I decided to change Brendan's journey home to transit straight into the UK, and found out during my research that flights to the UK from Houston did not go through Heathrow but Gatwick. So dug more into it and added my new info into the opening of Brendan's return in April, 1981...in the middle of the IRA's hunger strike. Jeremy is Jewish and fought in the Yom Kippur war, so he and Brendan share a special bond...because they both know what death looks like.
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A friend of Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she found me the best way home. I flew out of Intercontinental on B-Cal to Glasgow via Gatwick, where I caught a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor cheap, but I had savings enough to cover it and was comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul.
A friend of Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she found me the best way home. I flew out of Intercontinental on B-Cal to Glasgow via Gatwick, where I caught a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor cheap, but I had savings enough to cover it and was comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul.
Uncle Sean told me he’d pay the ticket, but I wanted nothing from him. He called me independent to a fault and I knew he meant it gentle, but only because he’d finally noticed I’d shut him off since my beating, and spoke to him only when necessary, and how I was never around to work on that old Volvo, again. I simply wanted nothing to do with a man who’d let family be abused in such a way. Perhaps I should have told him why, but I never did because he was Aunt Mari’s husband and she’d done backflips for me. To have caused them all that disruption would have been a cruel way to repay her for all her kindness and generosity, not merely since I’d come there but in the years before. So I paid for my ticket, cashed all my savings into pounds and when I said goodbye at the airport, I knew I’d not be back.
None of them asked me how I was getting into Derry, what with me not having legal papers, and I offered no explanations. The less known by all, the better...except for Jeremy; it was him got me home without trouble.
Since he’d returned from Hong Kong, his position at Garrison Petroleum had settled him into Houston. His knowledge of the expanding Chinese market for oil and the discussions underway between London and Peking to hand the territory back at the end of the Brit’s lease (despite Whitehall’s insistence otherwise) made him far too important to be let go. So he handed me his passport and said, “With that mustache and sideburns, you look a lot like my photo.”
“I dunno, Jeremy; I can’t see it.”
“Sure, just lighten up your hair, cut it a bit shorter so it’s not so curly.”
“Without hair to hide me, I’ll look even less like you.”
“Fine -- Everett’ll slip your photo in for mine. I know they look for stuff like that, at immigration, but he’s an artist; he can pull it off.”
“But will he?”
“I’ve already talked to him.”
I cast him a sly look. “You and him’re mates, again?” He just smiled. I flipped through the passport, saying “You’ll need it back.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
I shrugged. “Maeve says she’s fadin’ fast, then there’ll be the wake and family to settle. A month, maybe. Six weeks.”
Forever.
“Don’t stay any longer; it’s due for replacement in a couple months and I have to send it in, so I’ll need to get it fixed, first.”
“I dunno, Jeremy -- really, do I look the part of a Jew?” I said it smiling.
“What does a Jew look like, bitch? And your dick sure as hell is Jewish. You’ll pass, so long as you don’t talk with that brogue.”
I snapped into a Texas twang, “Yor right a-bout tha-yat, little feller. Better if’n Ah talk lahk a fo-ohl.”
“Shit, don’t talk much at all. And when you do, whisper.”
I chuckled and slipped the passport into my back pocket. He swatted me arse and sent me out the door with, “I want post cards and letters!”
I didn’t look around but waved my hand back at him, as if in agreement.
Everett helped me shift my looks to better suit Jeremy’s description -- first lightening my hair a couple shades then adding red highlights, and he worked his magic on my mustache and sideburns, as well. Then once my hair was cut back, we got a couple Polaroids snapped at a photo shop and he set to work. And he had no end of trouble exchanging out Jeremy’s photo for mine but once done, to my eye it looked damn good -- and I looked damn strange.
“This isn’t a good look for you,” he said, “but that should help. By the time you get to the desk, they’ll be so sick of dealing with Americans, they’ll probably just give it a glance, stamp it and tell you to fuck off.”
“In true Brit fashion.”
“What’d you have to give Jeremy for this?”
“Promise to give it back when I return.”
He hesitated then asked, trying to be playful, “What’re you giving me?”
“Well...I could go to Rocky Horror in a gold Speedo and blond wig.”
He smiled, almost sweetly. “You -- you’d really do that?”
“I enjoy it, well enough. Susan Sarandon’s got a nice set on her.”
He laughed. “Shit, you’d make the perfect Rocky. So, they keeping your stuff in the pool house?”
No, I sold what I could and gave away the rest. “I got a storage unit. There’s too much of it.”
His expression froze and he looked at me, hard, as if he knew I wasn’t planning to return, then grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me close to kiss me, long and deep and French in style. Tender but needy. I let him.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were filled with hurt. “Is that how you kissed her?”
“Vangie? Yes.”
“But not -- ”
Joanna? “No. It would’ve put her off, and I’d do anything to keep that from happening.”
He nodded. “Like what I just did.”
“Have I run screaming down the street, yet?”
He stroked a thumb over my right eyebrow. “Considering your luck with girls, maybe you oughta try a walk on the wild side.”
Been there and tried that. “With you?”
He laughed to himself. “Me as Frankenfurter, you as Rocky. Yeah. Sure.” He was hurting and he’d been such a mate to me, I couldn’t help but nod. He took in a deep breath. “Keep the dream alive. Okay. I’m gonna hold you to it, Pug.”
