Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Polaroid Paragraphs - #6 - Going to see Mama's Friend
“Katie”
I didn’t want to hear it.
“Katie. It’s time to go. Tell Amy goodbye. We’ve got to be going.”
Mama hardly ever came to get me at my friend’s house. I usually got to come home myself when it was time.
Mama gave Amy a tight smile and waved me toward the back gate. “Take mama’s hand so you don’t get lost, girl. We want to stay together.”
We walked hand in hand down the alleyway back to our house. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think anything because sometimes she knew when I thought. I did have one quiet idea, though.
I started to skip. Sometimes we skipped down the street or down the alley going to church or to the little store, or to the park. It was always a good day when we skipped.
On the second hop, she tightened her grip and leveraged me back down to the ground. Her arm was lead, and I sank. “What in God’s name are you doing, child?”
“Where are we going, mama?”
“Don’t you worry. It’ll be fine.”
There was all kinds of talking in my head, helping drown out my own words. I didn’t want her to hear.
We slipped the latch at my back gate and started toward the house.
“Go in and help Ruth and Timothy with their coats.”
“Mama?”
“What, child!?”
“It’s August. It’s awful hot.”
She shook her head at me and stared as if I’d just walked in from Mars eating a bicycle sandwich. “Laney, just do it. They’ll need something. I don’t care if it’s windbreakers. I won’t have them going out half dressed. Shame on you.”
As soon as she said Laney, I knew what story we were in. Laney was her younger sister who died of a brain tumor when she was thirteen. That was in 1955 though, twenty years ago.
I walked off, but watched her for a few steps. I wanted to remember her face right then.
Maybe she would stay outside while I got them ready. Maybe while she was outside, I could call daddy at the plant. You can see the phone through the kitchen window, but maybe if I was fast.
I got Timmy and Ruthie and herded them into the kitchen. Then I remembered coats. “Go get your windbreakers.” I told them. They were younger than me and they weren’t as puzzled by the coats. I was twelve. I turned thirteen in December. Ruthie was just barely eleven and Timmy was only seven. “Go get your windbreakers. Bring them here, but don’t put them on yet.”
Their shoes were on, I noticed as they walked away. “Take your shoes off and change your socks. Come back in here with your other shoes. Don’t put them on, though. Just bring them back.”
Mama came in through the back door and looked around. “Where are they, Katie? We haven’t got all day.” Her eyes made me want to cry, but I knew that if I did, that would mess everything up. She would get angry, and then everything would go wrong fast.
I had to be the happy helper. “I told them to go change their shoes and socks, mama. They were horrible. And they should comb their hair. They look a sight! It’s just horrible. They should look nice for … they should look nice when we go out.”
She walked to me like through soft clay, then stopped and stroked my cheek. She tugged my chin up and looked in my eyes. “You love Jesus, don’t you, baby?”
I nodded and made all my muscles smile. I knew I would mess things up bad if I tried to make words come out.
“I know you do, baby. Everything we do is for Jesus, isn’t it, Laney?”
I nodded again.
She smiled as sweet as I’ve ever seen and stroked my cheek again. “I’m going to freshen up. Get them ready. It’s going to be a good day. A good day for people who love their Lord.” She swung her arms in the air as she walked away. She was humming the start of “The Hills are Alive …” when she disappeared into her bathroom at the end of the hall.
I scrambled up the stool by the kitchen phone and popped the receiver off the cradle. Daddy’s work number was right next to the phone on the grease board. 555-3136 x471
I dialed as quietly as I could without dawdling. It rang three times before it picked up. “Alliance Electronics, Dallas, how may I direct your call?”
“Frank Grant, please.”
“Department?”
“He’s in …. I … I don't know ... I don’t know! Uhh - extension 471!”
“Connecting you now.”
The phone rang some more. The water was running in the sink in mama’s bathroom still.
A hard, scratchy voice answered. “Radar Diagnostics, Roger Davies.”
“Frank Grant, please.” I knew the name and the face. He had come to picnics sometimes with his family.
“Is this June … ? No, uh, Katie …?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is there …”
“Please, please get him.”
“Hang on. I’ll find him.”
The water stopped.
I waited as long as I could. I listened as hard as I could, like my ear was right on the door. When I heard the handle jiggle, I tossed the phone into the towel drawer and closed it as much as I could. The drawer squeaked, but only a little. I jumped off just as the door opened, and raced into the living room.
“Mama-mama – I’ll get them ready now! Why don’t you just finish your crossword and we'll be ready real quick, I promise!”
I tried to sound more cheery than scared, but I had no idea if it was working, since I was more terrified than scared to start with. Her eyes had questions. She looked over my shoulder at the dining room table.
That’s where her crossword was, not by her chair in the living room.
If she walked into the dining room, she might ….
“I’ll get it!” I practically yelled, and then laughed a silly laugh to cover it. I danced back with it before she could move, and steered her toward her chair by the living room window.
I yelled down the hall. “You two hurry up in there! Mama’s about ready to go! No more fooling around!” then walked down the hall to their rooms.
“Katie! Get those children ready! Time’s a wasting!”
"I know, I know I know" I thought, but there was no way I'd say any of that aloud. I wouldn't even mutter it.
I’d do it, I’d get Timmy ready, then we’d go to Ruthie’s room and get her ready, and then if mama hadn’t come down the hall to grab us yet, I’d make them climb out Ruthie’s window and run to the neighbor’s house. Mr. Robinson was a good neighbor. He knew.
“Ok, ok, ok … shoes now, Timmy. Please, Timmy, shoes.” He was clueless, but my quiet panic was stirring him up. His eyes were big. He couldn’t remember the other times, but he didn’t like the looks of this time. All I could think to do was say over and over again, “It’s okay, Timmy. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay ….” That had to make him even more skittish, but I didn’t know anything else, I really didn’t.
His shoes were on and I ran his comb through his hair.
“We’re almost ready, mama” I yelled back up the hall as we scampered from Timmy’s room to Ruthie’s.
She wasn’t there. Timmy and I looked at each other. She didn’t go up the hall. Her windows were closed. Her closet door was closed. We looked at each other. He figured out, but didn’t want to say, but I could tell from where he wasn’t looking. I popped the closet door open and there she was, standing, shoes in hand, shaking her head. She wasn’t crying, but a very heavy thing was pulling her down. She did remember.
I tried very gently to pull her out of the closet. She leaned back and shook her head. I looked down and said over and over “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Then mama’s voice, soft as rain, came crashing through the roof.
From the doorway, she said, “It’s okay babies. It’s time for us to go.” She smiled like she had just got back from the botanic gardens.
“Ruthie, you can put those on in the car, sweetie. You won’t really need them anyway.”
Her face turned dark and dull. “Now let’s go. Get your windbreakers on and let’s go to the car.
She never left us from then on as we gathered our coats and trudged toward the front door. We were scared, but too scared to cry. We were scared enough to just do.
She was singing “What a friend we have in Jesus as we went out, locked the door, and walked to the car in our unzipped windbreakers. She sang soft. She always wanted to be in the church choir, but granddaddy told her one time that she sounded like a chicken screaming, so she gave that up. Laney, she always told us, had a pretty voice right up to the day she died.
