I'm jumping around but still filling in the bits. This is about 1976/77 in Houston, not sure which, yet. Evangelyn is the daughter of a Cajun man Brendan works with...
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I led Evangelyn into the pool house and the first words from her were, “Man, you were sure of yourself.”
“What d’you mean?” I asked her.
“Look at this joint, all clean and cool. Like you’re expectin’ company.”
I looked around and honestly had no idea what she meant. My room was tidy, yes, but hardly what I’d call clean. All I could respond was, “Dunno why you said that. Tomorrow’s my cleaning day.”
“Your cleanin' day?”
“Yeah. I clean every Sunday.” I stopped short of telling her I’d been this way first seeing Joanna. Even while living in what I now saw as filth, I’d kept my part of it as neat as I could. It wasn’t even a thought for me. That Evangelyn should make such an issue of it surprised me and gave me my first idea as to why Paidrig had asked me if I was right in the head. Perhaps being so focused on clean wasn’t what people normally are like -- like Scott bringing home months worth of laundry and his room being in a state, or Uncle Sean and his car, enough said about that.
But then Aunt Mari was neat about her home, and all by herself; no maid or housekeeper to help her. And the girls were the same. And thinking of it, Mairead had done her best to keep the hovel we’d lived in from being too far gone, and with the new spot had focused double hard, even while working her job and pregnant, to keep it from slipping into the same state as before, while Ma had fussed she, herself, had kept things clean enough.
So I just added a shrug and said, “I can’t live in filth.”
She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “So you’re a Felix.”
It took me a moment to understand she was referring to a character on a TV show -- what was it called? The Weird Couple? I’d only seen an episode or two and it hadn’t been on for a couple years. American humor really did nothing for me, mainly because I didn’t understand half the jokes.
“Is that a problem, then?” I asked as I motioned for her to take a seat. I said it only for fun. Her dark eyes gave no hint of disparagement or distance, but instead were sharp on me in a way I found made my heart’s rhythm increase.
She floated down to the side chair and dropped her purse next to it. He skirt whispered around her legs as if trying to find just the right position to take in order for her to look her best. As if she could ever look anything less. Nails as red as her lips. Her hair gliding about her face, framing it in ways that only added to her loveliness. I froze at the sight of her, lost in just appreciating the picture she made...until she leaned forward and asked, “Brendan, are you gay?” And her voice was so sure the answer was, Yes, I actually wondered if I was.
I sat against a stool by the counter, almost laughing. “So being clean makes me a poofter, is that it?”
“Poofter?”
“Man who likes men. Like Jeremy.”
She shrugged and continued on with, “I don’t care one way or the other. I got friends who are and they’re great, but if the only reason you’re seein' me is to lay a fake trail -- ”
I laughed. “What the devil is it with you Americans? I’m neat, I don’t run about cussing up women and yakking about your football, and I like a woman who isn’t white, and that makes me queer?”
“I’ve never seen you with any other girls, and Jeremy’s definitely after you -- ”
I put up my hand to stop her. “Jeremy is a friend, and a good one. But he’s nothing to me, that way. As for girls, I’ve been here four years and you’ve known me for but one of them. Rest assured, I’ve been with others.” I wondered if I should tell her of Rainie...or even of Carla’s actions. I decided it’s best not to. Don’t want to be seen as a chatty lad when it came to the birds.
“How many? Girls. How many?”
Nosy little thing, wasn’t she? But in response, I held up two fingers and whispered, “That’s all you’ll get from me.”
“C’mon, Brendan, you can trust me. Haven’t you taken even one walk on the wild side?”
“What makes you think I would?”
“The way you look at Jeremy, sometimes. Like he could be more than just buddy.”
I shot back with, “Have you taken that walk? Like with a girl?” Her response was to merely offer up that cryptic smile, which I took to mean Yes, of course. “Oh! Well -- there’s an image’ll stay in my mind for a while. Now, I’ve got some wine and beer. Would you care for one or the other?”
She shrugged. “Wine’s good.”
I hopped up to hit the kitchen and pointed to my stereo. “If you want to put on some music...”
She rose and went to the stereo. “Nice set-up.”
“My one extravagance.” Which I’d found in a pile of trash behind a house and rewired, at a cost of maybe four dollars, total -- but no need to sound too much the penny-pincher. Though I was curious, “Why the interest in me and Jeremy?”
“Just curious.”
My arse. I half think she was testing me for some reason or other, and I’d no idea if I passed. She looked through my LPs and noticed I have a number of cassettes and reels of tape. “No eight-tracks?”
