A/N: More story.

Big Swamp

Chapter Three: Coffee, Tea, and Decency

I nurse a cup of coffee through two refills but I'm about to abandon it to live or die on its own.

Hannah hasn't talked to me much, but that's the morning rush. During the rush, Ed's unfurls in its full glory, and Hannah perches atop it like one of the golden eagles atop a flagpole, wings out.

I watch her seat customers, take orders, balance trays and fend off overly familiar comments without ever losing a step or her balance.

She's admirable and I wish I were more like her.

I stumble and overbalance as a rule, not as an exception. — My dad's son, I guess, despite losing him long ago.

He and my mom were driving down I-85 one night, coming back from a party in LaGrange, Georgia, when a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. He ran them off the road and onto a large pine. It wasn't anyone's fault. The truck driver still sends Ellie and me a card every year at Christmas. He never writes anything but his name below the printed sentiment. We've never displayed the cards but we've also never thrown any away. A shoebox in a cupboard keeps them all for us. I'm not sure what we plan to do with them.

When I see them, they make me sad, not only for Dad and Mom, and me and Ellie, but the truck driver too. We live without something we should have; he lives with something he shouldn't.

"Hannah," I hear Daniel Shaw shout above the hubbub, "sway this way and warm my coffee." A crowd of wanna-be Shaws huddles around him at the central, circular table, and all guffaw at their idol's gift with women. Others in the restaurant look up, hearing the shout.

Hannah, sliding a plate of steaming scrambled eggs in front of Thelma Cruett, who eats the same breakfast in Ed's six days a week — like God, she takes Sunday off — lances Shaw with a jousting stare, almost unseating him.

"You've never made a woman sway in your life, Daniel Shaw. I doubt you've ever witnessed it; I know you ain't never caused it."

In unison, the circular table stops guffawing.

The other customers suppress smiles and return to their food or coffee. I look down, trying not to grin, but notice Shaw noting my reaction with a pissy frown.

Have I said we don't like each other?

It's not just that we are rivals as detectives. We were rivals in high school too, although odd rivals.

Shaw was, predictably, the star athlete, a guard on the basketball team, a running back on the football team. I was not on either team, despite being tall enough for basketball had my feet been quicker. I was class valedictorian, president of a bunch of clubs, and lead guitar player in a popular high school band.

Shaw was the absolute monarch of the jocks; I was the constitutional monarch of the non-jocks. We both ran for class president each year and I won each time. He never forgave me when I beat him in the election for president of the student council our senior year.

I went on to Oberlin — like Sarah Walker said, in Ohio. Shaw went to Troy, in Troy, Alabama. Scholarships both, mine academic, and his athletic. He blew out a knee in the first practice in pads his freshman year and never recovered enough to play. They let him keep the scholarship and he managed to graduate, but only barely.

The knee injury left him with a gimpy leg and a chippy shoulder.

A year ago, maybe a little more, he started asking Ellie out. She was not interested; she turned him down each time, kindly at first, with attitude later. He blamed me for Ellie's refusal and her attitude. While I hoped she would refuse and while I didn't blame her for the attitude, I never interfered or talked to Ellie about it.

Ellie knows her own mind. I stay out of her way except when she forgets to eat.

Hannah circles to me with the coffee pot, ignoring Shaw's now-lifted cup, lifted above his head like a signal.

"More coffee, Chuck?" She speaks louder than usual.

I know it was for Shaw's benefit and I cringe inwardly. She cocks her hips as she warms my coffee and treats me to her best smile, slow, lazy and wide. "Have you heard about the big party out at Noble Hall?"

I nodded. "Yes, surprisingly, I have." I immediately regret saying anything, but especially regret the 'surprisingly'. It invites questions, and I am supposed to keep Sarah Walker's visit to my office confidential.

Luckily, Hannah's more interested in tweaking Shaw, who still has his empty cup in the air, than in considering my words.

"Are you planning to go?"

I see the head-on collision coming but have nowhere to swerve. I drive on, dreading sudden impact. "Yes, I'm going."

"I got invited too," Hannah notes chirpily, "why don't we go together?"

Crash!

I drop my voice almost to a whisper. "I can't."

