He blinks at my abrupt question like he’s already forgotten his conversation with Joe and I’ve caught him off-guard. “One of my cousins, who happens to be sixteen.”
Cousin. Ahh. The pendulum of my opinion swings back to the neutral middle. I’ve written an entire narrative about the man in the time it’s taken him to ask for fried chicken and a water.
“Sixteen seems a little young to be hanging out in a bar even in Appalachia.” I keep my voice flat like I’m commenting on the weather.
He stares at a spot on the ceiling. “She’s more definitely too young, and also foolish enough to hustle pool around here.”
“Was she any good at it?”
His lips curl with amusement. “Enough to win games and take people’s money.”
My sixteen-year-old self is both shocked and in awe. “Sounds pretty badass to me.”
His eyes sweep over my face like he’s confused by my admiration. “You approve of her breaking the law and skipping down the road to being a juvenile delinquent, Ranger?”
He’s got me. I settle my face into a serious expression. “No, of course not.”
“Just checking.” The little curl of amusement spreads into a genuine smile.
“Something funny?”
“Nah.” He sips his water. “Need help carrying your beer back to the table?”
“I think I can manage.” To prove I’m right, I lift the container by the handle and support its weight with the other hand. “Put a stack of books on my head and watch me go.”
Why do I say the weirdest things around him? I can have coherent, non-weird conversations with people of all ages and backgrounds. I’m actually paid to talk to people, yet every time I see him, my mouth-to-brain connection short-circuits.
No one walks around with books on their heads anymore. Not sure if they ever did or if it was something Hollywood made up. I really need to stop watching old movies.
Next thing I know I’ll be calling someone yare like Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. I’m still not sure of the exact meaning, but it’s a compliment having something to do with yachts—another useless nugget I doubt I’ll ever use in real life, like walking with books on my head for good posture.
Not waiting for his response, I say goodbye, turn, and march back to the group, careful not to spill the beer.
“Finally!” Griffin holds out his glass. “We’re parched.”
“I was about to send Jay out on a search and rescue mission.” Laughing, Gaia elbows him, and he grunts. “What took you so long?”
“Bartender was swamped.” Setting down the beer, I slip into my seat.
“Was that Odin Hill you were talking to?” Griffin asks, keeping his attention on the bar area.
Only now do I realize he has a direct sightline from our side of the table.
“Odin’s here?” Gaia twists in her seat. “Seriously? I always assumed he was a hermit recluse.”
“That’s redundant.” Griffin frowns. “Don’t strain your neck trying to find him—he walked out after Daphne came back to the table.”
Not subtly at all, Gaia rolls her eyes.
Jay states the obvious “He’s a strange one. Did he have the pig with him?”
Guess everyone knows about Odin and Patsy.
“No swine allowed in here.” Griffin crosses his arms in an X in front of face.
“What’s his story?” I ask the table.
No one replies.
I flick my gaze around the group.
“Best to keep your distance,” Griffin warns.
“Why? He’s seemed nice enough whenever we’ve spoken.” I feel the urge to defend a man I’ve met twice and had two less-than-amicable conversations with.
“Are you and Odin hanging out?” Jay looks confused.
“No. Other than seeing him here, I met him at the farmers’ market a couple of weeks ago. He had a booth and his pig.”
“Weird.” Jay cocks his head.
I don’t know what part he means.
“Aside from his closest friend being a pig, he’s …” Gaia frowns as she pauses.
“Bad news,” Griffin interjects.
“I was going to say different.” Gaia meet my eyes. “Keeps to himself. Seeing him in a social situation is not unlike a Big Foot sighting. You hear about them, but no one ever has proof.”
“He ordered fried chicken to go, not sure that counts as him socializing.” I don’t know which side I’m on, bad news or recluse.
Griffin dips a celery stick into one of my containers of ranch. “Mom said he showed up to rescue his cousin last spring. I think that’s the last time he’s been in here.”
Giving him the stink eye, I confirm, “Gracie?”
“That’s the one.” He double-dips and flashes a quick grin at me as he slides the container closer to himself.
“Seems like an honorable thing to do.” Again, I feel inexplicably compelled to defend Odin.
“Suppose so. Funny how Joe called him and not one of her sisters. Probably figured one bad apple would help out another. Guess the lifetime ban on coming in here got lifted.”
“Or maybe his was the only phone number Joe had,” Jay offers. “Not like you can look these things up in a phone book anymore.”
“Surprised there isn’t a phone tree behind the bar with all the gossips in this town.” Griffin groans. “Hard to have secrets around here.”
Maybe that’s why he keeps to himself. The only way to keep a secret is to keep it to yourself.
I want to ask more about Odin, but the conversation moves on to things from our childhood that don’t really exist anymore. Still, my mind lingers on the start of a bad joke.
A man walks into a bar with a pig …
Chapter Eight
Odin
In the early morning mist, Roman trots through the woods, his nose hovering a few inches above the ground the entire time. I don’t bother to hold his leash now that we’re off the official trail and away from potential foot traffic.
According to the federal statutes and park by-laws, dogs aren’t allowed on the trails. Neither are pigs, but I prefer to ignore the posted signs.
I’m aware of the rules. I’ve even studied the official guidelines for visitors. For example, foraging within the boundaries of the park for personal consumption is allowed, but there are restrictions about how you go about harvesting and a whole list of plants that are off limits. Picking a few morel mushrooms and springtime wild onions is okay if you only gather a small quantity. The codes put the burden on people to obey the law. Enforcement is up to the rangers.
Hence why I like to keep a friendly relationship with the staff. We have an unspoken agreement. I don’t cause a fuss, and they don’t pay us any attention.
The trick to getting away with semi-illegal activity out in the open is to act like everything is perfectly on the up and up. It also helps to be weird enough that people stop noticing every bit of odd behavior. In other words, my entire life has been building up to this. Also, knowing the precise GPS location of the invisible boundary between public land and private is key.
Our federal government might oversee the trees and rocks within park boundaries, but we’ve moved out of their jurisdiction.