Two Lost Souls

Dinner and a show.

  ‘Stop!’ ‘Watch out!’ ‘Turn here!’ ‘Where are you going?’ Pami spoke not a single one of these fragmented questioning exclamations. Her lack of driving guidance meant one thing. Maybe two. First, we had made it to The Charter House without incident. Additionally, and relative mostly to me and slightly to you, the driving that got us here, my driving, happened without relative time passage. There was no blinker-ing, no turning, slowing, or stopping. At least not as I perceived. We backed out of the garage and pulled into the parking lot. I got us here but it was without primary thought. It was not truly without passage of time, and there had to be driving thought. However, that thought came from the Cloud. My mind was focused on what was whirling around in it. Reader, you ask what it was that was whirling. That, I will nurture to maturity and harvest it on a future page.

  Pamila gave me a long look that often ended a trip that I had driven. My right cheek tingled form its static, but I left it alone. We exited the vehicle and began Pamila’s anniversary in earnest.

  Pamila darted up the stairs and sashayed across the entrance. Extra rang out her greeting. “Hello all!” There was only one of the all.

  “Good evening ma’am. Sir.” The fake man had a smile for Pami and a polite nod for me. “How may I help you this evening?”

  “Rengaw. Party…” She let the word dangle. “For Pamila Rengaw.” Along for the ride. “It is my wedding anniversary.” She glanced back at me. “Our anniversary,” she corrected clumsily. I smiled clumsily. She continued; “We have a reservation this evening.” I chuckled briefly to myself. Her accentuation of ‘this evening’, declared it an imperial holiday. She the Princess to be crowned Queen.

  “Yes Princess Pamila. If you please. We have a lovely private room all set up and waiting for you.” He did not really say that, but I heard it. “If you would. My name is Stefan. Let me show you to your room.” He stepped in front of us; a Bell-cow leading. I grabbed Pami’s hand. I wanted to make sure I was going as well.

  “Thanks Steven,” I said. Yes it was deliberate. Stefan’s shoulders twinge’d. A squeeze of Pami’s hand spoke. Nothing! Stefan did not want to play with me.

  Carriage-ing past the adoring peasants, Pamila smiled, gave the royal wrist twist wave, and looked amazing as she passed the throng of thousands. I wondered if I had dark socks on.

  Stefan stepped aside in the doorway and hand offered us the semi-private room. The back wall was lined with windows that were curtained. Three long tables were lined together and surrounded by fourteen cushioned chairs. The wall opposite the windows looked out into the restaurant through a half-wall. Huge green ferns hung and partially filled the open space high in the openings. The room itself was very nice, but it had been turned nicer by decorations. I was sure that Rebecca and Sarina, along with Trevor, had dressed the room’s ensemble.

  Under orders by Rebecca, I was not to disturb the table’s ware; it was presently being artwork viewed. Six people stood around the masterpiece with fake adoration and light conversation. (If you tell anyone that I said that, I will deny it.) All twelve eyes caught our arrival. One set of these eyes looked nearly swollen closed. I immediately understood; Sarina was about to have a moment.

  “Mom?” Sarina said, pushing passed Stick and clearing the far side of the table. Three hurried strides and she was on her Mommy. She grabbed Pami’s arm and attempted to take her from the room. To where, I do not know. Pami slid her arm up and away from her bear cub’s grasp. “Do you have a shall?” she asked her mother.

  “No. Buy me one for my birthday. A black one.” Sarina’s Mommy escaped and greeted Rebecca. “Hello baby. How are you?” Rebecca’s mom’s asking seemed tempered. It was not so much a party greeting as it was a meaningful asking.

  I forced a smile away as Sarina glared at me. I ran. “Wade, Kent, how are you guys.” My greeting was not manners. It was a seeking away from what that was. Not wanting to, and knowing I had to, I turned back to Sarina. She was gone. Pami turned her attention to the beautiful table and went all melodramatic. I again checked for the angered bear cub. Still hibernating.