I dug into the fridge and pulled out the three open bottles with their corks stuck in -- a Chardonnay, a Rose and something I couldn’t even pronounce let alone spell. “Reel-to-reel stuff has some I transferred, but I borrowed the cassettes.” It looked as if none of the bottles had been gone into since I moved into the place. The Chardonnay was the only one with enough in it and it still smelled good, so I dug for two glasses. “There’s a player under the table that I connect, once in a while, but for the most part, the cassettes are easier to work with.”
“You got some old stuff here. No ABBA. No disco at all.”
“Fun to dance to, boring to listen to,” I said as I poured the wine.
“Not even any Marvin Gaye?” Then she found my collection of The Eagles and pulled out an LP. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing.” She put the LP on the turntable and set it to going.
I heard the first chords of Hotel California as I brought her the wine. “You like The Eagles?”
“I like The Grateful Dead more. Don’t tell my momma.” And she settled into the couch, this time, sideways with a leg tucked under her. She sipped the wine, nodded and set it on the floor then pulled her bag up and dug into it.
I sat next to her, saying, “I never spill secrets.”
“I know.” And she brought out a little glass pipe with a tiny bowl.
“You’re a bold one, carrying that around and this being Texas.”
“And me bein' black?” I shrugged...then nodded. I was beginning to see how vicious people were in his country about race. “Helps to have a brother who’s a cop.”
She poured a bit of wine into the pipe’s bowl then packed it with some pot. I lit ciggies for the both of us and set hers on an ashtray then handed her my lighter. She fired up the pot and inhaled it through the wine with a tiny gurgling sound.
“Vangie,” I asked, daring to use a name I’d heard her referred to by a friend, “is it that harsh, being black in America?” Then I took a turn at the pipe.
She leaned back, her dark curls shading down to her bare shoulders, her skin soft and unblemished, her eyes caught in a thousand yard stare. She finally exhaled and added a sigh to it. Without looking at me, she said, “Did you know that in Louisiana, if you have even a drop of negro blood in you, you’re classified by the state as black? A man could be as white as you and it wouldn’t matter. You should hear what people say when they find out. It’s like they’ve been insulted.” She looked at me. “Do you even have black people in Ireland?”
I exhaled and croaked, “Northern Ireland, and many of the British soldiers are black. And they’re as big of arseholes as the white ones.”
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I led Evangelyn into the pool house and the first words from her were, “Man, you were sure of yourself.”
“What d’you mean?” I asked her.
“Look at this joint, all clean and cool. Like you’re expectin’ company.”
I looked around and honestly had no idea what she meant. My room was tidy, yes, but hardly what I’d call clean. All I could respond was, “Dunno why you said that. Tomorrow’s my cleaning day.”
“Your cleanin' day?”
“Yeah. I clean every Sunday.” I stopped short of telling her I’d been this way first seeing Joanna. Even while living in what I now saw as filth, I’d kept my part of it as neat as I could. It wasn’t even a thought for me. That Evangelyn should make such an issue of it surprised me and gave me my first idea as to why Paidrig had asked me if I was right in the head. Perhaps being so focused on clean wasn’t what people normally are like -- like Scott bringing home months worth of laundry and his room being in a state, or Uncle Sean and his car, enough said about that.
But then Aunt Mari was neat about her home, and all by herself; no maid or housekeeper to help her. And the girls were the same. And thinking of it, Mairead had done her best to keep the hovel we’d lived in from being too far gone, and with the new spot had focused double hard, even while working her job and pregnant, to keep it from slipping into the same state as before, while Ma had fussed she, herself, had kept things clean enough.
So I just added a shrug and said, “I can’t live in filth.”
She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “So you’re a Felix.”
It took me a moment to understand she was referring to a character on a TV show -- what was it called? The Weird Couple? I’d only seen an episode or two and it hadn’t been on for a couple years. American humor really did nothing for me, mainly because I didn’t understand half the jokes.
“Is that a problem, then?” I asked as I motioned for her to take a seat. I said it only for fun. Her dark eyes gave no hint of disparagement or distance, but instead were sharp on me in a way I found made my heart’s rhythm increase.
She floated down to the side chair and dropped her purse next to it. He skirt whispered around her legs as if trying to find just the right position to take in order for her to look her best. As if she could ever look anything less. Nails as red as her lips. Her hair gliding about her face, framing it in ways that only added to her loveliness. I froze at the sight of her, lost in just appreciating the picture she made...until she leaned forward and asked, “Brendan, are you gay?” And her voice was so sure the answer was, Yes, I actually wondered if I was.
