Last Call
The moon hung low in the cold blue sky, shining like a new quarter. A restless wind rolled tumbleweeds across the railroad tracks to scratch at the door of the Last Chance Saloon.
Light spilled from the windows. The walls thrummed with the slow steady rhythm of a bass guitar and a cowboy’s mournful baritone. Lovers danced in and out of the smoke and shadows. They held each other tight, their run-down hearts still aching from the last time they fell in love.
Shirl watched them from behind the bar and remembered things she hadn’t allowed herself to think about. Her lower back and feet felt the full weight of forty-nine years. She kneaded her hips with her fingers, teasing out the soreness. At least the pockets of her apron were heavy with tips. That was something.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the old Wurlitzer jukebox sitting silent, its smooth dome barely visible. Robert Sr., the former saloon owner, had found it in an abandoned warehouse years ago. Its lights were dark. Underneath was the electric plug Shirl had hidden months before, telling everyone the jukebox was broken.
The last song ended and the band packed up their equipment. Robert Jr., who’d taken over after his father had passed, shouted, “Closing time!” Men drained bottles while women gathered purses and coats.
Shirl felt a warm hand on her elbow and turned to see Loretta. They’d been best friends since childhood, kindred in spirit although opposite in appearance. Loretta was a curvaceous redhead, while Shirl was petite with short blond hair.
Loretta mouthed something, and Shirl tapped her own right ear. “Other one, remember?” Shirl had lost the hearing in her left ear years ago after an ex-boyfriend punched her in the head. Loretta’s face crumpled as it always did when she remembered that time, then she stepped around to Shirl’s good ear.
“You come to breakfast with us tonight, Sweetie.” Loretta’s breath was warm with peppermint Schnapps. “We’ll wait for you,” she added in a soft voice. “I know it’s an anniversary.”
Shirl’s hand flew to the butterfly pendant she wore around her neck, tracing the gold filagree with her fingertips. “I can’t. John’s waiting at home.” She felt bad lying, although it wasn’t technically a lie. Her boyfriend was probably passed out in the recliner, oblivious to where she was and what she was doing. He wasn’t a bad sort and was kind to her grandbabies, but he drank himself to sleep most nights.
As Loretta and the other customers trickled out the door, the silence of the empty bar grew. Shirl had always hated the quiet that came afterwards.
“Let’s get outta here.” Robert Jr. grinned. “I got church in the mornin’.”
The clock on the wall now read 2:20 am. Shirl had fourteen minutes.
“I can lock up,” Shirl said. “You go home to your family.” For a moment, she feared he’d insist on staying. But he was too young to remember that night twenty-five years ago. He’d only been ten at the time, home in bed when the sheriff had come to give her the news. It’d been his father, Robert Sr., who’d comforted her and drove her home. He’d been like a father to her.
Robert Jr. shrugged. “Thanks, Shirl. Be safe — lock up after I leave.”
Shirl followed him to the door and locked it behind him. The wind blew, rattling the windows. A storm was coming in.
Through the window she watched his Cadillac ease out of the parking lot, then hurried over to the Wurlitzer and plugged it in. An electric hum came from deep inside it. The red and yellow tube lights blinked on. Its pilasters flickered, changing from white to pink to blue.
She’d discovered what the Wurlitzer could do by accident. Robert Jr. had been down at the cemetery, visiting his father’s grave on the anniversary of his death. The bar was empty and Shirl, feeling nostalgic, put a quarter in the slot and played Robert Sr.’s favorite song.
Halfway through the first refrain, Robert Sr. walked through the door and poured himself a glass of Chivas. She’d nervously exchanged small talk with him and when the song ended Robert Sr. said goodbye and walked out the door. She’d never told anyone about it. Who would believe her?
Now there was someone else she wanted to see.
At 2:34 am, she dropped a quarter into the slot and pushed two buttons. The Wurlitzer whirred and made a series of clicks. The soft twang of guitars of came from the speaker. Shirl closed her eyes and swayed gently to Neon Moon, fingering her butterfly pendant. What if it doesn’t work? Am I a fool?
The front door creaked and Shirl’s eyes opened. Heart pounding in her throat, she turned around.
Chance stood in the doorway. His broad shoulders filled out the patterned shirt she’d bought him for his birthday, and his smooth perfect face didn’t look a day past twenty-five.
“Shirl,” he said softly. He came and wrapped his arms around her. Shirl felt his strong muscular body, alive and warm against hers. She breathed in the scent of cedar and soap, leaning her face against his neck. The stubble under his chin pricked her nose.
“You still have that necklace I bought you,” he said, his brown eyes warm.
Shirl couldn’t answer. There was so much she’d planned to tell him — about how their daughter had finished nursing school, and their son had started his own business. About the grandkids. But now she wanted him all to herself. Before the semi truck had careened into his pickup and stolen his life, he had been her husband and she, his wife.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
Shirl sniffed and wiped her tears away. She’d waited twenty-five years to hold him again. “Nothing darling. Let’s dance.”