  The evening’s participants are both family and friends. There is Dennis and Tina. As you already know, our girls and their husband’s are here. Another couple that will join us is Trevor and Neal. Liz, a long-time friend of Pami’s, will be here. In addition, Michael, a short time friend of mine, is here. Both Liz and Michael are unattached. The reasons they are unattached are… never mind. I will let you figure it out for yourself.

  Sitting here, fingers hovering above my keyboard, I am poised to tap anew. My mind winds continually round. It goes to here, there, there again, and back to here. The words to let loose on you all seem rightly wrong. Yet it is their wrong that seems to me to be the right of them.

  That last paragraph was fifty-five wasted words. A stall if you will. (So says my editor.) I did not know what to write. A brain cramp. The words were right there, but I could not choose them in the proper order. Perhaps I choose unwise still. However, I will tell you why to me they seem to be in order now. ‘Friend’, I use the term without conviction. My friend Michael is indeed a very peculiar bloke. (Transferring William Keefe.) However, Michael himself knows that he is like very few. Moreover, the few that are like him are Wards of the State. Or should be.

  Several days ago, I was walking Mervin past Michael’s home. He suddenly appeared running across his front lawn. I stopped in Bubba’s tracks. Michael pulled up a few feet from me. In a calm voice he said; ‘The voices are listening to me.’ His face puffed a large fulfilled smile. We shared eyes for a two count. He turned effortlessly and walked steady toward his home. Michael pulled the door of his home closed behind. A Home is exactly where he should be.

  It had not happened yet this evening, and it would be days before Dennis would tell me of it. Dennis and Michael had introduced themselves for the first time. They were shallow in one of those first time conversations. The clumsy conversation Dennis thought was currently about the weather. ‘I am certain I will scare you with the truths I hold dear to me. They will not be your truths. If I find they are your truths, I will change mine’, said Michael to Dennis.

  ‘Danny I just looked at him. I didn’t… what the hell? What do you say to that Danny?’ Dennis had met Michael Frick.

  Always needing a unique character for my writing, I forced myself to get to know Michael Frick. I won’t yet share more of Michael Frick. However, and against the profile I just gave you, I will tell you that Michael Frick is as harmless as a ladybug. However, still, and what the hell, I wonder who invited him here tonight.

  Now I give the reason Liz is single. Liz is a man hating Bitch. In a sincere attempted compliment, she once said to me; ‘I am glad you are married to Pamila. That is one less man out there.’ (I’m not making this up.) She is forty-two years old, married and divorced three times. You do the math. Funny thing about her three beat down and broken ex-husband’s, they all disappeared suspiciously after being divorced. This according to Liz. Oh… yes, I am quite sure Liz is dangerous.

  The only consideration I ever have for Liz, is Pami. Pami’s attraction to Liz is beyond reason to me. I would love to be able to tell you some philosophical analysis of Liz, but I don’t have one. From others trained and professionally skilled, no doubt it would be deep. I saw it as just plain Bitchy. That is all the time we have for today. Please pay on your way out.

  Pamila hates all women like Liz. But just not Liz. I will just say that Pami knows of my confusion in this relationship. She doesn’t care, and I don’t care when I talk with contempt for Liz. I don’t know. I cannot figure it out. If you know, give me a call, we’ll do lunch.

  Sarina had returned from wherever she had pondered, and all were now present. The gathering was building from an initial subdued party etiquette to a loosened momentum. Trevor and cocktails were i
ts loosening building blocks. Alcohol was good for this, but Trevor was better. Conversations were generally light and normal for this point on the party time-line. Since nothing particularly clever or funny occurred at this time, I will push ahead slightly.

