Constance (F)

If willing, when you leave the marina that is on the west side of the city, to turn south and walk for several hundred yards past the old brick warehouses and a rice mill long abandoned, you will come to a two-story building that fronts the river. Upstairs is an Asian restaurant that was founded by a young couple from Los Angeles nearly 40 years ago, and downstairs is a bar built by enclosing the building’s outer pilings. 

My youngest brother owns the bar, which he named The Anchorage. The bar has a double door for an entrance, and the room is so dark that patrons, even when sober, stumble into tables and chairs, and across from the front door is a barn door that slides open to a deck that floods even on an average high tide.

One late afternoon after I stowed sails and washed down the boat, I strolled down to the bar to check on my brother and drink a beer or two. To go into that dark cave from the still murderous late September sun required a narrowing of the eyes and small steps to find the path to the end of the bar where the cash register sat.

My brother stopped washing glass mugs and drew a half-pint of the local summer ale. When he put the beer in front of me, he nodded toward the other end of the bar and shrugged his shoulders.

“Have fun,” he said without smiling.

Perhaps as many as ten years had passed, I thought, since I last talked to Constance Reis. She was at the Conservatory when I was teaching three sections of an Intro to Western Civilization course while I finished my dissertation at the university. Constance was the smartest student in the classroom and often stayed behind to clarify some point from my lecture. Sitting at the corner of the bar, she watched me as I walked down and sat on a stool next to her.

“It has been a long time, Constance.”

“Twelve years.”

“A very long time.”

“Yes.”

“Are you meeting someone?”

“No. I was told you might come in here. And about your brother running the place.”

“Who told you?’

Constance took out a pack of Marlboro Lights from her purse. “Some people.”

“Some people?”

“Some people that know you. That I know.”

“Still smoking?”

“More now, more after I stopped dancing.”

“I remember you broke your foot—your right foot.”

“I broke it two more times.”

“Sorry.”

She waved off the concern with her hand holding the cigarette. “They told me to quit the school when I grew another three inches that summer.”

“Do you want another? A--?”

“Cointreau and orange juice.” 

I went back to my brother who poured the drink, and when he looked at me, again he shrugged his shoulders. I returned with her drink, and she put the unlighted cigarette down on the bar.

 “Are you living here now? Working?”

“I have been back here for two years. My father died and my mother asked me to come home.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know. Working?”

“Mostly at the Grande. Sometimes the Regis.”

“What are you doing for them?”

 “Just working.” She slowly finished her drink, and when she stood up I offered to get her a cab. She shook her head.

“It was good to see you, Constance. Is there something I can do for you?”

Wearing heels, she was at least two inches over six feet and when she stood in front of me I could look directly into her eyes, but there was nothing there for me to see.

“The thing about a tall woman is that when a man just puts out his arms from his hips they fit right on the woman’s hips, and then he doesn’t have to hurt his neck to kiss her. You told me that when I was in the eleventh grade. I am even taller now.”

“True enough. Will I see you again?”

She took a step back from me. “Maybe. Maybe when I don’t have anything else to do.” She turned and walked stiffly toward the door and out into the hot sun. Ladson 2013