She made sure we were buckled in. The new car had seat belts, and we never went anywhere in it without being buckled in. Daddy always said “Around the block or around the world, always buckle up for safety!” whenever we pulled out of the driveway. We weren’t going around the block.
She checked her hair and her lipstick in the rear view mirror, then slipped on her gloves. She was one of the few ladies I’d ever known who wore gloves as late as the 1970s.
She started the car and said, in a very chipper tone, “Ok, darlin's, let’s go find us a bridge.”
We rolled back and heard a screech, but it wasn’t us. It was Daddy and Mr. Davies, in Mr. Davies' car. Daddy got out of the passenger door and out of the way just before she backed into the side of Mr. Davies' car. She wasn’t trying to hurt daddy. She just didn’t see them arrive. She was thinking about a bridge again. When she’s thinking about a bridge, hardly anything distracts her.
She tried pulling forward and backing up again, this time hard, but that still didn’t move Mr. Davies heavy old Buick out of the way.
She sighed and turned off the car. She was taking off her gloves when Mr. Davies pulled her out of the car and made her lay down on the grass with her hands out like she was flying. All he said was, “Let’s just wait her for the police, Mrs. Grant. They’re almost here. They'll help.”
Timmy and Ruthie didn’t have to see or hear that. Daddy got them out on the passenger's side quick and had them go through the fence to the back yard. All I had to do, though, was look through the open car door and see her. I saw everything about her. I could even see up her skirt to her underwear. She was always very careful about crossing her legs like a lady so they weren't ever, ever exposed. She was so exposed, but her panties didn't even matter in it all.
Then we went inside and daddy talked to us and made Koolaid and hung up the phone. While we drank our Koolaid and ate some crackers, daddy made up a suitcase for mama.
I didn’t want to hear it.
“Katie. It’s time to go. Tell Amy goodbye. We’ve got to be going.”
Mama hardly ever came to get me at my friend’s house. I usually got to come home myself when it was time.
Mama gave Amy a tight smile and waved me toward the back gate. “Take mama’s hand so you don’t get lost, girl. We want to stay together.”
We walked hand in hand down the alleyway back to our house. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think anything because sometimes she knew when I thought. I did have one quiet idea, though.
I started to skip. Sometimes we skipped down the street or down the alley going to church or to the little store, or to the park. It was always a good day when we skipped.
On the second hop, she tightened her grip and leveraged me back down to the ground. Her arm was lead, and I sank. “What in God’s name are you doing, child?”
“Where are we going, mama?”
“Don’t you worry. It’ll be fine.”
There was all kinds of talking in my head, helping drown out my own words. I didn’t want her to hear.
We slipped the latch at my back gate and started toward the house.
“Go in and help Ruth and Timothy with their coats.”
“Mama?”
“What, child!?”
“It’s August. It’s awful hot.”
She shook her head at me and stared as if I’d just walked in from Mars eating a bicycle sandwich. “Laney, just do it. They’ll need something. I don’t care if it’s windbreakers. I won’t have them going out half dressed. Shame on you.”
As soon as she said Laney, I knew what story we were in. Laney was her younger sister who died of a brain tumor when she was thirteen. That was in 1955 though, twenty years ago.
I walked off, but watched her for a few steps. I wanted to remember her face right then.
Maybe she would stay outside while I got them ready. Maybe while she was outside, I could call daddy at the plant. You can see the phone through the kitchen window, but maybe if I was fast.
I got Timmy and Ruthie and herded them into the kitchen. Then I remembered coats. “Go get your windbreakers.” I told them. They were younger than me and they weren’t as puzzled by the coats. I was twelve. I turned thirteen in December. Ruthie was just barely eleven and Timmy was only seven. “Go get your windbreakers. Bring them here, but don’t put them on yet.”
Their shoes were on, I noticed as they walked away. “Take your shoes off and change your socks. Come back in here with your other shoes. Don’t put them on, though. Just bring them back.”
Mama came in through the back door and looked around. “Where are they, Katie? We haven’t got all day.” Her eyes made me want to cry, but I knew that if I did, that would mess everything up. She would get angry, and then everything would go wrong fast.
I had to be the happy helper. “I told them to go change their shoes and socks, mama. They were horrible. And they should comb their hair. They look a sight! It’s just horrible. They should look nice for … they should look nice when we go out.”
She walked to me like through soft clay, then stopped and stroked my cheek. She tugged my chin up and looked in my eyes. “You love Jesus, don’t you, baby?”
I nodded and made all my muscles smile. I knew I would mess things up bad if I tried to make words come out.
“I know you do, baby. Everything we do is for Jesus, isn’t it, Laney?”
I nodded again.
She smiled as sweet as I’ve ever seen and stroked my cheek again. “I’m going to freshen up. Get them ready. It’s going to be a good day. A good day for people who love their Lord.” She swung her arms in the air as she walked away. She was humming the start of “The Hills are Alive …” when she disappeared into her bathroom at the end of the hall.
I scrambled up the stool by the kitchen phone and popped the receiver off the cradle. Daddy’s work number was right next to the phone on the grease board. 555-3136 x471
I dialed as quietly as I could without dawdling. It rang three times before it picked up. “Alliance Electronics, Dallas, how may I direct your call?”
“Frank Grant, please.”
“Department?”
“He’s in …. I … I don't know ... I don’t know! Uhh - extension 471!”
“Connecting you now.”
The phone rang some more. The water was running in the sink in mama’s bathroom still.
A hard, scratchy voice answered. “Radar Diagnostics, Roger Davies.”
“Frank Grant, please.” I knew the name and the face. He had come to picnics sometimes with his family.
“Is this June … ? No, uh, Katie …?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is there …”
“Please, please get him.”
“Hang on. I’ll find him.”
The water stopped.
I waited as long as I could. I listened as hard as I could, like my ear was right on the door. When I heard the handle jiggle, I tossed the phone into the towel drawer and closed it as much as I could. The drawer squeaked, but only a little. I jumped off just as the door opened, and raced into the living room.
“Mama-mama – I’ll get them ready now! Why don’t you just finish your crossword and we'll be ready real quick, I promise!”
I tried to sound more cheery than scared, but I had no idea if it was working, since I was more terrified than scared to start with. Her eyes had questions. She looked over my shoulder at the dining room table.
That’s where her crossword was, not by her chair in the living room.
If she walked into the dining room, she might ….
“I’ll get it!” I practically yelled, and then laughed a silly laugh to cover it. I danced back with it before she could move, and steered her toward her chair by the living room window.
I yelled down the hall. “You two hurry up in there! Mama’s about ready to go! No more fooling around!” then walked down the hall to their rooms.
“Katie! Get those children ready! Time’s a wasting!”
"I know, I know I know" I thought, but there was no way I'd say any of that aloud. I wouldn't even mutter it.
I’d do it, I’d get Timmy ready, then we’d go to Ruthie’s room and get her ready, and then if mama hadn’t come down the hall to grab us yet, I’d make them climb out Ruthie’s window and run to the neighbor’s house. Mr. Robinson was a good neighbor. He knew.