  Directed by Rebecca, we were all in our assigned seats. Pamila and I sat center with our backs to the windows. Pami was on my left. On my immediate right was Trevor; his partner was on his right. As Rebecca understands fashion, Neal’s gray suited self was impeccable. Shoes to silk tie, all were delightfully picked and well fitting. Manicured, trimmed, and fit, Neal was ‘GQ’ designed. Tall, handsome, educated, and successful, Neal attracted the attention of both women and men. For me, Neal was an easy conversation.

  As I understood fashion, Trevor, I did just as well. Trevor’s displayed fashion was a cream-colored light sport jacket. The jacket’s foundation was a button up shirt. It was four paneled; yellow red green and light blue. His red denim jeans were adorned with a jeweled yellow belt. His feet glowed green suede shoes.

  Trevor’s hair pretended to be a dirty blond. The frock was long and large; late Rod Stewart. Believing Trevor to be in his early forties, he was not as tall, fit, or young, as Neal.

  Neal and Trevor were folklore in Rebecca’s World. Moreover, all my girls very much enjoyed their company. Neal I thought kind of like me, along for the ride. Trevor was the real show. Thus, the reason they were here tonight. Let us not forget whose anniversary this is. Dennis was for me. Do I need to say that he was along for the ride as well?

  Neal was well spoken, and formally educated. I was very comfortable with his easy personality. Trevor was flamboyant spoken, and worldly educated. I was not as comfortable with his stage-show personality. Hot flamed, Trevor was a bit of problem for me. That problem, I understood to by my problem. Trevor knew very well of my problem, and ne never missed an opportunity to toy with this problem. Moreover, my girls loved it, and he knew this as well.

  Tina sat on Pami’s left with Dennis to Tina’s left. Tina was dressed to full bloom as well. Her blond hair was up, her neck was pearled, and her dress fit very well. Both Dennis and Tina are ten years less us. When Tina dressed for hot, Tina was hot. (Hay! I’m allowed to look.)

  When she was dressed for presentation, and when she was not, Tina made Dennis look like… well, like Dennis. Dennis was Dennis, no different tonight. He read all the same fashion magazines as I. However, Dennis’ style was not the only thing that pained his appearance. Stealing Tina’s own words, ‘Dennis is a little frumpy.’ To me he looked like he was always shoplifting several bags of Russets. Tina called his stomach ‘The Great Landslide’. Her words not mine. Although, her words, perfect! Now, I know that I have not had a swimmers-build since I was fifteen, but Dennis is… Dennis is my Bud!

  Tonight Dennis was frump-ing in a dark blue suit. The Great Landslide was trying to push through his Oxford shirt and tumble over his belt. None of it mattered to Dennis, to Tina, or any of us. Dennis was a good person and a better friend. I do not have many good friends; Dennis was one and I loved him for it. (I know you are wondering how it can be that I don’t have many good friends. If you are not wondering, keep it to yourself.)

  The rest of the group sat across from us. Sarina fronted Tina; Kent sat across from Dennis. Liz was talking to Pami and Michael was staring at me. Rebecca had selected a seat across from Trevor. I silently chuckled thinking of the conversation Wade and Neal would have.

  Rebecca’s place, directly across from Trevor, was no doubt planned. It was the same anticipated entertainment value that placed Trevor next to me.

  As only truly professional servers can, our dinner settings had been removed without notice. Two bottles of Pinot Noir held little. They were waiting for one good jar of the table to place them on their side. Cubes were left to liquefy within a few dead soldiers. However, there were many cubes holding form and swimming in assorted cold colors. These assorted, were not the first of their kind this evening. As if magical, all of these spirits had led us to a happy place. Into the Misty Garden of Gifts. The Present Elf blessed the Princess with wondrous gifts from the people. Now finished, Elf Sarina potion’d all. We were free to romp amongst this mystical place. All the planned and directed party protocol was complete.

  Several more Noirs and several several more cool colors were ordered. This of course sent us hurtling toward the most dangerous crossing of the evening; the uninhibited, unretract-able, alcohol spirited conversations. In other words, that moment when you wake up in the morning, stare at the ceiling in thought, and say to yourself; ‘Shit!’ For those that were not swearing to themselves in the morning, it was the best phase of the party. The most re-lived part of the night.

