Before She Knew Him(32)

“Want to join us for a drink?”

It was one-half of the lesbian pair—the one in the shiny shirt. She turned her head to indicate her butch friend in the Pats jersey.

“Sure,” Hen said, and followed her around the U of the bar.

“What’ll you have?” the woman asked, after introducing herself and her friend to Hen. The band was playing a revved-up rockabilly version of a Beatles song, and Hen couldn’t quite hear their names. She thought they were Stephanie and Mallory, neither of which fit the women in front of her.

“Narragansett looks good,” Hen said, and Stephanie/Mallory ordered three.

They hung out and chatted while the band finished their set—half the patrons stepped out onto the deck to smoke cigarettes—and then came back on, playing “November Rain,” then a Bob Dylan song that Hen liked but couldn’t remember the name of. Hen and her new friends danced through the encore in the crush of the dance floor. Everyone smelled of smoke and sweat, and most everyone sang along—“You got a lotta neeerve”—and Hen forgot all about the reason she was here in the first place. She was having fun—unironic fun—and she had new friends.

Back at the bar, in the relative quiet now that the band was finished, Hen told the two women she’d driven to the Rusty Scupper all the way from West Dartford.

“Why?”

“I saw this band at a bar near me, and I was all alone tonight, so I thought I’d go somewhere new to see them. Glad I did.” She sucked the foam off the top of her new can of beer.

“That’s a long drive back,” said Stephanie (it was definitely Stephanie—Hen had heard the girl in the Pats shirt call her that). “We’re right down the street if you wanna crash on our couch.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m fine.”

“We’re not hitting on you.”

“No, I know. I just . . . I should get back.”

“We could call you an Uber.”

Hen suddenly realized that they were trying to make sure she didn’t get in a car and drive. She put her can of beer down and said, “I’ll be fine, but maybe I’ll skip this beer.”

The lights popped on, and Hen realized the bar was closing. She looked around. The place was nearly empty, and in the glare of the overhead lights, everything looked a little shabby. She spun to look at the stage, and the band had packed up and gone. “What time is it?” she asked.

In the parking lot, Hen said good-bye to the two women, hugging each in succession. She bummed a cigarette from Mallory, who lit it for her before they took off. It had been many years since Hen had smoked; she took two deep drags, then felt dizzy and ground it out on the paved parking lot. She got into her car, trying to assess just how drunk she was. Maybe it would be foolish to drive. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, almost fell asleep, then opened them again. The inside of the car windows had fogged up, and she opened the door to let some air in. There were now only a few cars in the parking lot. She unfolded herself from the driver’s seat and bounced on her toes for a moment in the chilly air. The Rusty Scupper, filled an hour ago with people and music and drinking and dancing, was now a dark, unremarkable two-story block of brick. In the shadows toward the back, a long, boxy car looked familiar. She took a few steps toward it, as though she were being pulled. She heard a muffled shout coming from its direction, and the car seemed to buck a little. A feeling of real fear surged through her body, sobering her up. She took another two steps forward, then saw a figure appear behind the Dart, standing almost perfectly still, then moving fast, dipping out of sight. There was a sound like a hard tennis serve, then another sound, the crack of a bat hitting a baseball. Her legs almost disappeared out from under her, but she moved two steps closer. The figure stood up behind the car. He was in the shadows—how did she know for certain that the figure was a man?—and wearing a tight black cap, but light from somewhere caught his eyes as he stared back at her. It was Matthew Dolamore. He turned and ran.



Immediately after she called 911, doors loudly opened behind her, and a woman—more a girl, really—emerged, looked confused for a moment, then ran to Scott Doyle, now on his back on the ground.

“I called 911,” Hen said.

“Is he . . . what happened?”

“Someone was just here. I think they hit him with something.”

The door opened again and two men emerged, both Latino. One was beginning to light a cigarette as the other came over to Hen’s side. “He okay?”

“I don’t know,” Hen said. “I called 911.”

Scott was still conscious, saying something to the girl in the tight dress—Hen now recognized her from the dance floor earlier.

The girl said, “You’re going to be fine. Just lie still.”

Scott said something back, and she said, “Outside the Rusty Scupper. In New Essex.”

Hen moved a little closer to see if she could hear his words, just as a light went on above the double doors, flooding the parking lot with light. The other man had gone back inside, probably to turn on the lights. In the stark yellow glow, Hen could see the extent of the head injury, a dark, bloodied indentation and a sliver of white that was either skull or brain matter. She involuntarily lifted her hand to his mouth.

“What state?” Scott asked the crouching girl, sounding as though he were speaking through a wet towel.