“Ok, ok, ok … shoes now, Timmy. Please, Timmy, shoes.” He was clueless, but my quiet panic was stirring him up. His eyes were big. He couldn’t remember the other times, but he didn’t like the looks of this time. All I could think to do was say over and over again, “It’s okay, Timmy. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay ….” That had to make him even more skittish, but I didn’t know anything else, I really didn’t.
His shoes were on and I ran his comb through his hair.
“We’re almost ready, mama” I yelled back up the hall as we scampered from Timmy’s room to Ruthie’s.
She wasn’t there. Timmy and I looked at each other. She didn’t go up the hall. Her windows were closed. Her closet door was closed. We looked at each other. He figured out, but didn’t want to say, but I could tell from where he wasn’t looking. I popped the closet door open and there she was, standing, shoes in hand, shaking her head. She wasn’t crying, but a very heavy thing was pulling her down. She did remember.
I tried very gently to pull her out of the closet. She leaned back and shook her head. I looked down and said over and over “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Then mama’s voice, soft as rain, came crashing through the roof.
From the doorway, she said, “It’s okay babies. It’s time for us to go.” She smiled like she had just got back from the botanic gardens.
“Ruthie, you can put those on in the car, sweetie. You won’t really need them anyway.”
Her face turned dark and dull. “Now let’s go. Get your windbreakers on and let’s go to the car.
She never left us from then on as we gathered our coats and trudged toward the front door. We were scared, but too scared to cry. We were scared enough to just do.
She was singing “What a friend we have in Jesus as we went out, locked the door, and walked to the car in our unzipped windbreakers. She sang soft. She always wanted to be in the church choir, but granddaddy told her one time that she sounded like a chicken screaming, so she gave that up. Laney, she always told us, had a pretty voice right up to the day she died.
She made sure we were buckled in. The new car had seat belts, and we never went anywhere in it without being buckled in. Daddy always said “Around the block or around the world, always buckle up for safety!” whenever we pulled out of the driveway. We weren’t going around the block.
She checked her hair and her lipstick in the rear view mirror, then slipped on her gloves. She was one of the few ladies I’d ever known who wore gloves as late as the 1970s.
She started the car and said, in a very chipper tone, “Ok, darlin's, let’s go find us a bridge.”
We rolled back and heard a screech, but it wasn’t us. It was Daddy and Mr. Davies, in Mr. Davies' car. Daddy got out of the passenger door and out of the way just before she backed into the side of Mr. Davies' car. She wasn’t trying to hurt daddy. She just didn’t see them arrive. She was thinking about a bridge again. When she’s thinking about a bridge, hardly anything distracts her.
She tried pulling forward and backing up again, this time hard, but that still didn’t move Mr. Davies heavy old Buick out of the way.
She sighed and turned off the car. She was taking off her gloves when Mr. Davies pulled her out of the car and made her lay down on the grass with her hands out like she was flying. All he said was, “Let’s just wait her for the police, Mrs. Grant. They’re almost here. They'll help.”
Timmy and Ruthie didn’t have to see or hear that. Daddy got them out on the passenger's side quick and had them go through the fence to the back yard. All I had to do, though, was look through the open car door and see her. I saw everything about her. I could even see up her skirt to her underwear. She was always very careful about crossing her legs like a lady so they weren't ever, ever exposed. She was so exposed, but her panties didn't even matter in it all.
Then we went inside and daddy talked to us and made Koolaid and hung up the phone. While we drank our Koolaid and ate some crackers, daddy made up a suitcase for mama.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Dix makes a dark delivery - Trinity Bluffs [excerpt]
[...]
Layla’s back stiffened the moment she saw me, her least favorite ex-husband detective, in her club. Closer, and I might have heard a dull leathery squeak as her tight neck muscles tensed even more. Even across the clouds of cigarette smoke, and amidst the neon bar lights, her radar picked me up around the curve of the bar just as I turned her direction.
She wasn’t happy. That was fine. I wasn’t happy either and I was sure that nobody was going to get any happier by the time I left.
I knew she wanted to throw me out. As soon as she saw me, she turned into a stop sign – red all over, expressionless and rigid. I hadn’t often seen her like that, but however many or few times it was, was enough.
I suppose the time she took to walk around to my bar stool was what kept her from exploding upon arrival. I slipped my jacket off and laid it across the bar next to me. I’m sure it looked like I was bracing for a fight, but it was just hot in there. She was still sitting on a hair trigger as she knifed her body into the space between my stool and the next.
“I don’t know wha~”
“I’m not here because I want to be.” I didn’t bother myself to glance at her.
“Then leave. Tony will be glad to see you out the door.”
“Not out the window?”
“That would be ideal, sure. Unfortunately, Tony’s been having back problems lately. Must be the way he threw the last sorry bastard into that wall over by the hat check station.”
“Layla ... listen … you've ... ” my words sputtered and died. It wasn’t the implicit threat that grounded me. I just got tired sometimes of having the same argument with her. Different terms, different reasons, different places, same anger. Not even necessarily about each other. But our old angers always seemed to get aggravated by each other, and before we knew it there’d be a donnybrook. We’d been married two years, and spent a decade of that fighting. For what it was worth, the same things that made us explode that way made us explode other ways. Ways we both liked. Ways we probably needed. Ways we hated afterward.
“I need to catch you up on some things before they catch up to you. And, I need something from you.”
Her eyes told me the latter might take place in the vicinity of my dead body, if not directly over it.
“Where can we talk … that isn’t right here?”
Her answer was to turn and walk. I didn’t feel like running behind her like an unloved mutt, so I decided to make her actually say something, if she wanted me to move. Ten feet away, she realized that I wasn’t behind her and paused. When I still wasn’t behind her five seconds later, she turned. “Are we doing this or not?”
I slipped from my stool, hooked my finger into my jacket collar and slung it over my shoulder, nodding for her to proceed. She walked on. I caught up and took her elbow in my free hand. I could feel the quiet rage wafting off her and trailing in her wake.
“Nothing ever changes, does it?
“There is one favor you can do for me, Dix.”
“Which would be?”
“Go to hell. Sooner than later.”
“Been there – two years worth, remember?”
She tried yanking her elbow from my grip, but that didn’t happen.
“That’s not how this game goes, sister.”
We snaked through her half-open office door, which I kicked shut. I latched it as I spun her to face me.
She was ready. She added her own strength to the momentum she'd picked up being spun on her heels, and managed to deliver a solid slap across my left cheek. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of letting myself wince too much. Still, it made my eye water and my ear ring – plus, I dropped my jacket and tangled one of my heels in it.
She lifted her chin defiantly. My hand slipped in right under her chin and fitted itself to the curves of her throat. “So that’s how this game gets played?” I said.
“You said you have something you n~”
“Uh-uh – after …”
One of us shuddered. I think it was her. We’d both been here before, just in other places and for other reasons. I pressed her against the wall, then pressed myself hard into her. Her lips parted and any doubt I had was gone.