  These conversations started off within easy earshot of the conversers. Then they started to travel; two and three people apart. As travel increased so did the ambient decibels of the room.

  “Daniel!” Feet from me, Wade’s calling was loud. Currently I was not directly involved in a conversation. However, those that were, sharply cut theirs off. They all stared at my Son-in-law. Was this going to be it? Was this going to be a moment? All were wondering this, and none wanted to miss it.

  You see… Wade and alcohol create stupidity. Pamila calls it Wade-idiotity. (It was really mine, but I fear you are beginning to think badly of me.) Of course, this can be said of most of us. But Wade was special in his flair of stupidity. At this exact kind of function, rarely would my daughter’s husband deny us that flair.

  The switch on the wall labeled ‘Sound’ had been flipped. Including Trevor, the private room held silent. Rebecca turned a glare to her husband. Pamila gasped softly. Liz and Michael anticipated something with the sudden change, but they did not know the moment’s cause.

  Me? I couldn’t stand it. I was busting and my thoughts showed it. ‘Go ahead. Come on Wade you know you want to. Say it. Just say it.’

  Answering Wade’s call, I looked to him. I wondered how badly I had a look of anticipation. At him, all looked, all listened, all were ready. Trembling and drooling, I was Mervin begging food as his words began.

  “Daniel what is it like to be married for twenty-seven years?” These were Wade’s words. All the concentrated listening, all the tightened neck muscles, all the anticipation, by all, fell harmlessly to our disappointed feet.

  Rebecca breathed again. Pamila sat back easy in her chair. Slammed with his unsurprising words, I was stunned with surprise. Still looking at Wade, my mind was hollow. This gave me room to create. Room to give to the anticipating something to fill what they felt they had been left without.

  “Let me tell you a little story about being married for twenty-seven years.” I began to give back. Sarina groaned.

  Rebecca; “Oh Shit.” Stick sat up for more intent listening. Dennis downed his drink. Pami was both my greatest and least concern. However, she did place her table-hidden right hand on my thigh and firmly squeezed. This was of concern to me.

  Pamila’s persuasion through pain aided the feel of my response. Over-sweet and ever loving had to be its tone. “Let me tell you what it is like to be married to my beautiful bride for twenty-seven years.” Her fingernails did not dig in. Pami’s grip loosened. I sat back light into the chair.

  A quick smile, and I continued; “Last summer we went to spend a week with my brother.” Her hand left my leg. “The guest room that we stayed in was very nice. It had a Jacuzzi tub in a private bathroom.” Pami turned to me. “Two mornings before we were to fly home, I sought out Pami and found her washing breakfast dishes in the kitchen. Quietly I walked up behind her and reached around her waist; placing my hands into the front pockets of her jeans.”

  “Dad!” snapped Sarina. Pami’s hand returned.

  “I pulled her toward me and in my best Sean Connery voice-’

  “Which is terrible.” Pami added to the story.

  “Anyways… Softly
caressing her and nuzzling her ear-”

  “Dad!”

  Not slowing for Sarina’s prude-ness, I continued; “You know Money Penny, if we were to leave here without fully taking advantage of that large bathtub... mmm… an opportunity missed don’t you think?”

  Pami, mentally measuring the weight of what she thought was impending embarrassment, glared a ‘Daniel choose wisely’ look. Her hand, firmly yet without pain, punctuated the wordy look.

  At this point in my telling, there really wasn’t anything to choose. My story of adoration was flowing smartly. All that was left was the finish.

  “Pami flicking suds into the sink turned to me and placed her hands around my waist. She looked long and lovingly into my eyes. At this point I was sure we were going to take full advantage of that large tub.” I paused to build the moment. “My beautiful wife, the woman I chose to live the rest of my life with, gently kissed me. Then, softly, inn her best Maude voice, asked; ‘And who is going to clean the tub?’ ”

  Probably not heard by all amidst the laughter-filled room, I added; “That is what it is like to be married for twenty-seven years Wade.” Whack! My leg took a response of its own.