"You can't?" Hannah asks, her surprise causing her to ask louder than she meant to. I see Shaw's cup sink to the circular table and hear the guffaws rise.

"No," I continue in a whisper. "I've already made plans. Sorry."

She uncocks her hip and swirls coffee in the pot, almost as if she's tempted to dump it on me.

"I was hoping you would go with me, my plus one," she says more quietly, her unhappiness checkering her expression.

Hannah's father, Big Jim Sutton, oversees the Briggs and Stratton plant on the edge of Auburn. The Suttons are one of the oldest families in town. It figures he and his wife and Hannah would be invited, and those invitations had gone out earlier. I never saw an invitation for Ellie or for me.

Shaw quips, just loud enough to be heard. "Bartowski'd be plus zero." The circular table finds this high comedy. I ignore it, more concerned about Hannah's reaction.

"I didn't know you were hoping that," I say weakly and I know it was the wrong response because the checkering gets worse.

"How could you not, Chuck Bartowski? For a detective, you haven't got a damn clue." She marches away from me and straight to Shaw. She sways as she does, glancing back at me before facing Shaw.

"What do you say, Daniel Shaw? Will you go with me?"

Shaw gives her a crowing look. "You think I want Bartowski's throw-backs?"

He makes Hannah stand in the silence following his remark for just long enough to humiliate her a little more, but her annoyance with me carries her through it.

"Sure," he says, smiling his Shaw smile, a dental trick of self-congratulation, "I'll take you. Wear something that shows those legs. Bartowski needs to know what he's missing."

I am about to slide out of my booth, to try to save Hannah any further comments from Shaw, since I'm his target too — when a wide gray suit blocks my escape. I peer up into the frowning face of Father John Casey.

If he weren't a priest, he could make a living posing for gargoyles.

Father Casey is a big man, thickly muscled. If it weren't for the suit and the collar, no one would imagine him a priest. One night we were sitting together, a fifth between the two of us in his office, and he became, for him, chatty.

He told me he'd been a Marine for a while. He didn't tell me more but just that brought him into better focus. You know that hymn the Salvation Army likes, Onward Christian Soldiers? That's the processional music I hear whenever I see Father Casey walking around town. Like that passage in Second Timothy 2:3 — "Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ." Father Casey is an endure-hardness priest.

"Hey, Father," I say, greeting him and gesturing to the other side of the booth. He glances over at the circular table, at Hannah talking to Shaw, and slides into the seat. "I see Shaw's spreading goodwill, as always. I heard some of that when I came in."

I shrug. "I didn't think about Hannah hoping I'd go with her to the party. I only knew about it yesterday."

He gives me a long look. "Bartowski, you are a holy innocent. That girl's been waiting on you, for one event or another, for anything, for the last couple of years. Ever since she came back to town. Get your head out of your ass and make a decision. Leaving her to pine away isn't right."

"Telling me to get my head out of my ass isn't exactly priestly communication, Father."

"Oh, hell, Bartowski, we're not talking about me. We're talking about you and that heartsick girl. I believe she came back here for you."

I don't want to meet Casey's eyes, so I tinker with a creamer from the small bowl on the table. "I know," I finally sigh, "but I just don't feel like she's the one, you know. She's great, and I like her so much, and I admire her, but I'm not sure I'll ever feel anything else and I don't want to lead her on."

Casey grunts and the table shakes. "But you don't want to let her go either, do you?"

I become completely engrossed in the creamer, praying he'll leave before I have to answer that. But I guess his prayers trump mine, priest and all. I glance up. Casey waits for my answer with a face that would sink a thousand ships.

"Honestly?" I ask.

"Let's try that. I have a professional preference for it." Casey's mouth moves but somehow his face never changes.

"No, alright, no. I don't know that she's the one and I don't know that she's not the one, so I…"

"Just keep dicking her around."

"Language, Father!"

"Decency, Bartowski!"

I guess this is what it's like to be a soft-boiled detective in Opelika, Alabama. You end up friends with a boy-man who begs you to play video games and a martial Episcopal priest who demands you be decent. I nod and feel myself blush.

"You're right. I am not being fair to Hannah. We went to senior prom together, did you know that?"

He shook his head. "An item in high school?"

