The Song of David

I spent the evening making drinks, chatting up my regulars, and watching the door. I was sure Morgan would slink in eventually. He just didn’t have that many options. Amelie came through the door at seven, using the front entrance instead of the back, which was customary for employees. Henry was with her, his riotous hair covered by a Giants ball cap, his eyes darting from one side of the bar to the other. It was interesting to see the siblings together, one so composed, one so uncomfortable.

I called a greeting to both of them, and Amelie smiled uncertainly, moving toward the bar with Henry in tow. She was on the schedule to dance, and I wondered what she was thinking, bringing her brother to work. Henry didn’t act like he heard me at all. His eyes shot straight to the television over my head and he halted about three feet from the stools, stuffing his hands in his pockets, shutting out everything around him. His lip looked swollen and there was a bruise on the side of his face. I wondered if Amelie had any idea.

“Uh, hi David . . . Mr. Taggert,” Amelie said, feeling for the edge of the bar.

“Amelie,” I interrupted. “Please, for the love of Pete, stop calling me Mr. Taggert.”

“Okay. Right.” She smiled sheepishly, but continued, discomfort evident in her voice. “Could Henry sit in here and watch the Laker game? My neighbor usually comes over and house sits while I work, just so Henry has someone there at night. But she’s not feeling well. He’s old enough to be alone, obviously, I mean, I’ve left him home at night before. But never for very long. And he’s had a rough day. Robin’s coming to get him, but she won’t be here for about twenty minutes . . .” Her voice faded off uncomfortably.

I wondered briefly about her parents and then decided it wasn’t any of my business.

“Does he like bubbles too?” I teased. If Henry could sit quietly on a stool and watch the game until Robin arrived, I’d keep him in drinks and pretzels. He wasn’t old enough to be in the bar, but as long as he wasn’t drinking—which I could make sure of—and as long as it wasn’t for very long, I wasn’t too concerned about it.

“Sprite. He loves Sprite.” She sounded so relieved I thought she was going to break into tears, but she turned to Henry instead, finding his arm and instructing him gently.

“Henry, did you hear that? Mr. Tag—um, Tag says you can watch the game with him.” Henry slid onto a stool, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“Is he okay right here, David?” She just couldn’t get comfortable with my name. I wondered why.

“That’s fine. Go on. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you. Thank you, I . . .” She stopped, squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” she said firmly. With her stick in hand, she tapped her way around the bar and disappeared down the long hallway that led to the restrooms and the employees’ locker room.

I put a bowl of peanuts in front of Henry, along with a tall Sprite, thought better of it, and replaced the peanuts with pretzels. Henry seemed like he might be the type of kid who would be horribly allergic to peanuts. That was just what I needed tonight.

“Kobe Bryant leads the league in free throws.” I had no idea if this was true. I just threw something out there to see if Henry would engage.

Henry’s eyes snapped to mine and he shook his head, indicating my stat wasn’t the case.

“He’s the tallest man in the NBA?” I knew this wasn’t true.

Henry started to smirk.

“He has the biggest feet?”

Henry shook his head.

“His best friend is named Shaq?” I asked.

Henry shook his head so vigorously I thought he was going to fall off his stool.

“Kobe Bryant is the youngest player in league history to reach 30,000 career points,” Henry informed me. I gave myself a mental high five that he was talking at all.

“Oh, yeah?” I asked, nonchalant.

“He was also the youngest player to ever start in the NBA,” he added.

“Big deal.” I waved my hand. “Everybody knows that.” I winked, letting him know I hadn’t had a clue.

“Did you know he was named after Japanese beef?” Henry boasted, pulling his Sprite toward him and taking a long pull at the straw.

“No kidding!” I started to laugh. I moved away from him to take care of some customers a few stools down, and greeted Axel, my Swedish sparring partner, who slid onto a stool one over from Henry and said “tack”—thank you in Swedish—before guzzling back the beer I placed in front of him.

“Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant aren’t friends,” Henry said seriously, and placed a pretzel carefully on his tongue. He looked at his now empty glass despondently.

“No? Why not?” I asked, refilling his Sprite.

“Giants don’t make good friends.”

“Are you talking about Shaq or Kobe? They’re both pretty big.” I tried not to laugh because Henry wasn’t laughing.

“Giants don’t like when someone is bigger than they are.”

“I don’t know about that. Look at me and Axel. We’re both pretty big.”

“Who’s the biggest?” Henry asked.

“I am,” I said firmly, and at the same time Axel thumped his chest.