  Pami; “Rengaw you are so abused!” She was in full laughter. She kissed me and slowly shook her head.

  Dennis was hysterical and tossed to me; “Danny you couldn’t even get laid on vacation. You stud!” Others tossed barbs that did not hurt.

  Sarina’s eyes were full of tears. Her torso shook as she was trying to fight the humor and best display a disgust that she should morally have.

  Trevor I thought was going to hyperventilate. Intentionally, he kept knocking his shoulder against mine. He was trying to say something but couldn’t.

  Laughter gentled back to assorted conversations. Hearing several and listening to none, several words from my right, from Trevor, focused me. Trevor was telling a story to Rebecca. It was fairly mild at first, and then morphed into a bit more than awkwardness. Finally, it crossed the line of any tastefulness. At least as far as my little mind will close on.

  In mid story, Trevor said; “Neal was such a fantastic-”

  “Okay!” I cut Trevor off. “No one wants to hear this.” Rebecca gave me a look. Trevor just looked. Most of the table hushed at my harshness.

  Trevor still looking at me leaned back slightly and said; “So it’s okay for you to talk about your sexual prowess, or lack of, but I can’t talk about my sex-life.”

  “Trevor,” Neal said just above a whisper.

  I jumped back in; “I wasn’t talking about sex and you were. And even if I was, our sex is…” I froze as I knew I had gone to a bad place. A place I could not comfortably get out of.

  Trevor’ “What? Your sex is what? Finish it Daniel.” Trevor questioned me without expecting an answer. “Normal! Is that the word you wanted? Is that what you were gonna say Daniel?” Trevor finished and stared at me. The room was silently busy with watching. I was point of no return.

  Pami; “Daniel.” Her word neither offered support nor inferred a scold.

  Trevor’s words came evenly paced and confident. “Come on Daniel, finish that sentence.” His challenge froze me still and rattled around in my mind. My eyes searched his, looking for what emotion walked along hand-in-hand with his words. His eyes did not blink, they were focused and waiting.

  “Trevor!” This time Neal did not whisper.

  Trevor jerked to work. “Come here you silly silly man give me some of that good stuff.” He was on me. His launch grabbed me and bounced the chair backwards. My arms were pinned under him and my face was on fire. With a nippy spattering of kisses, Trevor began putting out the fire. He stopped only long enough to say; “Give me some of that sweet sweet sugar.”

  Pami; “Hey! I’m sitting right here.”

  “Oh sister please! You’re cute and all, but Danny needs a little queer.” Trevor’s circle of kisses continued. The banging on the table and the choking laughter came from Rebecca. Sarina snorted. (I mentioned the snorting didn’t I.)

  A prop in this Tragic Comedy, tragic as I felt it, I struggled to free my arms. Not planned in its performance, but hoped for by my girls, this was their perfect. Surely a featured next-day replay. See kids, always drink responsibly.

  A thunderclap of laughter exploded from our private room. Most but not all patrons enjoyed our enjoyment. Very rare in his personality, Neal’s enjoyment of Trevor’s antics were boisterous. Alternatively, and however, my uncomfortableness in the skit may have been the main source of his amusement. “Get off me you freak,” I said while finally being able to push Trevor off. Then it happened, providence delivered, I was offered an out, an opening to regain command and composure.

  “Billy?” Pami’s question was hushed and meant for me.

  “You confused man! Danny boy you sit here surrounded by four beautiful women, ladies as wondrous as God ever sculpted, and you’re swapping tongue with this Dandy Boy.”

  “I was not swapping tongue!” I cleared the air. I did not know if Billy had miscounted, or did not think Liz a sculpture. Of course, there was also the ‘beautiful’ part.

