The Whore of Failford
Chapter 32
The Maggie Chronicles
Maggie and George Winterbottom were on a midweek getaway to picturesque eastern Kentucky in the autumn of 1974, while his mother looked after their two young boys back at home. The couple was about to spend the first of two nights at a charming bed-and-breakfast on a working farm a few miles outside a small town just west of hill country. They arrived at dusk, considerably later than planned despite leaving work before rush hour, due to an unwisely chosen route and a missed turn once off the main highway plus one annoying local construction detour no oil company map or auto club route could have anticipated. When asked for a dinnertime recommendation at the relatively late hour, their hostess suggested a tavern several miles in the other direction from town, at the intersection of two rural byways - a little wide-spot in the road, a hamlet she called Failford.
Apart from the tavern itself, which was older and more sturdily built than most of the depression-era structures they had seen semi-abandoned along the secondary roads, by all appearances this locality had a population of approximately zero, although the moonless evening didn't afford them a clear view of the surroundings.
The recommendation turned out to be excellent if rustic in the extreme, except for the somewhat leisurely table service which they chose to view as part of the local color. Only three of the ten tables had patrons seated when they arrived at half past eight, and by the time they finished eating, there was to be just one other couple lingering over drinks at a table by the far wall. He and she were still dressed basically in their business attire, so they stood out from the rest of the casually dressed clientele -- he had left his suit jacket and tie in their room but had on his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, gray pinstriped suit pants, and wingtip shoes, while she had on her full skirt and jacket combination with a high-collared blouse that together disguised her remarkable willowy-yet-busty figure. Her only compromise to the casual setting of their vacation was a pair of flat shoes rather than her usual low-heeled pumps for the office.
The inn was staffed by only two people: a young woman probably 10-15 years their junior who waited the tables, and a man perhaps 15-20 years older than themselves who seemed to split his time between food preparation and performance of miscellaneous tasks. She was pretty and vivacious -- nearly as tall as Maggie and solidly built without looking heavy, with medium-brown hair having both blonde and reddish tinges, and alabaster skin. The couple later remarked that her looks were like a Hollywood starlet on location for an unannounced film, drilled by tutors in the local accent and made up by the cosmetics experts to look down-home instead of glamorous. Maggie thought of Cybill Shepherd and George agreed, except Maggie admitted that the TV actress didn't have the same hair color and George said Cybill had straighter teeth and surely didn't bite her nails down to the quick.
Flavie. When asked, the waitress told them her name was Flavie, and then when Maggie complimented her on its unusual sound she spelled it for them, F-L-A-V-I-A, Flavie. Not so unusual, she told them; there were others with her name in the area although she did allow that it was a bit old-fashioned. Maggie refrained from noting the disparity between the spelling and the pronunciation; maybe it was just a nickname, after all.
The cook on the other hand seemed to be dour if not downright crabby, overweight enough to leave the quick impression of a high school athlete having gone to seed. By personality, the split of duties seemed right: front of the house versus the back.
Maggie was, as usual, unamused by George's predictable ogling of the waitress at every opportunity. His rudeness was at least understandable. The young woman wore a traditional barmaid costume - modified by an absurdly low-cut top that exposed the accentuated cleavage which her push-up bra offered up for inspection - and an ultra-short skirt that practically begged for a pat on her fishnet stocking-clad bottom whenever she would walk by. Maggie had sighed theatrically when George asked the girl, when she was at last ready to take their dinner orders, what folks living in the area liked to do for fun on a weeknight. The girl had taken no obvious offense at a barely disguised come-on from a handsome stranger and said with a smile that it depended on what people were interested in, but that it was a quiet place with not very much going on and one had to go to the metropolis of Tarbolton, several miles to the west and population two thousand, for company.
"Don't *do* that," Maggie had hissed at him, once the girl was out of earshot. Do what, he asked innocently. You know what, she replied. Relax, he said, we're on vacation.
