Free Red’s Hot Honky-Tonk Bar by Pamela Morsi

drove through the small, retro commercial area that was downtown Alamo Heights, she tried to change the subject.
    “This place sure has a lot of mom-and-pop stores. How do they stay in business?”
    Cam shrugged. “Some of them don’t,” he said. “It’s hard to keep the prices comparable to what they charge in big box stores. But I think people like to buy local if they can. Turn left here.”
    Red followed his directions and turned down an expansive boulevard that curved through lush green trees and grass. Initially she thought it was a park, until she noticed the driveways. The hair stood up on the back of Red’s neck. This place was very different from the world in which she’d made herself comfortable. And it was also very different from the west-side barrio of the children’s abuela or even the military housing they’d shared with their mother.
    Cam was so familiar with the neighborhood that he apparently didn’t notice. The kids were focused on their own discontent and not paying attention. But Red was sharply aware that, despite the short drive, this neighborhood was a very long way from the corner of Eight and B. The profusion of plants and flowers and the elegant homes set back from the street gave her the strange sense that the location was uninhabited. As they rounded a curve, however, that notion was put to rest.
    A large, robust man of later years, wearing a golf shirt and shorts, was ambling along the sidewalk with a pair of primped and prissy Pekingese. With a broad smile and a raised hand, he offered a greeting.
    “Who was that?” Red asked.
    “Huh?” Cam looked up and then glanced back toward the man they’d passed. “I don’t know,” he said.
    “He waved at us.”
    Cam shrugged. “Everybody knows everybody,” he answered. “Of course he waved. He probably couldn’t even see us.”
    Somehow that didn’t give her comfort.
    The roadway continued to curve like the dry creek bed it had once been. Cam finally directed her to turn off on a side street and then an even narrower avenue. At least here the houses and yards were smaller.
    “This is it, here on the left,” he said. “Just pull in to the driveway.”
    The house he indicated, like the ones on either side, was far from new, but its butter-yellow paint and unscarred white trim kept it looking fresh and cheery. The front door was centered in a wide covered porch that wrapped around one corner and sported an array of wicker furniture, as well as a swing.
    “This is it,” Cam announced. “My home sweet home.”
    “It looks kind of like Abuela’s house,” Olivia said.
    Red didn’t really see the comparison. Granted, it was quite modest in comparison to some of the magnificent homes they’d passed and the style was similar to many homes on the west side. But it was clean and scrubbed-looking, to the point of drabness. Still, if the kids found something positive or familiar about that, then so much the better.
    They got out of the car and went inside. Cam fumbled momentarily with the keys and Red had the distinct impression that he was a bit nervous, as if stepping over this threshold was more than just going into his house.
    Red refused to see it as anything else as he held the door and she walked inside. She glanced around the living room, taking it in.
    “My decor is sort of my stuff, mixed with the old things I’ve inherited,” he told Red. “So it’s not exactly the kind of bachelor crib that kicks, ah…armadillo.”
    He chuckled at his own little joke.
    Red didn’t laugh. She was still trying to get her mindaround the living room. She hadn’t really thought about what Cam’s place might look like, but if she had imagined something, she would have thought sleek and sparse. It would either be all industrial stainless steel or it would be unobtrusively modern. Instead, the cozy stuffed sofa and upholstered reading chairs were traditional and homey. Where Red might have anticipated old concert posters and oversize