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no matter how often I pray it will. Like St. Paul’s thorn, a permanent thing.
     
    "I did say that, didn't I?" I said, scrambling. "It's true, but I've lost my family, and, um…" I muttered, looking at my hands, then Gotcha, then the ground. I regrouped, sought Liv’s eyes. "They were all killed in an automobile accident a year ago last December, in Georgia. My wife, Karen. My daughters, Annie and Michelle. So I don't have a family any more. Just me and Gotcha now."
     
    "Please forgive me," Liv said, her periwinkle eyes suddenly moist. "I am so sorry," she went on, "I noticed your ring. I was just trying to be…"
     
    "I know. It's okay. You were just trying to be friendly. It's okay, really." I forced a quick smile to help her out. "No harm."
     
    "I'm sorry for being so emotional," she said, her saddened eyes never leaving my face. "It's just that there is so much that can happen to people. Your terrible loss, and now our community loses a wonderful man, you probably heard about it, Hugh Soderstrom, horrible accident on their farm this morning. His wife a young widow."
     
    "It was on the news," I guessed. "A tragedy."
     
    "Yes, it is." She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers. "In any case, it was nice talking to you, Thomas, and I'm glad you've come to live among us. Hope to see you and Gotcha again sometime. Forgive me."
     
    "Nothing to forgive. It was nice talking to you, too. And very nice to meet both of you," I said, my smarmy façade oozing all over the place. I started off and Gotcha swung into step, her distinctive rolling gate proving her pedigree. Olivia Olson took off toward the river with Milton, tugging on the leash to get him to stop admiring Gotcha’s figure and get going in the right direction.
     
    Disgusted with my slip into pathos, my strong conservative ancestry reminded me emotions were not for men from Iowa. After all, Marion Morrison, aka John Wayne, was from Iowa.
     
    With my leg acting up again, we tramped back across the bridge and to our truck. At the motel I took a long shower with plenty of hot-hot water directed to my aching hamstring, ate another half-dozen Advil, stepped into a change of clothes, and watched ESPN. Gotcha took a nap, a month’s worth of exercise completed. I buttoned off the television and left to shuffle the mile and a-half to The Grain o’ Truth. I decided to force my leg to get better by not driving.
     
    It was well after six when I arrived, part of a growing crowd. I smelled steaks and onion rings cooking. Mick Jagger was singing "Under My Thumb" and two couples danced a loosey-goosey freestyle, improvising, light and laughing.
     
    I approached the bar and took the only unoccupied stool between two young couples, the women seated on either side of me. Each ignored me and I thanked God. No demand for small talk, charming bon mots or the projection of a persona. Each woman leaned forward to listen to her young man. Talk of the future, talk of tomorrow. Easy lies.
     
    Lunatic Mooning appeared. “If you stick around, you’ll see why so many people come from London, Paris and Vienna to spend their nights in Rockbluff.”
     
    “No doubt. It does feel like it’s starting to throb a little.” Like my leg , I thought. I took in the small crowd. Tony Bennett's turn on the jukebox. “I’m a little surprised at their taste in music, however. A bit retro.”
     
    “My place. I stock the jukebox. I try to educate. I want to make a difference.”
     
    “Methinks your place is a gold mine, my Ojibwa acquaintance.”
     
    “I do okay, plus it reinforces my…”
     
    “…belief in the ultimate distastefulness of man,” I said.
     
    A half-smile came to Lunatic’s face. “Your short-term memory appears to be intact. Now, what can I provide you, a Three Philosopher’s, or would you like to order something from the menu, or both?”
     
    “I’m hungry and thirsty, so I think I’ll have a Loony Burger and a pitcher of Corona, if you don’t mind. You’ve got