There was still lots of money in her purse. She walked into town, ignoring the bite in her ankle, and walked directly to the bar. She opened the door and went inside, her mouth and throat parched from the walk and the anticipation.

The room was even more magic than she remembered. It was cool and dim, and empty, except for Mike, who sat on one of the stools, writing. He looked up with a surprised smile.

“Martha! How nice to see you!”

She smiled back. She was getting used to people since Priscilla had become her friend. She knew how to smile, and sometimes she could talk, knowing the right words, and sometimes they didn’t all bunch up in her mind and clog her mouth.

“How would you like a drink?”

She nodded and climbed gently onto a stool.

“What would you like? Root beer? Coke?”

“Root beer.”

He brought her a frosty mug, then came around and sat on a stool next to her. “You look very nice today.”

“Thank you.” She spoke slowly and clearly.

“Are you in town to do some shopping?”

Shopping! I know shopping! “No, went shopping already.”

“Where are your packages?”

“No, no, before. With Pris. Bought television.”

“A television? Gee, that’s great. Keeps you company on the farm, eh?”

Martha thought about this. “No,” she said.

“Pris took you shopping?”

She nodded.

“Who’s Pris?”

Her brow furrowed. Who’s Pris? She took her fingers and made scissors around her head.

“Oh, Priscilla. The hair stylist. I know her.” Oh, God, Mike thought. Priscilla. Golddigger.

Martha smiled and nodded. She sipped her root beer.

Mike and Priscilla had gone to school together. They were the same age, thirty-two. Mike inherited the local tavern from his dad, and Priscilla went away to beauty school. She came back after years of bad rumors had circulated about her and got a job with Shirley’s Hair Salon in town. She was a wild one, all right. Spent all her money here at Mike’s, hustling. Mike sighed. Every town’s got to have one, I guess. But this is no good, her taking advantage of Martha.

“Priscilla cuts your hair?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. She does a good job, doesn’t she?”

Before she could answer, the door swung open and three young men walked in. They took stools at the bar and ordered beers. They wore Levi’s and dirty T-shirts rolled up at the sleeve. The one next to her had heavy brown arms with large smooth muscles. Martha looked at them carefully, but when one looked back, she quickly sank her gaze into the foam on the top of her soda and kept it there.

“Martha?” It was the man next to her. She looked up slowly, shyly.

“It is you. Hi. Remember me? Leon. I cut your lawn.”