, he was an attractive man. She tried to shake off the feeling and reminded herself she had to pay attention to her job.

At closing time, Ginger tidied the bar.

“Ginger, how’s about you and me have a something to drink?” Rolly asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she answered.

From a few drinks, Rolly awoke the next morning in Ginger’s bed.

“Ginger, you won’t mention this to Silvie, right? I wouldn’t want to have to hire a new relief bartender and kitchen help,” Rolly threatened.

That was how it started. It wasn’t how it ended. Every time Silvie was out of town, Rolly and Ginger made use of their free time. Until Ginger discovered she was pregnant.

“Rolly, how in hell am I supposed to keep this from Silvie? I’m going to have to get rid of it,” Ginger said.

“Don’t be stupid. At your age, that kind of thing could be dangerous. I’ll take care of you and the kid. Don’t worry. No one has to know it’s mine.”

No one did know until Rolly’s Bar closed years later and Rolly took sick. That isn’t to say the guys at the bar didn’t guess who got Ginger knocked up.

“That kid looks tooooo much like Rolly,” Tank had said to Billy.

“What’s the chances, right?” Billy snorted.

Just about the time Ginger took “vacation” to have Rolly’s kid, Silvie had lost a bundle at a casino table. This time, there was no way to hide the loss of over $15,000. Silvie played it cool for the first two or three days, hoping to filch some of the bar money to cover her losses.

Her gambling debt didn’t stay under wraps for long. One week after Silvie blew that money, her very drunk casino companion, Madelyn Paverno, accidentally blurted out in front of Rolly that Silvie’s last Black Jack game might “close Rolly’s Bar.”

“Whadda you mean?” Rolly asked.

“She’s drunk Rolly. She’s just rambling,”

It never occurred to Rolly that it was possible for Silvie to lose more than a few hundred dollars at Black Jack.

“Silvie, how much were your losses?” Rolly demanded.

“I don’t want to talk about this in the bar. I’ll tell you when we close and get back home.”

“Oh go on, Silvie. Losing $15 thou is nothing to sneeze at,” Madelyn said, her blood shot eyes rolling.

The regulars at the bar all whistled long and low, smirking and poking each other in the ribs.

“Madelyn, shut the hell up,” Silvie said.

Rolly suddenly felt the room swaying. He gripped the bar.

“Is this true?” he demanded.

“She’s drunk. Pay no attention.”

The regulars watched the exchange. They knew Rolly had money. But, even that kind of loss would make a rich bar owner pretty mad.

The battle waged in earnest the minute the last patron left.

“Silvie, please tell me you didn’t throw away $15,000 at a Black Jack table,” Rolly said, reserving his wrath.

Silvie didn’t look her husband in the eyes. He knew it had to be true.

“Well, that’s the end of you and the casinos. I’ll make sure you are never allowed to set foot in them again,” Rolly snarled.

“You can’t do that! The casino is my only enjoyment. You forget that I worked just as hard as you do in that bar,” Silvie said.

“So you do. That doesn’t mean you can throw our money away like that! You knew I was planning to enlarge the restaurant come spring. Why would you do this?”

“You have your fun and I  have mine,” Silvie said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Come off it! You think I don’t know that you and Ginger are shacking up above the bar the minute my back is turned?”

“That’s a lie! A damn lie!”

“You think I don’t hear the whispers from the regulars about that kid Ginger had?”

“I don’t know anything about that kid. That’s Ginger’s personal business.”

“Then explain these bank withdrawals every month…all in Ginger’s name.” Silvie said.

“That’s her monthly bonus,” Rolly lied.

“Is that what they call child support now? A monthly bonus?”

From that day forward, Rolly and Silvie were never the same. Silvie seemed to take on a new attitude of brazenness and was constantly making snide remarks about her husband and his “mystery lover, who was no mystery at all to the regulars of Rolly’s Bar.”