  Sparked, Trevor was off his chair and rigid in stance. Wanting Billy not to miss it, Trevor’s motions and sounds exaggerated insulted. Looking down at William Keefe, slapping words hit Billy. “Dandy Boy! Did I just hear you call me a Dandy Boy?” Neal’s lips twitched to speak. Deciding not to, he let Trevor go.

  “Yeah! You are one isn’t you?”

  Trevor directly corrects Billy’s meant-to-be poor grammar. “Aren’t you.” Billy stood silent looking up at Trevor. “The correct pronunciation is ‘aren’t you’,” finished Trevor. Trevor paused. During this brief pause, Trevor’s blood began to simmer. Trevor defined Billy’s being. “You… you Troglodyte.”

  Billy mumbled; “Troglodyte?” Billy did not mumble. “Oh my young man, I’m an educated man and you are gonna hurt ole Billy’s feelings. I apologize; no harm intended.” William Keefe continued; “In fact, in 19th century France, Dandy was a compliment.” Neal crossed his arms on his chest and smoothly leaned back into his chair. Slightly tilting his intrigued face, Neal didn’t speak to Billy. But that did not mean that he was not talking to him. Neal’s look at Billy was made of a knowing. Billy noted the look. If humans could read minds, Billy wanted to now. The observing room wanted to as well.

  Trevor absorbed Billy’s words into a new pool of confidence. For affect, and for his own enjoyment, Trevor slickly took a seat. I was getting comfortable. Trevor was getting in control. Neal watched his partner’s face go form frustrated anger, to stalking lawyer. A Prosecutor about to final-argument a defendant away for a very long time. More comfortable, and in my little mind, I questioned if I was an ill man. What I was watching, this battle that was heating up, I loved so. God help me I love it so. (Yes that was a rip-off of the movie Patton.)

  Trevor was stone solid as The Thinker. He was contemplation wearing a glower. His mind at work would not loose a tongue before it was time. Fingers tapping lips halted as words were perfected. "Actually… Billy?” Trevor taunted.

  “It is William Keefe!” Billy snorted.

  “Yes. Billy, in France, Dandy was only a compliment in the late 18th and early 19th century. By the middle of the 19th century, Dandy was merely an adjective. In the late 19th century, Dandy was perceived and delivered in a derogatory context.” Billy caught by Trevor’s succinctness was taken aback and needed to re-profile Trevor’s person. Aided by my witnessed smirk on Neal’s face, I began the same.

  Billy redirected. “You are a student of French history sir?” I looked from Neal to Trevor.

  “A decade ago I spent two years in France. Paris!” very proudly declared Trever. Sitting back, I was intrigued and needed to focus on all. Searching me, Neal chuckled hushed and brief. Displaying my enjoyment, my face was surely alive. Neal’s chuckle and the moment sent my face f
rom intent to titillated. No doubt it was childish.

  Trevor continued; “I lived in the Latin Quarter and studied French culture and its Liberal Arts. Mostly art, more specifically, Painters and their works.”

  Billy jumped in. “The Latin Quarter. The Left Bank. What energy must flow in that inarticulate place. I mean that as a compliment. Think about it; think about all the young talent that has lived there over the centuries. Surely the Seine must be radioactive with the energy that leaks from the Quarter.”

  Trevor studied his foe. Billy returned the study. Only few seconds, but it seemed my lifetime. Game on someone! Trevor; “Have you ever been to France William?”

  Billy; “Literally. No.” Trevor hearing this slid back into his chair. He understood his situation in this chess match. Trevor’s face eased with strength recognized.

  Billy was next to advance his queen. “Italian, French, which culture, which Great Master, who did you favor?”

  “All of them.” Emphasizing sincerity, Trevor was quick to respond. “Each were unique, each gave me something different. Probably, something different was given to all that studied them. I can truly say that I did not favor one over their peers.” Upon the arms of his chair, Trevor raised forward. The character of the room was brittle; it had so suddenly gone from fun to furious.

