“I hope so,” Clara said. “I’ve been at odds with everything in my life for so long that it seems to me like the other shoe will drop any minute.”
“That will pass like your hangover did.” Bernie chuckled. “Finish your pork chops so we can go home and get to decorating.”
“I haven’t been out to eat in so long that I’m savoring every bite,” Clara told her.
“Savor it faster. We’ve got milk and ice cream in the truck. Granted they are in a cooler, but there’s just so much a person can ask of one little ice pack in this miserable heat wave.”
“For ice cream, I will get a move on,” Clara declared. “I haven’t been able to afford a luxury like that in over a year.”
The waitress came around and refilled both of their tea glasses. When she had gone, Clara looked across the table at her octogenarian aunt and asked, “I can understand putting up stuff for Christmas, but why for July Fourth? We put up the tree after Thanksgiving and leave it until New Year’s Eve. That’s more than a month. Why go to all that trouble for one day?”
“I didn’t get married and have kids like my sister did,” Bernie answered and finished up the last bite ofher baked potato. “I was more or less pitched out of the family when I decided to live my life on my terms. When I became owner of this bar, I decided to make it my family. The family has tolerated me on a few occasions, but to love me unconditionally is out of their reach. What does any family do for holidays?” Bernie asked. “They put on costumes and have a good time.”
“We did that for Christmas, but we only wore costumes to the church program,” Clara answered.
“In the Chicken Coop family, we have fun on every holiday, and I always dress up,” Bernie said.
“Are you serious?” Clara asked.
“Very, and it’s a lot of fun. You’ll see when we get back to the bar and get everything out of the storage room.”
“Why did you name the bar the Chicken Coop?”
“I didn’t. The previous owner did. Story has it that a family lived on this land and a tornado blew their house away. All that was left was a chicken coop, and years before it had become a landmark for directions. ‘Turn left at the old chicken coop’ kind of thing. He built the bar and named it the same thing,” Bernie explained.
Clara turned up her glass of sweet tea and downed more than half of it. “I’m done. Let’s go home, and I love that idea of keeping the name.”
Bernie slid out of the booth and smiled. “You’ve been here one day and you’re already calling it home?”
“Yes, I am,” Clara answered.
***
“What is all this stuff anyway?” Clara pulled out a chair in the bar, eased down into it, and stared at half a dozen boxes she had dragged from the storage room that afternoon. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had wondered if she might be living out of her car, and now not only did she have a home, but also a job that started with decorating the Chicken Coop.
“If it has a big number four on the boxes, that means it’s for July Fourth,” Bernie explained.
Clara took a long drink of her tea and asked, “Are we going to use everything? That seems like a lot.”
“Yes, we are. There’s lots of stuff plus our costumes for July Fourth. Each year, I switch out what I wear, so there’s half a dozen or more for us to choose from. We’re about the same size, so you won’t have any trouble finding one that will make you feel good.” She opened a box and pulled out a short red-and-white-striped skirt and a royal blue peasant blouse with stars printed on it.
“This is for you. I wore it several years ago before my varicose veins took control of my legs. That’s what I get for working in spike heels for years. Another rule to remember is to always wear good shoes at work, like the ones you have on now.” She held up a pair of socks with lace around the tops and a headband with tinsel and stars attached to it.
“You really want me to wear that getup?”
“Yes, I do,” Bernie answered. “You should see what I wear for Mardi Gras!”
“Aunt Bernie!” Clara tried to scold, but her giggle defeated the purpose. “This is not New Orleans.”
“It most certainly is for one weekend of my choosing, and we have beads and the whole nine yards,” Bernie argued.
Clara raised an eyebrow. “Do you show your boobs, too?”
“Nope.” Bernie shook her head seriously. “Gravity done claimed those things years ago. To show the customers my cleavage would cause a stampede out of here.”
Clara’s giggles turned in a guffaw.
Bernie shook a bony forefinger at her. “Don’t laugh. Mister Gravity will come for you someday in the future, and there won’t be a thing you can do about it. Of course, a man created gravity and even named it. Other than big, old beer bellies, men don’t suffer from the damn thing like we do. A woman would have better sense than to make something that would claim her boobs, her butt, and even her face, but getting back to this holiday. Independence Day is downright poetic for you, don’t you think?”
