The Black Ice under Pure Snow

The stranger came into "O'Malley's Bar". He took off his soaked cap. His whiskers were so heavy with snow, you could only see his haunted eyes.

Johnny, the bartender asked, "What can I get to warm your belly?"

The man asked for a cup of coffee.

"No hair of the dog?"

"No thanks, son," the man brought out a pipe.
The smell of cherry tobacco filled the room.

George Worley and John Fisher were drinking Boilermakers at the other end of the bar. Friday was pay day and after giving their wives grocery money thie morning they had cash. Today they had split wood and hunted so tonight they had earned the right to party.

There were four guys at the pool tables. The night always started friendly with a soothing buzz. The men bantered about their work week and families. Then the conversation changed to ballgames, politics and union talk. As more words and liquor was consumed, guys would develop what Johnny called "beer muscles", sometimes accusing another bloke of hitting on his girl. Usually, it was just innocent flirtation. Most of them had known each other since grade school and even dated each others' girlfriends at one time. Families had long standing feuds from the past, reasons often forgotten turning grown men into foolish children. Pool cue sticks could become deadly weapons, taking out an eye on occasion and often causing death.

The stranger seemed at home in the bar, chuckling at the antics although not interested in joining the men. He had been there and done that. He looked twenty-five but had the eyes of a wiser man that had seen the rough life of a fifty year old. He had scars on his forehead and chin, perhaps a fight or two. He also had a navy tatto, an anthor with a blade dripping crimson blood. On the other foream was the name of a woman 'Rosalee' with a rose intertwined with a vine.

Johnny asked the man, "You passing through?"

The man said, "I came to see my daughter and grandchildren. They aren't interested. I don't blame them though".

"How long since you seen them?"

"Bonnie was five when I hit my lovely Rosalee. I thought I had seen her with some bloke. It was the booze with jealous eyes. I hit my own darling wife and they put me in the paddy. Sadly, she died from cancer a week ago."

Tears ran freely down his face into his icy beard.

"I was just let out of the joint today. I came by here to remind me this poison can kill a man's soul."

He picked up his hat and walked out into the snow.

No one had asked his name.

The men became very quiet when the fellow spoke about his wife.
Most had young families.

One by one they filed quietly out of the door. Something had changed in their hearts that night.

On a normal night, they probably would have drank more and then split up to party at one of the single mens' house. Chances are good they would have stumbled in their own doors drunk. Their wives would have covered them up on the sofa in their damp clothes. That is if their wives weren't too angry.

The next day was Sunday and ten of those men got up and dressed in proper church clothing. They started the coffee and helped their wives dress the children for church. The women decided to keep quiet as if an angel had whispered gently in their ears. The men held childrens' hands and when the call came to give their hearts to the Lord, they went to the alter.




By Kathie Stehr