  Trevor; “I will tell you that something I did not expect caught me and held me a prisoner of intrigue. It was the Americans that sought to work and eventually perfect their crafts; 19th century Americans in Paris. Painters, Sculptors, Writers, artists of all types. This includes the Medicals. I could list a hundred and spend hours talking with you about them. I am sure that I will not. Perhaps, maybe, but probably not. Among these Americans, one, Samuel Morse, fascinated me.” With his thoughts now finished, Trevor bruised close to a scolding. “And William, my name is not sir. It is Trevor thank you.”

  Billy seemed to be losing but was quick with; “The Lightning Man. Morse was the inventor of the Telegraph.” Tactically, Billy’s move was not powerful, but his dropping of a Morse nickname strategically forced Trevor to regroup. Billy was bloodied but not beaten.

  “Inventor of the Telegraph!” Trevor said this with disdain. Trevor continued; “Yes that is true. However, Morse’s true contribution was his painting.” I took his proclamation of historical irreverence with disgust. I left it alone as I wanted nothing to do with the fray. Trevor added; “Morse was a very talented painter that lived this part of his life aspiring to be a successful artist. He did not gain any wealth until later in his life.” Trevor paused and then added unwillingly; “The telegraph.” I smiled. He continued; “He had ceased to paint by this time. Tragic. Truly.”

  “The Painting of Paintings,” Billy snapped off.

  Trevor; “Pardon?”

  Billy; “The Painting of Paintings. That is what James Fennimore Cooper called Morse’s The Gallery of the Louvre.” Trevor sat back, his brow just a little tighter. Billy sensed an opening and continued; “Cooper, the author of several popular books, including The Last of the Mohicans. Although I have always considered The Deer Slayer to be Cooper’s best work. They were great friends Morse and Cooper. Did you know that Trevor?”

  Trevor; “Yes I did. Did you know that they first met in Paris?”

  Billy; “Yes I did.”

  Trevor again sought a position of tactical advantage. “Mister Cooper is presented prominently in that painting.” Trevor took a deep breath and continued; “My favorite Morse painting is Dying Hercules.” I looked quickly to Billy and tried to transmit this thought; ‘Don’t Billy, just leave it alone.’ I did not think Billy would lay the homosexual card, but there was a moment of concern.

  Pami gulped air as Billy began. “Tell me Trevor, what was your favorite location in Paris? Or in all of France for that matter?” Billy asked this soft, as if he wanted to make nice. Pami breathed normal.

  “I’m not sure, there were many. Rarely did I travel out of Northwest France. I guess that maybe it was The Garden of the Tiwillery. I spent so much time there.” Trevor’s look was distant; he was there now. Billy added a Twillery reference.

  “I have a book, a picture book of the garden. It is truly amazing. However, I am certain that the pictures present only a small piece of its magnificence.” Trevor was definitely having a moment of missing.

  Trevor, with reverence; “The statues…” Missing love glossed his eyes.

  Either Billy did not notice Trevor’s struggle, or he did and tried to bring Trevor back home. Or anywhere other than where he sadly was. “Trevor did you ever travel to the Cathedral de Rouen?” Trevor’s chin had longingly slipped down; his colored remembering did not allow time for a reply.

  It was at this time that Billy’s face morphed gentle. Billy loved any game such as this, but not where this one had gone. Reader, as I described earlier, this is not who Billy is. Nevertheless, Billy’s face showed that this is who he thought was right now. Almost looking scared, Billy begged a look to Pami. “Come here and give me a big hug.” Pami’s words and extended arms offered William Keefe an out.

  Pami slipping behind me met Billy at the end of the table. She bear-hugged the stuffing out of him. Then came the scolding. “William Keefe you are such a mischievous little Irishman.” This was a Pami scolding, a public Pami scolding. Billy understood what her underlying meaning was. Neal squeezed Trevor’s shoulder. There was once again breathable air in the room.