Our mouths met; our tongues danced. Her fingers glided down my shirt, following the trail of my tie, and found what they were looking for just south of my belt. My fingers blazed a similar trail, dipping down to her waist and gathering her dress up in six inch bursts. Her wardrobe took a loss against its bottom line as my fingers yanked a rift, one side to the other, in her panties. Fortunately for her, her stockings were thigh highs and her garter belt was in the way of nothing.
She freed me from the confines of my pants with similar dexterity. I plunged into her wetness with a force that drove a grunt from both of us, and a bang from the wall.
My hand at her throat kept her breath ragged and her face a rich, deepening pink but at the slightest sign my grip was lessening, she leaned in to my fingers. How could I deny such resolve?
I could write pretty paragraphs about being sheathed within the flower of her womanhood, but that quaint and idyllic meadow land was nowhere close to the place we were. Animals would have been embarrassed by our escapades.
It was a dark and savage fucking we were inflicting on each other. Every time my hand tightened on her throat, her nails raked down my back. She may have spared my underwear, but prospects didn’t look good for my last pressed, white shirt. Even if it survived intact, I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be streaked in blood.
One leg on the floor, she wrapped the other around my right hip. Each time I seemed about to withdraw, her muscular thigh pulled me back in. I could have stood still and simply allowed her to drive me back up into her, gravity and her leg being the active agents, but I’ve never been much for just standing there, particularly when sex was involved.
We rode as hard to our climax as any Kentucky Derby winner, and it was all I could do to keep us both standing as we caught our breaths. Her one standing leg would hardly hold the both of us, and she was using the other to not slide down my body. I dropped my hands down to her waist and re-gathered my energy. She dipped her head to snuggle in between my shoulder and neck. The next thing I knew, she was biting – hard – on my shoulder. Nothing unusual there. It was her habit to mark her conquests thusly, new or not.
A long time passed. Maybe a week; maybe two. Finally, she pressed her hands against my chest.
“Off me, damn you.”
I leaned back to allow her egress. She straightened her skirt as she walked slowly and deliberately around to the far side of her desk.
She didn’t sit, but then neither did I. Neither of us were at ease enough to sit. Dazed, yes. At ease, no. But then, even when we were married, it sometimes took us hours to wind down afterward, warily walking around about the other like wrestlers. Neither of us trusted the other. More to the point, neither of us really trusted ourselves.
She was fascinated with her desktop and with the way her fingers seemed to wander aimlessly across it. With no clues available on her face, I took to watching her fingers, too.
Another week passed, by which time we had both grown disinterested in her fingers.
“For God’s sake, Dix. Tell me what you need to tell me; ask me what you need to ask me. Make it the Western Union version. Then get the hell out of my bar.”
“Layla, someone put the finger on you as a mob stool, and they know enough about you to make it ring true. Me, I’m sure it’s all gas, but what I think doesn’t help. I’m working a job for Evelyn Conklin and I think there might be a link. Have you ever heard of a guy named Cyril Anderson?”
She shook her head. It didn't ring a bell, but it rang something close.
“Maybe know him as Chip?”
She dropped into her chair, like a bird from a tree, and buried her head in her hands.
“You better tell me the long version, Dix.”
[...]
Layla’s back stiffened the moment she saw me, her least favorite ex-husband detective, in her club. Closer, and I might have heard a dull leathery squeak as her tight neck muscles tensed even more. Even across the clouds of cigarette smoke, and amidst the neon bar lights, her radar picked me up around the curve of the bar just as I turned her direction.
She wasn’t happy. That was fine. I wasn’t happy either and I was sure that nobody was going to get any happier by the time I left.
I knew she wanted to throw me out. As soon as she saw me, she turned into a stop sign – red all over, expressionless and rigid. I hadn’t often seen her like that, but however many or few times it was, was enough.
I suppose the time she took to walk around to my bar stool was what kept her from exploding upon arrival. I slipped my jacket off and laid it across the bar next to me. I’m sure it looked like I was bracing for a fight, but it was just hot in there. She was still sitting on a hair trigger as she knifed her body into the space between my stool and the next.
“I don’t know wha~”
“I’m not here because I want to be.” I didn’t bother myself to glance at her.
“Then leave. Tony will be glad to see you out the door.”
“Not out the window?”
“That would be ideal, sure. Unfortunately, Tony’s been having back problems lately. Must be the way he threw the last sorry bastard into that wall over by the hat check station.”
“Layla ... listen … you've ... ” my words sputtered and died. It wasn’t the implicit threat that grounded me. I just got tired sometimes of having the same argument with her. Different terms, different reasons, different places, same anger. Not even necessarily about each other. But our old angers always seemed to get aggravated by each other, and before we knew it there’d be a donnybrook. We’d been married two years, and spent a decade of that fighting. For what it was worth, the same things that made us explode that way made us explode other ways. Ways we both liked. Ways we probably needed. Ways we hated afterward.
“I need to catch you up on some things before they catch up to you. And, I need something from you.”
Her eyes told me the latter might take place in the vicinity of my dead body, if not directly over it.
“Where can we talk … that isn’t right here?”
Her answer was to turn and walk. I didn’t feel like running behind her like an unloved mutt, so I decided to make her actually say something, if she wanted me to move. Ten feet away, she realized that I wasn’t behind her and paused. When I still wasn’t behind her five seconds later, she turned. “Are we doing this or not?”
I slipped from my stool, hooked my finger into my jacket collar and slung it over my shoulder, nodding for her to proceed. She walked on. I caught up and took her elbow in my free hand. I could feel the quiet rage wafting off her and trailing in her wake.
“Nothing ever changes, does it?
“There is one favor you can do for me, Dix.”
“Which would be?”
“Go to hell. Sooner than later.”
“Been there – two years worth, remember?”
She tried yanking her elbow from my grip, but that didn’t happen.
“That’s not how this game goes, sister.”
We snaked through her half-open office door, which I kicked shut. I latched it as I spun her to face me.
She was ready. She added her own strength to the momentum she'd picked up being spun on her heels, and managed to deliver a solid slap across my left cheek. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of letting myself wince too much. Still, it made my eye water and my ear ring – plus, I dropped my jacket and tangled one of my heels in it.
She lifted her chin defiantly. My hand slipped in right under her chin and fitted itself to the curves of her throat. “So that’s how this game gets played?” I said.
“You said you have something you n~”
“Uh-uh – after …”
One of us shuddered. I think it was her. We’d both been here before, just in other places and for other reasons. I pressed her against the wall, then pressed myself hard into her. Her lips parted and any doubt I had was gone.
Our mouths met; our tongues danced. Her fingers glided down my shirt, following the trail of my tie, and found what they were looking for just south of my belt. My fingers blazed a similar trail, dipping down to her waist and gathering her dress up in six inch bursts. Her wardrobe took a loss against its bottom line as my fingers yanked a rift, one side to the other, in her panties. Fortunately for her, her stockings were thigh highs and her garter belt was in the way of nothing.
She freed me from the confines of my pants with similar dexterity. I plunged into her wetness with a force that drove a grunt from both of us, and a bang from the wall.
