At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen Page B

voice the men exchanged glances. I didn’t blame them—surely they were wondering how and why an American woman had materialized in their midst. A hot flush rose to my cheeks.
    A young man sitting at a table with a glass of beer called out in an accent as flat and un-Scottish as my own, “Canadian or American?” and I found myself staring back with equal surprise.
    Before I could answer, the front door opened and an elderly man came in, leaning on a walking stick.
    He said to the room in general, “There’s rain in it today.”
    â€œAye, Donnie, that there is,” said Meg from behind the bar. “A hauf and a hauf, is it?”
    â€œJust a pint of heavy.” He made his way to the last empty barstool.
    She pulled a glass from beneath the counter and held it under a beer spigot. “There’s game pie tonight,” she said, “so you can keep your ration book in your pocket.”
    â€œOh, that’s grand, Meg,” he said. He began to struggle out of his coat.
    â€œCan I give you a hand?” she said, coming around to help.
    â€œI’m in need of one, Meg, surely I am,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. His empty sleeve was pinned up against his shirt. As Meg took his coat away, he climbed onto the stool. He raised his glass and turned toward the room.
“Slàinte!”
he said.
    â€œSlàinte!”
Everyone, young and old, lifted his glass.
    At that moment, Ellis and Hank burst through the door, cheeks ruddy with the cold, coats and hats wet.
    â€œâ€”so if the ad runs on Friday,” Ellis said, “we could potentially start getting responses on Tuesday. Meanwhile, we can revisit…the…” His voice petered out when he realized he was the center of attention.
    Hank let his hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers like a cowboy ready to draw. Behind the bar, Meg picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the counter. Our black-bearded landlord appeared in the doorway that led to the back, wearing a heavy ribbed sweater in dark olive.
    After a silence that seemed interminable, Old Donnie set his glass down and slid off his stool. He picked up his stick and hobbled slowly over.
    Tap, tap, tap, tap
.
    He stopped directly in front of Ellis. He was shorter by a whole head. He looked Ellis up and then down, and then up again, the skin of his neck stretching like a turtle’s as he strained to see Ellis’s face.
    â€œYou favor your father,” he finally said.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” said Ellis, draining of color.
    â€œThe monster hunter. From ’thirty-four. I’m not that addled yet.” The broken capillaries in his face darkened. A fleck of spittle flew from his lips.
    Meg’s eyebrows darted up, and she glanced at Ellis. Then she resumed wiping the counter.
    â€œNow Donnie,” she said. “Come take a seat and I’ll get your pie.”
    He ignored her. “I suppose it’s the monster you’re after, is it? Or are you going to float a balloon and take a snapshot like your old man?”
    Ellis’s face went from pale to purple in a split second.
    The old man spun and hurried toward his coat, his gnarled stick banging on the flagstones. “I’ll no be staying where this
bastart
is.”
    â€œDid he just say what I think he did?” Ellis said. “Did he just call me a bastard?”
    â€œIf he wasn’t a cripple, I’d knock his block off,” said Hank.
    â€œYour mammie’s his wife, then, is she?” said Old Donnie. “Only rumor has it he was an awful one for the
houghmagandy
.”
    â€œNow, Donnie,” Meg said, sharply this time. “There’s no call for that. Come have your pie.”
    â€œYou’ll excuse the language, but there’s no other way to get to it,” the old man said indignantly. “The pathetic
creutair
, trying to make
strìopaichean
of honest girls up at the Big House, and