I yapped at him in answer and we parted with him laughing.
Two days later I was on a plane for home.
I took a window seat, and flying back I watched the passing clouds, peaceful and soft in the nighttime sky and --
Father Jack sat next to me, sipping a brandy and casting me furtive glances as he pretended to read his missal. He checked his watch then signaled for the stewardess and water appeared before me along with a pill and I accepted both, obedient, and turned to watch the clouds and --
Lightning flashed between two huge banks of thick black cotton. Twisting. Turning. Glimmers of life dancing like the furies and giving meaning to things that could never truly live. It was as if the heavens were warning me, Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
None of them asked me how I was getting into Derry, what with me not having legal papers, and I offered no explanations. The less known by all, the better...except for Jeremy; it was him got me home without trouble.
Since he’d returned from Hong Kong, his position at Garrison Petroleum had settled him into Houston. His knowledge of the expanding Chinese market for oil and the discussions underway between London and Peking to hand the territory back at the end of the Brit’s lease (despite Whitehall’s insistence otherwise) made him far too important to be let go. So he handed me his passport and said, “With that mustache and sideburns, you look a lot like my photo.”
“I dunno, Jeremy; I can’t see it.”
“Sure, just lighten up your hair, cut it a bit shorter so it’s not so curly.”
“Without hair to hide me, I’ll look even less like you.”
“Fine -- Everett’ll slip your photo in for mine. I know they look for stuff like that, at immigration, but he’s an artist; he can pull it off.”
“But will he?”
“I’ve already talked to him.”
I cast him a sly look. “You and him’re mates, again?” He just smiled. I flipped through the passport, saying “You’ll need it back.”
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
I shrugged. “Maeve says she’s fadin’ fast, then there’ll be the wake and family to settle. A month, maybe. Six weeks.”
Forever.
“Don’t stay any longer; it’s due for replacement in a couple months and I have to send it in, so I’ll need to get it fixed, first.”
“I dunno, Jeremy -- really, do I look the part of a Jew?” I said it smiling.
“What does a Jew look like, bitch? And your dick sure as hell is Jewish. You’ll pass, so long as you don’t talk with that brogue.”
I snapped into a Texas twang, “Yor right a-bout tha-yat, little feller. Better if’n Ah talk lahk a fo-ohl.”
“Shit, don’t talk much at all. And when you do, whisper.”
I chuckled and slipped the passport into my back pocket. He swatted me arse and sent me out the door with, “I want post cards and letters!”
I didn’t look around but waved my hand back at him, as if in agreement.
Everett helped me shift my looks to better suit Jeremy’s description -- first lightening my hair a couple shades then adding red highlights, and he worked his magic on my mustache and sideburns, as well. Then once my hair was cut back, we got a couple Polaroids snapped at a photo shop and he set to work. And he had no end of trouble exchanging out Jeremy’s photo for mine but once done, to my eye it looked damn good -- and I looked damn strange.
“This isn’t a good look for you,” he said, “but that should help. By the time you get to the desk, they’ll be so sick of dealing with Americans, they’ll probably just give it a glance, stamp it and tell you to fuck off.”
“In true Brit fashion.”
“What’d you have to give Jeremy for this?”
“Promise to give it back when I return.”
He hesitated then asked, trying to be playful, “What’re you giving me?”
“Well...I could go to Rocky Horror in a gold Speedo and blond wig.”
He smiled, almost sweetly. “You -- you’d really do that?”
“I enjoy it, well enough. Susan Sarandon’s got a nice set on her.”
He laughed. “Shit, you’d make the perfect Rocky. So, they keeping your stuff in the pool house?”
No, I sold what I could and gave away the rest. “I got a storage unit. There’s too much of it.”
His expression froze and he looked at me, hard, as if he knew I wasn’t planning to return, then grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me close to kiss me, long and deep and French in style. Tender but needy. I let him.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were filled with hurt. “Is that how you kissed her?”
“Vangie? Yes.”
“But not -- ”
Joanna? “No. It would’ve put her off, and I’d do anything to keep that from happening.”
He nodded. “Like what I just did.”
“Have I run screaming down the street, yet?”
He stroked a thumb over my right eyebrow. “Considering your luck with girls, maybe you oughta try a walk on the wild side.”
Been there and tried that. “With you?”
He laughed to himself. “Me as Frankenfurter, you as Rocky. Yeah. Sure.” He was hurting and he’d been such a mate to me, I couldn’t help but nod. He took in a deep breath. “Keep the dream alive. Okay. I’m gonna hold you to it, Pug.”
I yapped at him in answer and we parted with him laughing.
Two days later I was on a plane for home.
I took a window seat, and flying back I watched the passing clouds, peaceful and soft in the nighttime sky and --
Father Jack sat next to me, sipping a brandy and casting me furtive glances as he pretended to read his missal. He checked his watch then signaled for the stewardess and water appeared before me along with a pill and I accepted both, obedient, and turned to watch the clouds and --
Lightning flashed between two huge banks of thick black cotton. Twisting. Turning. Glimmers of life dancing like the furies and giving meaning to things that could never truly live. It was as if the heavens were warning me, Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
I merely lay my head against the plastic and sighed, I must.
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