It was like a game between the two. Silvie got even with Rolly for his liaison with Ginger by blowing money on Black Jack and any other entertainment she could find. Their kids were all in college, which added to Rolly’s financial burdens. He felt bitter and resentful that his wife was trying to put on airs as if she was First Lady of the town.

Rolly got even with her and spent more of his nights than ever with Ginger. The guys who sat at the bar no longer felt it was news and paid little attention to the little glances between Ginger and Rolly.

It wasn’t until Silvie had enough of it that she threatened to tell their kids about their half brother, Alonzo Beagan, the love child of Ginger and Rolly Volante. Silvie demanded Rolly fire Ginger. Rolly knew he had no choice. 

Ginger moved out of the apartment above the bar and found a job at Rolly’s brother’s bar in Harringen. Paulo Volante was happy to hire Ginger, even when she told him his brother fired her and why.

Rolly’s Bar changed nearly as soon as Ginger left. Rolly found a replacement for Ginger, after interviewing half a dozen. The only one Silvie approved of was Jean Belkins, an older woman of nearly retirement age. Like Ginger, Jean was a former waitress and had a mouth like a truck driver.

A newer crowd seemed to invade Rolly’s, to the disgust and chagrin of the older regulars. Tank, Jack, Bull, Mike, Worry and Jimmy still had their places at the bar as always. The “newbies” sat nearer to the front entrance. Rolly remodeled the place so families could eat together in a small dining room attached to the building without the annoyance of noisy drunks. Silvie managed the dining room, while Jean managed the booths and tables. Jean refused to get behind the bar.

Rolly was just as glad. With that mouth of hers, he’d lose all of the new crowd that came in on weekends. He thought about adding music. But, figured it had always been a sports bar and it should stay that way.

There was a crowd who came in from the Newton Race track about ten miles from Rolly’s. This crowd was noisier than his regulars, demanded food and drinks faster than Jean could handle it.

            They came to be known as “the Race Track” crowd. A few of them were bikers. Rolly had always been wary of allowing any bikers in his bar. He hoped it wasn’t a mistake.

            One of the bikers, Axel Lyons, aka “King Lion” got into a fight with Roy Nesmith, one of the “Race Track” crowd patrons.  Rolly saw it was getting nasty and told them to “take it outside.” When they ignored him, he called the police for the first time ever. Three Bridges had no police of its own and so by the time Axel and Roy mixed it up, blood spattered the walls and patrons went flying out the doors, all of the patrons but the regulars who tried to break up the fight. Instead, biker buddies and the regulars all got into it. Rolly saw bar stools, beer glasses and bottles flying and a lawsuit against the bar inevitable.

When the cops finally arrived, the section of the bar nearest the front door looked as if a cyclone hit it. Glass covered the floor and the brawling continued until six cops finally hauled the brawlers off, one by one.

Rolly never again allowed any bikers into his bar. He posted a sign outside the door to that effect.

These thoughts passed through Billy’s mind as he drove the hour and a half toward Three Bridges. He passed miles and miles of open spaces that had never been developed due to the slowing down of the economy. They called it a “recession”. Billy knew it was more than that. He’d lived long enough to recognize a grand style snookering when he saw one.

            Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of Rolly’s. The sign was gone and replaced with a new one, “The Watering Hole.” He parked his car and hoped the place would still be open.

            He thought about how many New Year’s Eves he spent in Rolly’s. It looked the same from the exterior. The attached dining room looked as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. He remembered the time Rolly’s put out a huge spread of food for New Year’s Eve in 1976 for the Centennial celebration.

            He shuddered for a second recalling how a brutal knife attack ended the celebrating. He’d arrived as usual at around 8 that night. There were a lot of people in the bar, some already pretty drunk. Two women sat at the opposite end of the bar from the regulars. Billy saw two men hand them money. At first, he assumed they were husbands of the women. Then, he saw the two women disappear with the two men. About an hour later, the same thing happened.

            “Hey, Rolly. Check out those two dames at the end of the bar. Best get rid of them. Seems they are taking on “customers,” Jack Ahern warned.

