FICTION | Erica Bittner The Eagle

FICTION

The Eagle

(EXCERPT FROM NOVEL)

By Erica Bittner

During the war, The Eagle became a popular spot for RAF airmen to gather, first before deployment, and then while on leave. One evening, in a moment of artistic nihilism, one of the airmen climbed on top of his table, flipped open his lighter, and burned his name and squadron number onto the yellowed ceiling. Others then followed suit, that night and in the nights to come. The pub owner pretended to mind, to give the airmen the sense of rebellious wrongdoing they so desperately needed to feel that they’d left their mark in the face of unspeakable danger. But the owner, having lost two sons in the Great War, was quietly honored that his pub was home to these last missives of the airmen.

The pub owner was now accustomed to groups of lads who gathered beneath a number, to toast their own survival, and then the names of the dead above them. On occasion, out of place patrons would stop in, usually over lunch—a middle-aged upper-class couple or a lone young woman, the diamond still sparkling on her finger. These visitors would order a pint or the uncommon glass of wine and sit at a table in the corner, their eyes roving over the numbers and names on the ceiling until they found it, the one they’d been looking for. No matter how

many times the owner served folks like this, it still gutted him— the soft gasp, perhaps a finger pointed upward, the tears welling in upturned eyes. And then there were the widows. Sometimes they would quietly ask after a name or a number, and he’d wipe his hands and help them search. Once found, he would resume his place behind the bar to give them a moment alone. That was the only time the widows took—one moment, maybe two, to confirm that they had seen it, that their lost one had once been there, alive and well, possibly a little drunk, leaving his mark in whatever way he could. Then the widows would take a breath, dab an eye with a gloved hand, and wave in the owner’s direction. Out of obligation, he would offer them tea or a drink on the house. Out of obligation, each widow would decline, thank him for his kindness, and quickly depart.

Yet one woman was distinct in the owner’s memory above all the others. She came in the evening, alone, after the dinner hour and just as the pub was filling with the younger crowd. She took a stool at the bar, handbag hung from her elbow, hat perched just so. She ordered a finger of Scotch, neat, and removed her gloves to select coins from her coin purse and place them on the bar top. Then she sipped and observed the others around her, not self-conscious yet not drawing attention to herself either, though the owner kept a protective eye on her just in case. She was still young, and because of that, she was pretty when she might otherwise have been considered plain. But there was something about her, perhaps her sense of propriety, perhaps the thin gold band on her finger, that kept her from being bothered by the men around her.

When her glass was empty, the owner pointed to the bottle behind him to offer her another. She waved to kindly decline and gathered her things. He watched her weave through the

tables and clusters of standing patrons toward the door. But then she paused at a low table in the center of the room. The owner watched her lean down to say something to the four or five young men seated there. At once and without protest, they cleared the table and stood, one gentleman quickly wiping the rings of sticky beer with his sleeve before he too made way. The woman arranged a chair and set a heeled foot on its seat before a gentleman held out a hand to steady her. She nodded her thanks with a small smile, took his hand, and then up she went to stand atop the table.

Her ascension brought a reverent hush to the entire pub as everyone watched, some glancing at one another out of surprise or confusion, waiting to see what she would do next. The woman paid them no mind at all. Instead, she unclasped her handbag to retrieve a silver tube from its contents. With an expert motion, she slid off the cap, gave it a twist, and out came a small cylinder of vibrant red lipstick. She then turned her gaze to the ceiling just within reach above her. The owner watched her inhale a steadying breath before she began to scrawl her own message in red. Once finished, she paused to consider her work, still as a statue carved from marble, and just as exquisite.

Slowly, silently, without commentary or flourish, the men in the pub began to remove their hats one by one, resting them gently over their hearts, their eyes turned upward to the woman as she gazed at her neat scarlet script above them all.

Then the woman restored the lipstick to her handbag, accepted the hand of the young man waiting to help her to the ground, and stepped down from the table. The men parted to clear a path before her, each giving her a gentle nod as she passed. Without looking at any of them, the woman walked briskly out of the pub and into the night.

When the door closed behind her, the men in the pub slowly replaced their hats. The young men gently reclaimed their table, though not without glancing upward to read what the woman had written. The pub owner resumed his service behind the bar as the general din gradually restored itself. He wouldn’t gawk at her work out of respect, and it seemed that the others there that evening felt the same way. Yet when it came time for the patrons to trickle out, he watched each of them touch their hat as they walked beneath the woman’s writing on their way to the door. This reverence, even from his more disorderly regulars, was quite something.

It wasn’t long before the busboys turned up the chairs, mopped the floor, took their cigarettes from behind their ears, and went home. Stock counted, till balanced, the pub owner finally removed himself from behind the bar to retrieve his coat. But before he switched off the last of the light, he walked to the center of the room, removed his hat, and gazed up.

To Jack, forever beloved. I am yours, always – Georgie

He never saw the woman in his pub again. But her words would linger long after his retirement, the red pigment staining the ceiling for decades to come.