It's Nine O'clock On A Saturday

It was nine o’clock on a Saturday night, and Barrett sat at the bar in the Warehouse in Savannah, Georgia, nursing a Guinness for no other reason than his occasional hatred of his job. That was when she walked in. Shirley, the girl who’d broken his heart in high school. Twenty years had passed since they’d last seen each other, but he would still know that beautiful woman anywhere.

Shirley sat next to him and smiled tensely. “Hey, Barrett. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

Barrett curtly replied, “Hey, Shirley.”

“I heard about your wife. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for twenty years,” Shirley said. Barrett thought he caught a hint of a New York accent. He’d heard she moved to New York City a few years back.

“I haven’t.”

Shirley sucked in air between her teeth. “I deserved that.” She paused. “Barrett, I lied to you twenty years ago.”

“I know.”

“Would you listen, dammit? God, you’re still as stubborn as you ever were! Let’s get a table over in the corner and talk away from everybody.”

Feeling like a fool, Barrett got up and acquiesced. “What is it?”

Shirley sighed. “When I let you think I’d cheated on you, I was lying.”

“What are you talking about, Shirley? We hadn’t slept together and you got pregnant. Do you expect me to believe you had an immaculate conception?”

Shirley looked at the ground, her face turning red. “Dammit, Barrett, you know who the baby’s father was? My father. And Cornell wasn’t my brother. He’s my son. My father was molesting me.”

Barrett had no idea what to say, for once. He wasn’t even sure how to feel, other than horrible.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Shirley stammered.

“Yes, you should have,” Barrett said. “Twenty years ago. Why would you lie and tell me you cheated on me, instead of telling me the truth, when what really happened wasn’t your fault?”

“At the time I thought it was my fault,” Shirley admitted. “I thought you’d think I was even more disgusting than if you thought I was cheating, and I reckoned you’d break up with me anyway.”

“Hell no, I would not have,” Barrett told her vehemently.

“What would you have done?”

“I don’t know. Beat the shit out of your father. Marry you. Whatever I had to do.”

“You would have married me when you were fifteen or sixteen years old and taken on two children who weren’t yours?” Shirley looked skeptical.

“If that’s what it took to get you out of that situation, Shirl, I’d have done anything,” Barrett told her. “I would have put my name on the birth certificate.”

“I couldn’t have let you ruin your life like that.”

Barrett laughed. “You think marrying you would have ruined my life?”

“You were a kid, Barrett.”

“So were you.” Barrett tried to keep the rising anger out of his voice. “And that bastard took that from you.” He thought of his own children, some of them teenagers. Their childhoods had already ended with the death of their mother, but at least they were safe in their own home. “Did your mother know?”

Shirley nodded. “I think she hated me for it.”

Barrett wanted to stroke her hair the way he did when they were kids. “I wish you’d told me, Shirl. We could have run away and gotten married or something.”

“Who are you?” Shirley asked. “You were always so practical!”

“But I loved you.”

“I think I still love you,” Shirley confessed.

“I think I do, too,” Barrett admitted.

“My mom said no guy would marry me if he knew what Daddy did to me.”

“I would have,” Barrett told her. “That’s not your fault. And the baby…?”

“She’s in college now. Her name’s Kendra. Cornell just graduated and he’s looking for a job. I had three other kids. Got married, he died, etc. You had a bunch of kids, too, right?”

“Twelve.”

“Oh, God.” Shirley laughed, the same way she did when she was a teenager. Barrett couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard it, or the last time he’d felt that happy.

“It’s boisterous,” he agreed.

“So,” Shirley began, “no hard feelings?”

“None.”

“Want to go to Corleone’s tomorrow? About seven?”

Barrett replied, “That would be wonderful.”