My hand at her throat kept her breath ragged and her face a rich, deepening pink but at the slightest sign my grip was lessening, she leaned in to my fingers. How could I deny such resolve?
I could write pretty paragraphs about being sheathed within the flower of her womanhood, but that quaint and idyllic meadow land was nowhere close to the place we were. Animals would have been embarrassed by our escapades.
It was a dark and savage fucking we were inflicting on each other. Every time my hand tightened on her throat, her nails raked down my back. She may have spared my underwear, but prospects didn’t look good for my last pressed, white shirt. Even if it survived intact, I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be streaked in blood.
One leg on the floor, she wrapped the other around my right hip. Each time I seemed about to withdraw, her muscular thigh pulled me back in. I could have stood still and simply allowed her to drive me back up into her, gravity and her leg being the active agents, but I’ve never been much for just standing there, particularly when sex was involved.
We rode as hard to our climax as any Kentucky Derby winner, and it was all I could do to keep us both standing as we caught our breaths. Her one standing leg would hardly hold the both of us, and she was using the other to not slide down my body. I dropped my hands down to her waist and re-gathered my energy. She dipped her head to snuggle in between my shoulder and neck. The next thing I knew, she was biting – hard – on my shoulder. Nothing unusual there. It was her habit to mark her conquests thusly, new or not.
A long time passed. Maybe a week; maybe two. Finally, she pressed her hands against my chest.
“Off me, damn you.”
I leaned back to allow her egress. She straightened her skirt as she walked slowly and deliberately around to the far side of her desk.
She didn’t sit, but then neither did I. Neither of us were at ease enough to sit. Dazed, yes. At ease, no. But then, even when we were married, it sometimes took us hours to wind down afterward, warily walking around about the other like wrestlers. Neither of us trusted the other. More to the point, neither of us really trusted ourselves.
She was fascinated with her desktop and with the way her fingers seemed to wander aimlessly across it. With no clues available on her face, I took to watching her fingers, too.
Another week passed, by which time we had both grown disinterested in her fingers.
“For God’s sake, Dix. Tell me what you need to tell me; ask me what you need to ask me. Make it the Western Union version. Then get the hell out of my bar.”
“Layla, someone put the finger on you as a mob stool, and they know enough about you to make it ring true. Me, I’m sure it’s all gas, but what I think doesn’t help. I’m working a job for Evelyn Conklin and I think there might be a link. Have you ever heard of a guy named Cyril Anderson?”
She shook her head. It didn't ring a bell, but it rang something close.
“Maybe know him as Chip?”
She dropped into her chair, like a bird from a tree, and buried her head in her hands.
“You better tell me the long version, Dix.”
[...]
Hemingway - "You expected to be sad in the fall ...
“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
a most informal note
a most informal note
plain white bond
overlaid with penciled curves
casual arcs of invitation
light and fluid
longing strokes
His eyes rolled along the undulations
traced the full and soaring C
into the dizzy, spiraled o
then the playful rise and fall of m
with the extended swirl of e
launching him toward possibilities
all underscored by the swooping arrow
whose tip bid him shift
his attention
and his person
toward the garden door
"Come …”
was ample summons
and all he need read
leaving unscanned
her postscript –
lose yourself in the garden and find yourself in me
plain white bond
overlaid with penciled curves
casual arcs of invitation
light and fluid
longing strokes
His eyes rolled along the undulations
traced the full and soaring C
into the dizzy, spiraled o
then the playful rise and fall of m
with the extended swirl of e
launching him toward possibilities
all underscored by the swooping arrow
whose tip bid him shift
his attention
and his person
toward the garden door
"Come …”
was ample summons
and all he need read
leaving unscanned
her postscript –
lose yourself in the garden and find yourself in me
Saturday, December 27, 2014
getting there
Train molecules
gliding past
all in a tidy row
going somewhere
Water
following gravity
taking the long way ‘round
and 'round and 'round the Earth
going somewhere
Cars spinning a slow arc
along the overpass
cutting through the morning sun
all going somewhere
Clouds grazing slowly
darkening the plains
come from yonder,
going somewhere
Wind dancing with wind
down the street
around the trees
it’s going somewhere
Sounds of
creaks
and bumps
and thuds
and spills
coming from everywhere
going to many somewheres
Streams and pools of soul
in their people skins
lead by their baggage
and their questions
all hoping
they’re going somewhere
maybe they are
gliding past
all in a tidy row
going somewhere
Water
following gravity
taking the long way ‘round
and 'round and 'round the Earth
going somewhere
Cars spinning a slow arc
along the overpass
cutting through the morning sun
all going somewhere
Clouds grazing slowly
darkening the plains
come from yonder,
going somewhere
Wind dancing with wind
down the street
around the trees
it’s going somewhere
Sounds of
creaks
and bumps
and thuds
and spills
coming from everywhere
going to many somewheres
Streams and pools of soul
in their people skins
lead by their baggage
and their questions
all hoping
they’re going somewhere
maybe they are
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Two Haiku
browned leaves flee chill wind
chased by ghosts wrapped in fall dreams
wake now, find peace, sleep
in fall comes the wind
trees, fences, and hearts shudder
in wind comes the fall
Waybread
In the cool morning
It was not the food each was seeking
but
tokens of warmth
nibbles of sustenance
exchanged in the velvet dark -
Waybread for wayfaring companions.
The nourishment they each sought
would come at the end of other journeys.
And be shared
with other travelers.
It was not the food each was seeking
but
tokens of warmth
nibbles of sustenance
exchanged in the velvet dark -
Waybread for wayfaring companions.
The nourishment they each sought
would come at the end of other journeys.
And be shared
with other travelers.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Joe Cocker - 12/23/2014 - we'll miss you
"Goodbye and God bless to Joe Cocker from one of his friends peace and love," - Ringo Star
Joe singing "You Are So Beautiful" at Montreux, 1987
Joe singing "You Are So Beautiful" at Montreux, 1987
Out the Lighted Window
Out the lighted window
in the murmuring trees of night
whispered voices call up an old poem
writing slowly
drawing in the words and breathing them out
in a timeless – timefree - meter
I sit at my desk, listening to the ancient voices,
feel the cool syllables
the sweetdarkheavy scent of them
flirting dangerously with my nose.
I lay my pen down, then think better
and lock it away in the desk
This is a poem I cannot write.
The words are too big and dark
They would absorb my heart
And I would cease to be, my pen clattering to the floor.
in the murmuring trees of night
whispered voices call up an old poem
writing slowly
drawing in the words and breathing them out
in a timeless – timefree - meter
I sit at my desk, listening to the ancient voices,
feel the cool syllables
the sweetdarkheavy scent of them
flirting dangerously with my nose.
I lay my pen down, then think better
and lock it away in the desk
This is a poem I cannot write.
The words are too big and dark
They would absorb my heart
And I would cease to be, my pen clattering to the floor.
The next time I'm a millionaire ...
The next time - okay, the first time - I have a large bankroll, I want to open a bookstore.