"No, not really. We found each other kind of late, and we saw each other a few times that summer, but I was in Boston for most of it, with my grandfather, my mom's dad. I worked at his company. Then fall came and I went to Ohio and she went to Virginia, and we fell out of touch."

"I get the feeling she remembered you more than you remembered her." Casey glanced at Hannah, who'd left Shaw's table — he and the others were at the register, paying. She was trading one pot of coffee for another, fresher one.

"Maybe so," I admit. "I'll talk to her, Casey."

"Do, Bartowski. I think you're a mensch, most of the time." He waved at Hannah and mouthed the word 'coffee'. She nodded.

"So, how is it you're going to this party if you're not going with Hannah. You and Ellie are like me, outsiders. Did you actually get an invitation?"

"No, not a formal one, not that I know of," I tell him. "Actually, Wylie Stroud's niece is in town and she asked me to go with her."

Casey looks at me. "Tall blonde made of dry ice?"

I smile. "Yeah, that fits. How…"

"I ran into Wylie the other day and she was with him. She didn't have much to say and I couldn't get a read on her. How'd she come to ask you to the party?"

"Long story and I have to go; it's not official yet." I pull bills out of my pocket. "Your coffee's on me."

"Thanks, Bartowski," he says and I can feel him watching me as I leave. I doubt the conversation is over.

I spend the day following up on some leads in other cases, nothing worth much comment.

The conversation with Casey rankles me all morning.

One reason is that when I said I was not sure about Hannah, I hadn't been picturing her at all, I'd been picturing Sarah Walker. But that was crazy. Sarah Walker was not the one, even if I wanted her to be. I'd make a brief, character-actor appearance in the Hollywood film of her life and that'd be that. But another reason is that Casey's right. I'm a coward, a dithering coward, and I have been mistreating Hannah, keeping her waiting. — Have you figured out that where love is concerned, my shit's not together?

I send Morgan out to get us some burgers at lunchtime and, shortly after he leaves, the phone rings. I answer it, not recognizing the number but made hopeful by the location below it: Burbank, California.

"Charles Bartowski, Private Investigator."

"Hey, Chuck!" It's her. "This is Sarah."

"Yes," I say excitedly, "yes, this is Sarah. That is, you are Sarah. This is Chuck. That is, I am Chuck."

She laughs — again I hear little bells on trees. I don't know how she makes that happen. "Thanks for getting that straightened out, Mr. PI. Nothing gets past you, clearly."

I laugh — why not? "Nothing gets past me clearly."

She laughs at that and, for a moment, I'm ten feet tall. Let's see guard Shaw shoot over me now.

"So, I'm calling about Friday. I know we agreed I'll pick you up Friday at 7 pm, but we were going to work out a backstory — what did you call it, a cover?"

I nod and then realize she can't see that over the phone. The woman discombobulates me. "Yes, a cover. Any thoughts?"

"So, you're still willing to help me, to let me hire you?"

"Yes, I am. By the way, the party. What should I wear?"

"Do you have a tux?" She asks hesitantly.

"In Alabama, in the summer?"

"Sorry, my uncle likes black tie. He likes formality. Do you have one?"

"No, but I can rent one. Morgan, my assistant, his mother runs a shop and rents tuxedos. I'm sure she has one around that'll fit me."

"Really? You have an impressive inseam."

I open my mouth but can't get words to come. How do you respond to that? Is this banter? She's killing me again.

"I've rarely been told that."

"Rarely — so you have been told it?" I hear a breathy giggle. I never imagined her giggling but I like her more for it, dammit.

"Um," I fumble evasively, again not sure how to respond, "do you have any cover ideas?"

"Well," she says, drawing the word out, "I've been in Auburn a couple of times shopping. We could say we met at that shop on the corner, the famous one that used to be a drugstore."

"Toomer's?"

"Yes, that's it. The place with the famous lemonade, right?"

"Right. We could say we met there buying lemonade. It's summer — everyone will accept that. We were in line together."

"Good," she says enthusiastically, "and we sat down on the stools and talked while we drank our lemonades."

"And that's when I asked you out."

"No, that's when I asked you out."

I hesitate and she notices. "We should keep our cover close to the truth, right?"

I wonder how she knows that when she had forgotten the word 'cover' earlier.

"Yes, but I don't think it's...ah...believable...that you asked me out."

