Barry bristles. “The sheriff said they’re horns. He’s seen this thing before. An old witchcraft symbol, he said. Has to do with the Low Man.”
“My God,” whimpers one of the women in the booth beside us. The older woman next to her elbows her. “Don’t take God’s name in vain!”
“The Low Man,” Gerald repeats, sounding shell-shocked. “Sweet Jesus.” He takes a fortifying swig of beer. No one admonishes him for taking the Lord’s name. The bar is quiet. Chilled.
“You better saw down those trees right quick,” says one of Gerald’s fishing crew, and there’s a murmur of agreement. “Better yet, torch ’em.”
Two crescent moons resting on a circle, their barbed ends pointing out like horns. I don’t know the symbol—but I’ve seen others like it, years ago, painted in blood. My voice comes out too high. “Do you have any idea who did it?”
Barry looks at me and smiles. “Aw, look. I done scared poor Ruth. I swear, y’all, sometimes I think she’s just a teenage girl at heart.” He shares his grin with the table. “Scared a’ everything.”
“Actually.” Ever’s voice is deadpan. “I doubt there’s a single thing on God’s green earth that could scare Ruth Cornier. God’s earth or the Devil’s.”
“Hey now.” Barry shifts uncomfortably, eyeing Gerald. “No need to talk like that. Devil’s earth and all.”
For some reason—maybe it’s sitting next to Everett—I feel a rare stir of courage. “He’s right, though. I’m not scared. And what’s so embarrassing about being a teenage girl?”
“Every teenage girl I’ve met has been the scariest creature on the planet,” Everett says. “I’d put them up against the Low Man any day.”
I smile at him. I’m not sure if he means that as a compliment for me or a dig at the girls we went to high school with, like Lila over there, but either way, I like it. And just like that, we’re back in our private world. Despite everything, hope lights in me that our friendship can be revived. However, as much as we’re enjoying ourselves, our exchange has won us no fans in this crowd. Quite the opposite. People are giving each other charged looks around the table. We’ve never been good at fitting in, even when we try.
“Well, excuse me,” Barry says. “I didn’t realize Everett Duncan was the patron saint of teenage girls.”
His comment breaks the tension, winning laughter. Encouraged, Barry turns to me. “I also didn’t realize I was going to have the pleasure of attending the Ruth and Everett Variety Show. Your momma warned me ’bout it, too. But it’s different seeing it up close.”
His words make my stomach sink. “You talked to my mother today?”
“I had to go to your folks’ house to deliver my report to the reverend. Just got back. That’s why I was late to the bar.” He winks at Gerald and the boys. “By the way, your momma says don’t be late to Bible study tomorrow.”
Somehow my parents already know Everett’s in town.
“I thought the sheriff was your boss,” says Everett, taking a swig of beer. “Not James Cornier.”
If there’s one thing you don’t do around Barry, it’s insult my father. “He is,” Barry says darkly. “But don’t act like you don’t know everything that happens in this town runs through the reverend. You ain’t been gone that long, Columbine.”
A hushed silence fills the bar.
“Barry,” I say sharply. “Don’t.”
“It’s okay.” Everett’s talking to me, not Barry. “Don’t worry.” He nudges my knee. “I don’t care.”
Even though Everett’s the one who’s been insulted and I’m only defending him, people glare at us so hard I can feel the heat from their stares. Women aren’t supposed to talk sharply to their men, especially in public. I don’t know if this rule is Southern Baptist or southern Louisiana in origin, or if those two cultures are so intertwined here in Bottom Springs that they’ve become inseparable. Either way, my father says a woman’s place is one step behind her husband, serving as his most faithful lieutenant, and as such, public contradiction is betrayal. “‘Let your women keep their silence,’” he likes to say, which is a line from Timothy.
Yet another reason I don’t come to the Blue Moon: I’m bound to endanger myself.
But to everyone’s surprise, Barry doesn’t admonish me. Instead, he groans and dips his head. “Ruth’s right.” He directs his words to Everett. “I’m sorry. That was un-Christian. It’s the stress. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Everett says, and I’m probably the only person here who believes him.
Gerald clears his throat. “You and my uncle find out anything else ’bout the skull?” He gestures round the bar. “You’ve got all of us here racking our brains trying to come up with information. Sad to say, there’ve been a fair number of folks who took off or disappeared these past years. Kinda hard to remember anything suspicious.”
“You know,” Barry says, settling back. He looks glad to be back in the spotlight for the right reasons. “We did learn something critical.”
The bar hushes, the air charging. Every hair on my body pricks to attention. This is it.
Everett goes still. “What, you figure out who the skull belongs to or something?”
I’m amazed at how cool his voice sounds. How benignly curious.