Not just any bookstore - it'll be a select mix of good new books and quality used books, including rare books. It won't have 50 copies of John Grisham's latest stacked on an end cap, but it will have 50 new authors showcased. The fiction/literature section will be expansive and the poetry section will be significantly more than four shelves framed in dust. The staff will love books as much as you do, and will be able to pinpoint any title in our inventory within moments. They'll also function as concierges. If we don't have it, they'll find it for a reasonable fee. You will test us with your most obscure and beloved books - and we will succeed. We will have science and architecture and art and travelogues and erotica and spirituality and philosophy and scores of other "ands." And you will love just wandering in the midst of all those words and insights.
The building will be a simple square or rectangle, two or three floors, with a central atrium & skylight. The stacks will be spread across the multiple floors around the atrium, with arm chairs and small reading/writing desks scattered around. Our space will serve as a casual forum - you will come to us when you want to find people who will argue with you and people who will agree with you, and who know how to do both well. You won't always be right, but that'll be alright.
There will be coffee stations - it will be plain and free. Cream and sugar, sure, but no Frappamochachinolatte grandes. Keep that noise elsewhere. There will also be tea - both hot and iced -available.
On the main floor, in the center, under the atrium, will be tables for eating and drinking. A big, heavy oak bar at least 100 years old will run along one portion of one wall, and will make any concoction in the mixological universe.
Food service will be as follows - a simple continental breakfast buffet that runs between 8am and 10am; soups and sandwiches for lunch from 11am to 3pm; fine dining from 6pm through 10pm. Perhaps tapas after 10pm.
Or ... y'know ... something like that. I haven't really given it much thought.
Not just any bookstore - it'll be a select mix of good new books and quality used books, including rare books. It won't have 50 copies of John Grisham's latest stacked on an end cap, but it will have 50 new authors showcased. The fiction/literature section will be expansive and the poetry section will be significantly more than four shelves framed in dust. The staff will love books as much as you do, and will be able to pinpoint any title in our inventory within moments. They'll also function as concierges. If we don't have it, they'll find it for a reasonable fee. You will test us with your most obscure and beloved books - and we will succeed. We will have science and architecture and art and travelogues and erotica and spirituality and philosophy and scores of other "ands." And you will love just wandering in the midst of all those words and insights.
The building will be a simple square or rectangle, two or three floors, with a central atrium & skylight. The stacks will be spread across the multiple floors around the atrium, with arm chairs and small reading/writing desks scattered around. Our space will serve as a casual forum - you will come to us when you want to find people who will argue with you and people who will agree with you, and who know how to do both well. You won't always be right, but that'll be alright.
There will be coffee stations - it will be plain and free. Cream and sugar, sure, but no Frappamochachinolatte grandes. Keep that noise elsewhere. There will also be tea - both hot and iced -available.
On the main floor, in the center, under the atrium, will be tables for eating and drinking. A big, heavy oak bar at least 100 years old will run along one portion of one wall, and will make any concoction in the mixological universe.
Food service will be as follows - a simple continental breakfast buffet that runs between 8am and 10am; soups and sandwiches for lunch from 11am to 3pm; fine dining from 6pm through 10pm. Perhaps tapas after 10pm.
Or ... y'know ... something like that. I haven't really given it much thought.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
At the Richelieu
My dad's hand slapped my shoulder. I knew what was coming next, “Come on Tommy, let’s grab some pizza.”
“Mona, hey Mona – me and the boy are going out for pizza.”
Noises that sounded like complaints came up from the laundry room, probably asking what in hell he needed with pizza two hours after pot roast. He tossed the keys to me, “Hey, big boy – go start her up. I’ll be out in a sec.”
I peeled myself out of the armchair and willed myself toward the door. Not my will be done, but his of course, but hey, it worked.
Going down the front steps, I could hear my mom’s voice more clearly through the basement windows than up the stairs. Things like “if you think” and “why in hell” and “all the damn day” while laundry baskets and cabinet doors were getting slammed about. She ended with “Answer me!” and the sound of feet stomping up the stairs followed her words through the windows. The old man crashed out the door, shrugging his shoulders into his spotty blue sports coat. It hadn't registered with me immediately, but we were getting the kind of pizza that required a sports coat.
I’d just settled in behind the wheel of the Olds and cranked the engine up when he rapped on the window. I started to shift across to the passenger side.
“Whoa-whoa, little buddy! Hey, you wanna pull her into the street, champ?”
I froze. Into the street!? I’d backed “her” up as far as the street before, but never past the curb. It really just involved shifting into neutral and taking the brake off for about two and a half Mississippis. Into the street was more Mississippis and turning – and not crashing! Much more complicated. He looked so eager to offer, I didn't want to let him down, so I nodded my head and resumed my position at the wheel. He stood by the window for a moment, then went over to yell one more thing back at my mom through the basement window. Evidently, he was crazy enough to let an eleven year old drive, but not so damn crazy he’d get in the car with him.
I shifted into gear – twice, just to make sure – popped the emergency brake, and lifted my foot from the brake pedal, keeping it suspended in the air, consciously not committing it to the gas pedal. The other foot stayed locked on the clutch, trying to press it through the floorboards.
I threw a glance over my right shoulder, which lost me the death press I had on the clutch. We began rolling. By we, I mean me and Jesus, with whom I had just started a frantic conversation.
I muttered “turn-turn-turn-turn” to myself over and over, just in case I forgot when the time came. Tires hit the pavement before I realized I didn't know when the right time actually was, so I immediately whipped the wheel to the right. Equally immediately, I panicked and whipped it hard back left. Then, I did the move I excelled at, stalling the engine and stomping back on the brake, everything but the gas.
He sprinted from driveway to window and waved me to the passenger side. I almost lunged over to that side, then remembered to do the parking brake. Ten seconds later, we were off, him in control, and telling me, “Hey, you have fun there, pal? Gotta say, your mom would go apeshit if she found out. Don’t worry, though, just us guys here. I won’t tell your mom.” I was nervous enough during my “maneuver” but more so afterward. Dad was in co-conspirator mode. I was about to pay for his silence with my own.
Sam and Angie’s Pizza, a tiny take-out place with one little two person table for people who got there early, and a bench for everyone else to wait for their pizzas and then move on.
“Hey, Gina, how’s my girl? Can you make me up a small Supreme? Tommy’s gonna wait for it here while I conduct some business next door. My man Tommy here’s got a powerful appetite, like his old man, y’know." He did that shooting thing with his finger and she blushed. It looked like Gina did know something about his powerful appetites.
Gina gave me a half smile and nodded slowly about something, in time with her gum-chewing.
Next door was the Richelieu Bar & Grill. The grill that got it named after Richelieu shut down years ago, but the bar kept the name, 'cause it was catchy.
“You wanna pop? Of course you do, hey Gina, pour me a Pepsi for my kid here.” The soda came around the corner of the drink machine, sloshing a bit on the counter, but immediately scooped up by his hand and delivered to my table, still sloshing. He said “Back in five, buddy” and he was gone. I think the door stopped rattling before the soda stopped rippling.