I sat against a stool by the counter, almost laughing. “So being clean makes me a poofter, is that it?”
“Poofter?”
“Man who likes men. Like Jeremy.”
She shrugged and continued on with, “I don’t care one way or the other. I got friends who are and they’re great, but if the only reason you’re seein' me is to lay a fake trail -- ”
I laughed. “What the devil is it with you Americans? I’m neat, I don’t run about cussing up women and yakking about your football, and I like a woman who isn’t white, and that makes me queer?”
“I’ve never seen you with any other girls, and Jeremy’s definitely after you -- ”
I put up my hand to stop her. “Jeremy is a friend, and a good one. But he’s nothing to me, that way. As for girls, I’ve been here four years and you’ve known me for but one of them. Rest assured, I’ve been with others.” I wondered if I should tell her of Rainie...or even of Carla’s actions. I decided it’s best not to. Don’t want to be seen as a chatty lad when it came to the birds.
“How many? Girls. How many?”
Nosy little thing, wasn’t she? But in response, I held up two fingers and whispered, “That’s all you’ll get from me.”
“C’mon, Brendan, you can trust me. Haven’t you taken even one walk on the wild side?”
“What makes you think I would?”
“The way you look at Jeremy, sometimes. Like he could be more than just buddy.”
I shot back with, “Have you taken that walk? Like with a girl?” Her response was to merely offer up that cryptic smile, which I took to mean Yes, of course. “Oh! Well -- there’s an image’ll stay in my mind for a while. Now, I’ve got some wine and beer. Would you care for one or the other?”
She shrugged. “Wine’s good.”
I hopped up to hit the kitchen and pointed to my stereo. “If you want to put on some music...”
She rose and went to the stereo. “Nice set-up.”
“My one extravagance.” Which I’d found in a pile of trash behind a house and rewired, at a cost of maybe four dollars, total -- but no need to sound too much the penny-pincher. Though I was curious, “Why the interest in me and Jeremy?”
“Just curious.”
My arse. I half think she was testing me for some reason or other, and I’d no idea if I passed. She looked through my LPs and noticed I have a number of cassettes and reels of tape. “No eight-tracks?”
I dug into the fridge and pulled out the three open bottles with their corks stuck in -- a Chardonnay, a Rose and something I couldn’t even pronounce let alone spell. “Reel-to-reel stuff has some I transferred, but I borrowed the cassettes.” It looked as if none of the bottles had been gone into since I moved into the place. The Chardonnay was the only one with enough in it and it still smelled good, so I dug for two glasses. “There’s a player under the table that I connect, once in a while, but for the most part, the cassettes are easier to work with.”
“You got some old stuff here. No ABBA. No disco at all.”
“Fun to dance to, boring to listen to,” I said as I poured the wine.
“Not even any Marvin Gaye?” Then she found my collection of The Eagles and pulled out an LP. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Nothing.” She put the LP on the turntable and set it to going.
I heard the first chords of Hotel California as I brought her the wine. “You like The Eagles?”
“I like The Grateful Dead more. Don’t tell my momma.” And she settled into the couch, this time, sideways with a leg tucked under her. She sipped the wine, nodded and set it on the floor then pulled her bag up and dug into it.
I sat next to her, saying, “I never spill secrets.”
“I know.” And she brought out a little glass pipe with a tiny bowl.
“You’re a bold one, carrying that around and this being Texas.”
“And me bein' black?” I shrugged...then nodded. I was beginning to see how vicious people were in his country about race. “Helps to have a brother who’s a cop.”
She poured a bit of wine into the pipe’s bowl then packed it with some pot. I lit ciggies for the both of us and set hers on an ashtray then handed her my lighter. She fired up the pot and inhaled it through the wine with a tiny gurgling sound.
“Vangie,” I asked, daring to use a name I’d heard her referred to by a friend, “is it that harsh, being black in America?” Then I took a turn at the pipe.
She leaned back, her dark curls shading down to her bare shoulders, her skin soft and unblemished, her eyes caught in a thousand yard stare. She finally exhaled and added a sigh to it. Without looking at me, she said, “Did you know that in Louisiana, if you have even a drop of negro blood in you, you’re classified by the state as black? A man could be as white as you and it wouldn’t matter. You should hear what people say when they find out. It’s like they’ve been insulted.” She looked at me. “Do you even have black people in Ireland?”
I exhaled and croaked, “Northern Ireland, and many of the British soldiers are black. And they’re as big of arseholes as the white ones.”
-->
