Stepped back from the whirlpool of madness...

I moved on from the philosophical mess. I think Brendan needs time to figure himself out and I want to get through another draft of the book, so I worked past it through the point where he's met Everett, a commercial artist who helped him get a very drunk Scott home, one night.

Not long after that, Everett brought Bren an old typewriter to be fixed and asked if he could paint a portrait of him. He'd caught a look in Brendan's eyes, that night, and old man's wariness, and he wants to try and replicate it to see if he really does have the potential to be a fine artist. Brendan's doesn't care that the man's gay, but he hasn't noticed that Aunt Mari does and is wary of the man.

-----

I'd finished working on Everett's typewriter long ago, but he didn't come to fetch it till four days after I turned eighteen. And he brought the portrait he'd wanted to do of me. Aunt Mari let him set it up in the parlor. It was framed and had a cloth over the front of it. Scott was in Austin, but the rest of us gathered 'round and he unveiled it. 

And there was me. Head and shoulders. Face done right. Hair more wavy than I'd thought but also more honest. And in my eyes was a certain wariness that did make me seem older than I was. All done in oils. I was bloody gobsmacked, it was so fine. 

"Jesus, Everett," I murmured, "this is what you can do?" 

He was blushing from the compliments. "It took a lot more work than I expected. Had a couple of false starts, and if you look close you'll see I made some mistakes, but..." 

"It's beautiful, Everett," said Aunt Mari. "Don't cut yourself down, over it." 

He beamed. 

"Where you gonna put it, Bren?" Brandi asked. 

"Not in the pool house!" asked her sister. 

"But that's where he lives." 

"It won't get seen there, and it'll get dirty." 

I nodded. "Yeah, the way I'm working." 

"We could hang it in here," said Aunt Mari. "By the fireplace." 

She had me take down a nice enough painting of some flowers and hang it there, where it did look proper. 

"Will you do one of us?" Bernadette asked Everett. 

He took in a deep breath then said, "Do you have some photos you like? I could replicate those. See what happens when I'm commissioned to do a work." 

Aunt Mari pulled out the family album, then she and Everett spent the next hour going over it to find the right images to use, chatting like a couple of the old neighbor-ladies of Ma's-- 

By the front door, sharing a craic as they cleaned their stoops, hair tied up in a scarf, apron over their old shifts, feet in slippers, criticizing friends and approving of those they liked until they didn't like them and-and-and enough said about that. 

Before they were done I felt that she saw him as another son. Which pleased me. He was ordered to stay for dinner and marveled at me eating a drumstick with a knife and fork, which brought forth a slew of comments from the girls about how silly it was. Which was why I did it.

"But that's how kings and queens eat," was Everett's comment. 

"C'mon," said Brandi, "the Queen of England doesn't know how to eat chicken?" 

"Well," he responded, "can you picture her taking a drumstick with her hands and biting into it?" Then he chomped into a leg, like a dog, making the B-Girls giggle. "Or corn on the cob?" More chomping down and getting but half of it in his mouth. "Getting it aaaaaaalllll over her face?" 

"But eating like Bren does is hard," said Bernadette. 

"Not really." Then Everett proceeded to show he could eat it this way, as well. 

That got the B-Girls to trying it, themselves, silent as they focused on their actions. Everett gave them little pointers and by the end they were cutting and trimming the meat off a drumstick as well as he or I. Aunt Mari exchanged a twinkling glance with Uncle Sean, but nothing was said by either of them. 

Then as he was leaving, Everett cast me a tender smile and said, "You're lucky, pug." 

"I'd argue with you on that," was my response. 

"Don't. You got people here who love you." 

"Yeah, but--" 

"No, you don't get to put a but on that. Not when you have a family watchin' over you." 

I had no idea what to say to that. Just looked at him. 

He took in one of his deep long breaths and continued, "When I was sixteen, my older brother caught me kissin' the captain of the basketball team. It's bad enough it was a boy; what made it worse was, he was Mexican. Chicano. I was told to get out. So I got." 

"This the brother with twins?" 

He smiled and nodded. "That was twelve years ago. My folks still won't talk to me. He and I--we're-we're better, now, and I think I've done okay, considerin'." 

I nodded. "Aunt Mari said you're welcome any time, and so you are. I know the girls would love to make you their latest pet project." 

That made him chuckle, soft and low, and still with more than a hint of sadness. 

"Thanks." He cast me another tender look then headed down to his barge of a car. 

Aunt Mari appeared behind me, as he drove away, and said, "He's who helped you get Scott in, that night." 

I cast a glance back at her. 

"I saw ya comin' back, wee hours. My son paralytic as a fool. It's good his father was still at Liam's Trough." 

Again, all I did was look at her. 

She nodded and continued, "Ya good friends?" 

Her voice carried a meaning I didn't want to understand. "He's been fine with me," I said. "And with Scott." 

"That's good. Just be careful." 

"I thought you liked him." 

"I do. But men like that--they'll become yer friend, then lead ya places you never meant to go." 

"Why do you think that of him?" 

"It's just how those men are, Bren." 

At that moment, I realized I'd misunderstood why Aunt Mari had invited Everett to dinner. She'd wanted to work him out better, and he'd known and that's what his last comments to me had been about. I felt almost betrayed on his behalf. 

Then I thought of Billie Corrie and him helping his uncle prepare to attack Eamonn, sending him to hospital well-damaged, and my China not caring a whit, nor a word from him since. I thought of Father Jack and his two faces, one Godly, the other political. I thought of Colm helping set up Paidrig for knee-capping over bloody cigarettes. I saw none of that-that-I don't know--casual willingness to hurt others, in any of them. Maybe I just don't see it in Everett. 

But to me it seemed his was the soul of an artist, not a conniving bastard, and his meaning was gentle, not selfish or cruel or controlling. What surprised me is how I'd just caught a glimpse of that nonsense in my aunt and knew, deep within I knew that if I defended him her worries would only increase and she might go so far as to ban him from the house as his own family had done. For the right reasons, to her, but still--it hurt me. 

I had no need to be that kind of shite, so I just sighed and said, "It's how all men are, Aunt Mari. And women. I learned that long ago." 

"Bren, all I meant was--" 

"I know what you meant." And my voice was more sharp than I intended. "Ma tells everyone I'm simple. Do you think that, as well?" 

She said nothing. Of course. All those months of my silence probably solidified it in her view. 

I nodded, closed the door and led her back to the portrait. "This looks good here. Let's leave it." 

Then I returned to the pool house, climbed onto the roof and stayed hidden in the shadows, smoking, letting myself accept the fact that my aunt saw me in much the same way as my mother had. Damaged. Foolish. Incomplete. Needing someone to watch over me. And to be kept close so as to control me, because worst of all? I could not be trusted. 

And finally I could see how right they both were.