Gina’s dad, who I assume was Sam, appeared from the back. The conversation between Gina and Sam began with much gesturing on both sides and ended with gesturing on his side and cringing on her side. At one point, I heard “dirty son of a bitch” as he glanced my way. For just a moment, I felt very guilty, then realized he wasn't talking about me, but about the old man. So, instead of guilty, I felt ashamed. Still, an improvement, I guessed.
When the pizza was done, Gina brought it out to me in a box, cut eight ways for my small hands and small mouth. Stacked on top were two paper plates, napkins, and a handful of Parmesan packets. She refilled my drink, ruffled my hair, frowned, looked at the clock, and ruffled it again before going back behind the counter.
I had two slices. Two people came and left with their phone orders. The clattering in the back picked up, as did muttered exchanges between Sam and Gina.
There was quiet for a moment and Gina suddenly was next to me, leaning her bosom right into my face. I made myself look into her face, though my attention was decidedly elsewhere and my eyes begged to drift downward.
“Sorry, little guy, pop says you can’t stay, ‘cause we’re about to close, y'know, and he’s not going to want to stick around until your dad’s done … with his business next door. So, I’m gonna walk you over and get you set.” Her voice was gardenias, her bosom a garden of mums, soft and warm and fragrant, her face a bouquet of sympathy.
I nodded.
She took me into the Richelieu and parked me at a small booth near the back end of the bar, making sad, hopeless, gestures at me to the bartender, who’d seen me enough before to know the deal. He glared somewhere off into the back room, then shrugged it off. He slid a coke my way, which Gina took to my table.
“So … coke and pizza – how often do you get to have that for supper!? Lucky kid, you!” Her voice was frowning and her eyes were sad, even as her voice was telling me how great this was. One more gesture of “Whaaaaat?” at the bartender and she was gone.
All the pizza I could eat without throwing up was before me, coupled with what I knew would be an endless supply of coke. I ate. I was full, but I ate, because it was easier to watch the pizza going into my mouth than to make eye contact with the regulars. I did glance up between slices, looking for him – while trying not to appear to be looking for him. Hell, comes down to it, I was trying to look invisible – all other magic was secondary.
Half way into the fourth slice. I heard his voice from in back.
That got the imagination going, wondering what he was up to. Pizza, coke, and a loose cannon dad. How often do you get that for supper!? Lucky kid, me.
I chewed slowly and quietly, diverting all my attention to the back of the building. Who was talking? What were they saying it? What was going on?
It was poker. All the sounds were right. If I moved to the opposite bench in the booth, I might have been able to see him, or at least the room he was in. But if I did that, everything happening between me and the exit – my escape – would have evaded by notice. I felt better knowing what they were doing. What my old man was doing, I had pretty good idea.
The Richelieu wasn't the worst place I’d been abandoned in. There was a place out on the old highway that was half hookers and half johns, all covered by a patina of gonorrhea. Of course, I didn't know any of those terms back then, I just knew there were a lot of things there that an eleven year old boy didn't want to touch.
The Richelieu was better. During the day, it was essentially a neighborhood tavern, serving lunches alongside the booze. The semi-respectability that soaked in during the day took hours to fully dissipate after dark. It probably wasn't entirely given over to debauchery (also a word I didn't know then) until close to midnight. Fortunately for me it was only 9:30, according to my authentic Batman watch which I had been assured was worth untold treasures, twelve box tops and seventy-five cents shipping and handling.
I was caught up in my thoughts, eyes down at the stupid watch, view obstructed by the pizza box lid when a different bartender came up alongside me.
“Hey kid … uh, what’s your name, kid?”
“Tommy”
“Hey, Tommy. So your dad’s …?”
“In the back.”
“Ed Keller, right?” I nodded tentatively. Sometimes, like hell or damn or shit, a kid could get into a lot of trouble for using the words “Ed Keller.” This time, it got me the bartender’s sympathy. He cupped a hand onto my shoulder and sighed. “Well, listen, Tommy, I’m sure you’re a good kid despite ~“ He stopped himself in the middle of his sentence and in the middle of a shrug in the direction of my dad. “Tell you what, Tom, be a big guy and come sit at the bar with your buddy Nick and we’ll let these nice people have the table while your dad wraps up his business.”
Nick was trying to be a regular guy, which helped out a lot. What I usually heard was “Hey, kid, grownups need a seat. Go sit out of the way, but first go tell your old man its time for him to get you the fuck home.” Sometimes, when I was really young, it made me cry. I hadn’t done it in years, though. I’d gotten a lot better at hearing that stuff.
I guess I took too long soaking in that good feeling because good Nick became ballbuster Nick before I even saw it coming.
He leaned in close and in a voice crafted to reach no further than the nearest drunk’s ear, said “C’mon, don’t be a little shit, Tommy. We already got Ed for that. Move your butt to the end of this end of the bar. I’ll grab the pizza.”
I started, scrambling to the edge of the bench.
“Don’t forget your coke, pal.” I hated pal. “Pal” “Buddy” “Sport” – when you’re a kid, they always carry a threat inside the pretty package. Really all it said was “I’m telling you nicely to get it done before I get pissed.” At eleven I was just barely skilled enough in math to approximate the number of times my dad had spoken warmly to me while beating me, or called me a worthless little shit in a voice that floated over the back fence like honeysuckle. It was a big number, and a lot of times, those conversations started with “pal” or its buddies.
As I shifted toward the bar, the curtain to the back area widened and out popped my old man with a blond by the waist.
“Hey, Nick, how about we get some – holy shit, Tommy … Nick, what the fuck …”
Nick stopped him cold, his eyes very clearly warning him off. “Gina brung him. You abandoned your son there fifteen minutes before they closed. It’s on you, buddy – don’t drop your shit on me.”
They stared for a few seconds, then my old man said, “Well, just watch him for fifteen more minutes. Can you do that much, for chrissakes?”
Nick stepped back behind the bar, maybe cause that’s where his job was; maybe cause that was where his baseball bat was. “Time’s comin’, Ed. You see me twitch your direction, you best go hide out in Mongolia or Tierra del Fuego for a while.”
Then he fired a quick shot at me as he turned, “Kid, you’re still here at 11, you’re going into the dumpster.” He caught my big eyed, open mouth stare and turned back to me. His brow furrowed and he shook his head, frowning, trying to wave off my fear.
We all stood there for a moment, suddenly fascinated by my struggle to surmount the bar stool.
“Let’s keep this professional, Nick. Bourbon rocks for me and my friend. Tommy, meet Brenda. She’s an old friend from church camp.”
Any uncertainty I had about believing him evaporated when Brenda turned and slapped his shoulder. She could hardly say “don’t lie to your own son” but that’s what the slap said, regardless. She stood there looking aggrieved for a moment, then turned the old man back down the hall. Her giggle announced that, not only were all sins forgotten, they were also forgiven. Time for new ones, evidently.
