The sign that hung from the iron rod over the bar's entrance was old, corroded, and full of holes. The thought had never occurred to the owners of the Wolf's Den to change it out, or splash a fresh coat of paint on it. The sign was as much a part of the Den as the customers, as the servers, as the cold beer that soothed throats raspy from shouting across fields and over turbine engines.
There weren't many customers sitting at the round tables inside, even if it was almost midnight. A couple of farmers were sitting at the corner booth, slapping down tired cards. One of them was smoking a cigarette; it hung limply out of his mouth as he did some math in his head. "Gin," the man said. Not really a cause for celebration.
His partner, his baseball cap slung low over his forehead, its bill bent past recognition, would call "gin" as well, and they both would play this single, unending game until time ended. The call of "gin" was just a marker in the passing of time, and an immeasurable marker at that. The man with the cap scooped the cards over to his side of the table, and they made quiet flapping noises as he shuffled them. He settled them in the middle of the table and prepared to split the deck.
The man with the cap looked up briefly before dealing the cards again, casting his eyes over the empty room, then over the bar where a sandy-haired woman was wiping glasses. Their eyes met for a mere second, but it was clear they were both thinking about the same thing. His eyes were hazel, his hair still dark. A few grey hairs sprinkled through his stubble were the only testament to his age, which could be estimated in the early thirties, maybe less.
"Tony boy, it's your turn to deal," the man sitting opposite him remarked in a gruff voice. Tony half-turned back to his partner, and studied his face carefully. Dark from the sun, lined from years of hard work in hard weather, his dark eyes looked into the younger man's.
"Thanks Phil, I'm aware," Tony said in tones of irritation.
The older man sighed. "You should relax. Calm down. They'll call us as soon as they know."
"So I've heard," Tony said a bit bitterly. "But it's been three days; something has to be final by now." He began to rise from his seat, beginning to take his leather jacket from the back of the chair, but Phil reached over and pushed on his shoulder, forcing Tony back into his seat.
"Boy, you just came from them up at the hospital. You need rest yourself." Phil leaned back in his chair. "And another thing," he took a deep breath in. "If… if Sandy doesn't make it…"
"Don't say that," Tony said violently, sweeping his arm across the card table and sending bottle of beer flying the floor. The crashing sound made a young woman pop out from behind the bar, a worried look on her face.
"Sorry," Tony said belligerently, with a tone that was anything but.
Phil shrugged. "'S'okay. Peggy, everything's fine." The woman behind the bar looked out across at Phil carefully, then nodded and headed back to her vigil in the washroom, sitting on a creaky stool by the phone. The square of wood that kept the third leg level with the other two wobbled a bit, but Peggy seemed used to it. She stared at the phone, willing it to ring.
"Sandy's fine," Tony hissed. "She'll pull through. She's strong…" he looked over Phil's shoulder to a tired neon sign advertising Budweiser beer. "… she'll pull through," he said again, softer.
"Sure," Phil said placatingly. "But you won't be any good to her if you're too tired to do anything for her. Now go on home and get some sleep."
Tony rose from his chair slowly as its legs scraped against the floor. The brown glass crunched under his thick boots as he made his way to the door. A minute later, the sound of his truck starting was heard.
Phil sighed and packed the cards together with a rubber band. "Peggy?" he called.
"Dad."
"They tell you?"
"… yeah."
"I'm sorry, kid."
"I know, Dad. I…" but the phone started to ring. Peggy picked it up as soon as the sound pervaded the bar, holding on the receiver like a life-line. "Wolf's Den… yeah… yeah… she did? I… no, it's okay. Here he is." Without another word, she put the phone on the bar as Phil ambled up and sat on one of the cushioned stools.
"Honey? It's Daddy, baby, it's okay. Tony's fine, ruffled, but fine. You just keep… What?... Sandra! Why are you telling me this?! It wasn't your fault, honey, you've got to know that." A pause. "I don't believe this. When were you planning on telling Anthony? After everything, you managed to screw this up pretty badly, I've gotta say… of course I'm angry!" There was another brief pause, and then Phil slammed down the phone.
"Dad…?"
"I'm going hunting, Peg. Tell your mother not to wait up." Phil reached the door, then turned around. "She made a deal, Peggy, she made a goddam deal!" The door banged behind him.
As she heard the trunk of her fathers car open, Peggy quietly put the phone back, then reached for a mop and bucket to clean up. As she pushed the mop around the spilled beer, she whispered quietly to herself, "Who's going to tell Anthony?"
In a hospital far away, a woman quietly faded from life.
A baby, face red with frustration, wailed to an army of nurses. An angry burn covered most of her right chest and arm.
Three days later, Anthony Walker put a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.