She is quiet for a moment.

"I think that's one of the nicest, most indirect compliments I've gotten, Chuck. But you're the only one who's going to think that. Let's stay close to the truth. I asked you."

I shrug as I concede. "Okay, you asked me."

"Besides, Chuck," she says, her tone vaguely conspiratorial, "if it's not believable I'd ask, why would it be believable I'd say yes if you did?"

I grant that point too. "True."

"And stop this believability talk, Chuck. If you believe it, everyone else will."

"But I know it's not true. You didn't really ask me out."

"Didn't I?" She gives me no chance to answer. "I'll be by Friday at 7 pm, Chuck. — A tux, don't forget." She ends the call before I can respond. I hear her soft laugh as she does.

I spend the rest of the afternoon surrounded by the sound of bells on trees.

After Morgan and I close the office, I drive the short distance to my house, the one I share with Ellie.

It's a beautiful, sprawling two-story house, with a wrap-around porch. Ellie keeps the porch a jungle; she has plants everywhere. The house is always spotless, except for my room, and Ellie has given up on it entirely. She just tells me to keep the door closed.

It's not that bad, actually — it's not dirty, just cluttered. Ellie is one of those Zen housekeepers who wants the place as bare as possible. I'm no hoarder but I'm not nearly so Zen. I like my stuff around me at home, ready to hand. Books, papers, whatever. I also like posters and pictures and guitars, and so my walls are covered and there's not a ton of room to move around. But I don't dare let the clutter escape my door.

I jog up the front steps only to find my sister sitting in one of the rockers on the porch. It's late enough in the afternoon to sit out, assuming you do not move or move very slowly, assuming you do not get excited, assuming you have a large iced tea or mint julep.

Ellie had a large tea and she was rocking at a larghetto tempo, so slowly you might not have noticed the rocking at all. She gave me a small wave.

"Hey, Chuck!"

My sister is an attractive woman — tall, with dark hair and green eyes. But she doesn't do much to capitalize on any of that. Most days, she manages to brush her hair and put a clean lab coat over clean gray scrubs, but that's about the extent of her efforts.

Her lab coat is gone; it must be hanging inside. But she's still wearing her scrubs, although she's kicked off her shoes. They're on the porch in front of her.

"Hey, sis? How was your day?"

"Fine, fine…" she gives me an unusual smile.

"Really? Double-fine?"

She laughs. "Yes, as it happens. You know that guy — that man — I told you about, Devon Woodcomb, the cardiac surgeon, the new one, who works at the new Cardiac Center behind East Alabama Medical Center?"

I do remember. She'd mentioned running into him at the hospital a couple of times, and it was not common for my sister to mention anyone but patients. "Yes, the one you said was so handsome?"

She blushes and rocks faster. "Right, him. He asked me out today. To that fancy party out at Noble Hall on Friday." Her green eyes flash with pleasure above her gray scrubs.

"Do you have something fancy to wear?"

She nods. "I think there's an option or two far back in my closet, yeah."

"Well, it happens that I'm going to be there too."

"Oh, Chuck, that's great. Hannah asked?"

"No," I say, feeling slightly ashamed, "I'm going with the niece of Wylie Stroud. She asked me."

I don't recall lying to my sister. I dislike it. The words taste bad, rotten peaches, but there's that pesky confidentiality thing.

"I've heard about her. One of my patients' husbands works out there. I was talking to him today in the office. He says she's like a supermodel…"

I nod slowly. "If Supermodel were the name of a female superhero. — She's striking. I ran into her at Toomer's. I went in to get a lemonade to cool off yesterday, and she was in line too. We started chatting, sat down on the stools, and drank our lemonades together. As we finished, she asked me if I would be her date. Very casual, of course." If I'm lying, I might as well practice, I guess.

"Wow, Chuck. That's great. But what about Hannah?"

"She asked this morning. I had to say no. She's not happy with me. So, she's going with Shaw."

Ellie shakes her head. "Chuck…"

"I know, I know. Father Casey already chewed me out about Hannah this morning. At Ed's."

Ellie keeps shaking her head. "That's one large, odd priest."

"Tell me about it."

Ellie smiles and sips her tea. "I'm excited about Friday."

I don't say anything but I am too. I know better — but I am too.