            “I got my eye on them,” Rolly said.

            “I’m going to go out and see what they are up to,” Danny Norham said.

            “Danny, I don’t think you should,” Rolly warned.

            “Better to know what’s going on in your parking lot than have the cops find out. It’s New Year’s Eve. The cops will be patrolling every bar in the state,” Danny said.

            Danny walked out to the parking lot and passed two cars. As soon as he walked past, the women hiked their skirts down and the two men with them got out of their cars.

            “You looking for somethin’ buddy?” one of the men snarled.

            “No. I got what I was lookin’ for,” Danny said.

            Danny turned and headed toward the front door of the bar again.

            The two men surrounded him.

            “You goin’ to call the cops?”

            “No such thing. I was just checking to see if my car was still here,” Danny lied.

            He walked back into the bar and told Rolly what he’d seen.

            “You sure?”

            “Sure as I can be,” Danny said.

            The two men who approached Danny walked up behind him, just as Danny turned to his right. He felt a sharp jab in his gut and keeled over immediately.

            The two men hurried out the front door.

            “Danny? You alright old buddy?” Mike Worden asked.

            He got no answer. He felt for a pulse.

            “He’s dead. He got stabbed…in the heart,” Mike said.

            Rolly called the cops. But, the two men and two women were long gone.

            Billy Arnholz walked up to the door of the bar. The air had grown cold…or so it seemed. He pushed on the old door and it opened with a gust of wind.

            “Anyone here?” he called.

            Who leaves the door to an old bar open? He thought.

            He walked toward the place where his old friends had always sat watching the games.

            All the guys, but Billy, were long ago deceased. 

Mike Worden was the first to die. Billy recalled how they all went to his funeral back in 1978. Died at age 51…way too young, Billy thought.

Mercifully, Jerry Gilliam left his widow on his 54^th birthday in 1980. They’d all attended Jerry’s funeral too. His wife Betsy was inconsolable and as usual, a few sheets to the wind, they noted.

Jack Ahern and Jimmy Thomas died in 1986 and 87, just after Rolly became ill and sold the place. Both men were in their mid 50s at the time of their deaths. Rumor had it, Jimmy had sclerosis of the liver and Jack died of complications of Type II diabetes.

Worry Heinemann passed in 1989 at age 64, one month short of his retirement. Frank Cannera died in 1990, but not until his legendary womanizing came out into the open at his funeral when not one, but three of his mistresses all showed up to grieve their lost love. His wife, Jenny, sat stoically ignoring the dramatic of the three women until the hair pulling cat fight started in the center aisle of the funeral parlor.

What a way to go, Frank,  Billy thought.

Rolly died in 1994 and Silvie in 1995, within one year of each other. Billy attended their funerals too and was surprised to see Alonzo Beagans at Rolly’s gravesite.

Billy approached Alonzo, now a young man in his late twenties.

“You don’t know me, Alonzo. I was one of your mother’s best customers,” Billy said.

“My mother? Really? I didn’t think anyone remembered her,” Alonzo said.

“You may be sure we all did,” Billy said, restraining a knowing grin.

“How is she?” Billy added.

“Momma passed on last year,” Alonzo said.

The last of the Rolly’s crowd Tank Clements ended up living alone in his tiny apartment in Three Bridges, until he nearly set fire to place as a result of the onset of elder dementia that was just five years ago. Within months of being placed in a convalescent center, Tank Clements breathed his last, Billy recalled.

He sat down at his old place at the bar. He glanced slowly around the darkened room. All of the ghosts of Rolly’s were here. Billy knew it. Rolly’s would always be haunted by the men and women who spent so much of their lives here.

He lowered his head to his folded, clasped hands, as if offering a silent prayer.

            He knew it was his turn to join the others. As if seeing each of their faces to his right and left, Billy “Bull” Arnholz closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. It was just like the old days, the TV blaring, the game and the guys drinking their beers and buying rounds.