Once I was back in an agreeable location, Nick was my buddy again. He’d point out guys who’d had too much, women he described as “lookers”, and things like that. He even told me two stories about how his own son who was in little league but he didn't get to see a lot of games because of his work schedule, but the kid’s mom took good care of him and besides, she was seeing some new guy who seemed pretty stand-up and really liked the kid so that was good. I didn't know what “stand-up” meant, but from the way he said it, it was clearly a good thing. All that came out in a single flow, a river of words that spilled out from his tongue. It started warm and brisk, but by the end the words came soft and in slow burst as he turned his attention to arranging the liquor bottles on the back counter.
I watched him as he talked and worked, but my attention was all directed off my left shoulder. My old man came out twice to go across the back hall into the restroom. The girl followed him out both times. The first time she stopped in the hall and waited for him. When he re-emerged, she pressed him against the door to the poker room and kissed him deeply, her hands firm on his cheeks. My cheeks burned. My eyes burned worse. The second time, she followed him into the restroom and it was a good three songs before they came out again. He slapped her butt as they crossed the hall and she wiggled her butt and I could hear her giggling until the other door closed on them again.
Nick stared at me, picking up my offset attention. Not knowing anything else to do, I picked up another piece of pizza and took a bite. It was dry and cold. It had no flavor to it. Everything it lacked made me gag. I leapt from the stool, hand over my mouth, and sprinted down the hall. I hesitated at the men’s room door, but my stomach didn't. Its contents splashed against the door and wall, spattering back on my shoes.
Someone called out “Goddamn, Nick! Now the kid’s puking down the hall!” Nick was already whipping around the corner, bar rags in hand. On the good side, three bursts and I was done, which didn't take too long to clean up. Nick gave me one rag and told me to go into the men’s room and wash up. I just shook my head, not wanting to stumble into the space that still wore the scents of my dad and Brenda. He insisted and I shook my head again. He insisted one more time, this time by shoving me through the door, which set me bawling. I heard him through the door talking to a guy, “It’s out of order. Use the Ladies’.”
“Ladies’? Hell Nick, I just wanna…”
“Then pee in your boot or out in the alley – I don’t give a shit, Billy. Just get the fuck out of my face or I’ll fucking deck you.”
That was all the motivation Billy needed to choose Option B.
After trundling the rags off to the back room, he came back and rapped on the door.
“Hey, uh… Tommy? You ‘bout ready to come out? I’ve got guys who need the room, y’know. I’ll get you some water, but you need to come on out, fella.”
Fella was somewhat better and different from “pal” or “buddy” and the others. Less condescending, somehow – part of a fellowship, not just a diminutive label like you give a pet.
I followed him out and climbed back on the stool as Nick produced a tumbler of ice water. He wasn’t at all subtle with his body language. Though he was trying to look calm and focused, he kept glancing down the hall. He had half a dozen half starts. He wanted to throw my dad out. I’d seen the moves too many times to mistake it for anything else. For the moment, though, he withstood the impulse.
I didn’t see my old man in fifteen minutes, like he promised Nick, but neither of us was surprised. Brenda came out four times, though, with empty glasses and winks for me and Nick. She reached over and ran her fingers through my hair and called me cutie. She said my dad told her to come check on me, which was probably true, if “please check on my son” was code for “hey, get us refills, babe.” The first three times, she told me “You’re going to break some girl’s heart someday” as her cloud of stale cigarettes and perfume faded back behind the curtains. Evidently, she had only one script for little boys in bars, which, was probably more than most women. At least, that’s what I've always hoped.
On her fourth trip out, there was a crash from the back just as she turned toward me, but before she reached for my hair and started her “You’re going to break …” line. She froze and shot a look at Nick. He put his hand to my arm to make sure I didn't race back. I knew better than that. Around my old man, you didn't race in to any space that loud noises were coming out of. Guys got smacked for showing up uninvited to a ruckus. Still, though, I watched intently from my stool, which was at a safe distance.
More banging, chairs and tables being shoved around, I guessed, all coming through the curtain, shrouded in a forest of shouting. I couldn't make out the actual words, but the tone said plenty. Some surprised accusation followed by an appeal for calm. More accusation, with the hard edge of indignation back. There was a plaintive edge to one of the voices, then they all seemed to shout at once, almost drowning out the sound of a scuffle. My dad popped out the door, flailing at arms that couldn't seem to decide whether to pull him back in or push him completely out.
Brenda squeaked “Eddie” and raced to him. Nick’s hand tightened on my arm. I didn't want to watch any further, but watched anyway. Nick didn't want me to watch either, and kept trying to get my attention. As soon as she reached my old man, Brenda snaked her body around his and showered his face with kisses. She gave him the once-over to see if he was injured, and kissed his bloody knuckles before setting her head on his shoulder.
I could barely see as they talked back and forth. He must have been replaying the dispute for her. Something made her recoil. Her response turned his face some, and he pushed her back and pressed her against the wall, berating her, angry finger inches from her face. She tried to shield herself, maybe from the accusations, or maybe she’d felt his fists before.
I hadn't even noticed Nick moving until he eclipsed my father and Brenda. He rapped his baseball bat on the door frame where the curtain hung, and the old man stepped back. Over Nick’s shoulder, I saw his face. He was doing the math, figuring the odds between himself and his adrenaline, and Nick and his baseball bat. Evidently, the odds fell in favor of Nick and bat.
Nick told Brenda to go home and she streaked past me, her smoky perfume burning my nostrils as she passed me. Her mascara was already making tracks down her cheeks. I was pretty sure she was actually done for the even.
Nick said, “That’s two strikes, Ed. Next time, I see you, I’m swinging for the fence.” He jerked his head over his left shoulder toward the front door. My dad had no trouble interpreting where he stood. He glared at him as he passed by, but didn't argue the ruling. We were leaving. His five minutes was finally up, two and a half hours later.
He grabbed the shoulder of my shirt as he passed me. The shirt stretched cartoonishly before he tugged me off the bar stool like a heavy duffel bag from a luggage cart. I dropped and trotted to keep up, only then aware of the tears that filled my eyes and the snot that overflowed my nose. A woman at the booth nearest the door tried to hand me napkins for my nose, but he jerked me to the other side as we burst out into a darkness deeper than even in the Richelieu.
He sped up, like he was trying to outrun me, while still dragging me by my shirt so as not to lose me. At the car, he spun me around and slammed me against the front fender. He slapped me sharply on both cheeks. “Listen, kid – you want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about. Stop being a baby, baby.” I was ashamed; I was also angry. At that age, both emotions tended to mean tears, and that’s what I got.
I cried more, he slapped me more, until, finally, he yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and crammed it into my face. “Clean yourself up, for Christ’s sake, and get over it.” He sighed and shoved me around to his door and I scrambled across the seat to the passenger’s side. The drive home was stone cold silent. He was a rock for the first half, brittle as slate, as I got myself under control. The second half, he began to relax. By the time we pulled into our driveway, he spoke again. “Not a word, right? Men keep each other’s secrets, right?” He punctuated the question with two light taps on my cheek.
I nodded.
He grinned, gave me a light punch on my shoulder and said “Come on pal, let’s go see what your mom’s been up to” as he tousled my hair.
It was done. Again. For the moment, anyway.
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