As the other diners finished their meals and their tables were cleared, the waitress's work became minimal. After a time, she brought out the meal to the one other table occupied by hungry patrons, then came over to Maggie and George to tell them that the cook had gotten behind but was preparing their food now and it would be ready in a few more minutes. George ordered another round of cocktails, Kentucky bourbon-based of course, and when she stepped away, he asked Maggie how in the world the place could deal with all the tables in the dining room, when the few customers that they had were too much for them. Maggie merely said she was hungry too, and to just be patient and quit crabbing.
The waitress brought them their drinks and asked a few questions about their stay in the area. She knew from their accents that they were from elsewhere, and after a moment she sat down on one of the unoccupied chairs at their table and continued to chat with them about their plans for the visit.
She eventually asked the couple questions about their lives at home. Maggie was visibly wary of answering at first, but after a few minutes she warmed up to talking in generalities about their lives.
George by contrast was willing to spill every detail if asked. When the subject of their professions arose, Maggie interrupted him to say that they both had ordinary jobs and led a pretty ordinary existence together. He didn't quite see the reason to disguise that she was a Harvard-schooled lawyer who had already made partner in a prestigious local firm, and he was working his way up the management chain in a large health care corporation. But he didn't care to overrule her. Instead, with an impish grin, he changed the subject.
"You didn't really answer my question, before, Flavie. What do people around here do for fun on a Tuesday night?"
"I told you. It's quiet here."
"Quiet is an understatement. Is there anything to this town of Failford besides the restaurant? Anyone actually live here?"
"We're not a town. Just farmland, sir. There are people, but I suppose we're easy to overlook. Just country folks. If you want entertainment, there's music at the bars in Tarbolton, although I think it might be only on weekends."
"How about a town whore?"
Maggie spoke up, "Now George. Please, ignore him, Flavie. He's obviously had a bit too much to drink." She knocked back the last of her own drink, for ironic emphasis.
"No, no," the girl said graciously, "it's an honest question." Maggie raised an eyebrow at this reply but didn't say anything. "I think you'd hafta go into Tarbolton for that as well, although I wouldn't of course know personally about that sort of thing," she told him, and added with a laugh, "to have a town whore, you really need a town in the first place."
"I was thinking something a little closer by."
"George! Really," Maggie exclaimed.
He gave Maggie a look that she had seen more than once in their marriage. "Don't interrupt me anymore," it warned wordlessly. It was a warning she was more than willing to ignore when it suited her but doing that needed to be worth the bother and this didn't seem to rise to that standard. She just sighed wearily.
"What do you think five bucks would get me?" George asked Flavie unctuously.
"Five? Not much in Tarbolton," she said with another laugh. "Maybe a case of VD."
"Here, I mean. Not in fucking Tarbolton."
"Not much anywhere, I'm sure." She laughed again, meeting his gaze.
"Nothing?"
"A peck on the cheek, maybe."
"Well, that's something, at least." He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and withdrew a bill from it. "What about one dollar at a time?" He held it forward and, when the girl didn't flinch, he dexterously folded the greenback lengthwise with finger and thumb and attempted to place it inside her bra, in her cleavage, as though she were a dancer at his favorite titty bar. At that, she sat back and got further out of reach.
"Didn't your mama teach you?" she asked with a smile. "Look with your eyes, not with your hands. That's what my mama taught me, anyhow. Goin' to the store and such."
George returned her smile. "The store, huh? Where things are bought and sold."
"That's enough, dear," Maggie said, more sharply than before.
He gave his wife another dirty look and put the dollar back into his wallet. "Forget five. What about ten?" he asked Flavie. "Twenty? What would that get me?"
"You're talkin' about me. Just so we're clear." She didn't look as though about to slap him or anything. But she preferred to be direct.
"Or maybe you've got a friend?"
"That's not the sort of thing a friend would tell anyone about."
"Yeah, maybe not. So, I guess we're left with talking about you?"
Flavie smiled mischievously, continuing to look him in the eye. "Maybe Charlene." Maggie cocked her head at that, too. The girl cast her eyes downward and continued, "no. You wouldn't be interested in her."
"Why not?"
"You just wouldn't. She's trash. She ain't here, anyhow. Heh, we don't get too many visitors way out here. Flaunting money especially. I'm not sure what in the world would lead you to expect... that sort of thing.... here."
"Then forget Charlene. And easy money is easy money. Anywhere."