  The game-clock clicked to zero. Entertainingly and well moved, the pieces on the board were now lifeless. I wondered about my wondering. Why was I not compelled to determine a winner. Trevor’s two years of lived France experience, versus William Keefe’s knowledge from a distance, I will let you choose who checkmated whom.

  Billy is an axe sharp enough to slice paper. However, Trevor’s grindstone was whirling swiftly. William Keefe, with Trevor’s continuation, with Trevor’s grinding, could have easily been dull rounded. Trevor certainly must have understood this. Billy surely must have felt the walls closing in.

  Perhaps it was the moral of Trevor’s soul. Perhaps his being would not allow a crushing. Wondering if I would have crushed him, wondering if I could have crushed him, I choose to let you wonder.

  Perception is reality. For me, this night, reality changed. Thankfully though, this reality changed, was seamless. Not so of several others of recent. Trevor changed for me. Let me correct; not for me, within me. The flame that Trevor loved to flicker, did so a little softer. The game of Knowledge was not the part he liked to play for me. I never told him of my perception changed, that would have ruined his fun.

  Possibly driven by Pami’s gentle rebuke, Billy downshifted into a lower gear. A gentleman, William Keefe smoothly introduced himself to those that he did not know and jovially refreshed those that he did. Liz, Michael, Rebecca, Wade, Neal, and Tina, had never met Billy before. Trevor had not either but he had now.

  Michael, in a stoic voice, was quick with; “Sir I have read you often. You write with a strong conviction. However, your words are often irrelevant of the truth.” Having spent some time with Michael, I rather knew what this meant. Having spent more time with Billy, I knew he took acceptation to what it meant.

  Pami’s words still live in his ears, Billy tried to context Michael’s words with forced indifference. Looking with a soft smile that showed his struggling, Billy accepted. “Perhaps,” he said. Michael looked at me with a walking-the edge look. A not-quite crazy, but trying-to-get-there something. In his tiny colorless world, he had escaped into misguided satisfaction. Michael, sitting across from me, on this night, somebody please explain this to me.

  Liz, in meeting Billy, was to-the-point brief. Her words were paced evenly and without contempt. However, finding Billy’s grasp, I knew he had caught her disdain for him. It was not disdain for William Keefe, it was unseen disgust for the Junk that Billy carried. Of Michael, of Liz, his
eyes were asking; ‘What the hell? Why are they here? Why are they anywhere?’ Billy, like me, is a strong believer in Darwin’s Natural Selection.

  Billy addressing Pamila; “I don’t wish to lay me soiled anchor upon the silver shores of your anniversary gala. I only ask your forgiveness of me interruption, and for permission to borrow your husband for the briefest of time.” Pami held Billy’s arms, staring him a look of sincerity. One with absolute meaning.

  “You can take him Billy, but I want him back quickly.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Billy?” She stonewalled an emphasizing glare around her questioning. “I mean it Billy.” Billy pulled an invisible cap from his head. With clenched fists he held the unseen tight to his chest.

  “Pamila!” Here comes William Keefe. “My Dearest Pamila. On the soul of me poor departed mother, I swear to return him soonest.”

  “Your mother is eighty-six and living in Albuquerque Billy,” she said hands on hips. Naughty little Irishman swelled deviant from a child’s smile.

  “Oh she is, so she is.” Billy kissed Pami on the cheek. She gave Billy a questioning giggle. Did Billy hear the intention in the Princess’ chortle? It would be best for the Irishman if he did.

  Billy trying to insure an allowed departure, he quickly turned toward an escape. Pamila, Billy directed, and I warned, did so one last time. “Daniel!” I turned toward the once Princess and now Medusa. Not wanting to be eternally stone frozen, I did not meet her eyes. Her word, single and well chosen, was warning enough.

  With the moment presented, Billy called me; “Come on Danny boy let me buy you a bit of drink.” Departing in the direction of the bar, with Billy at point, my eyes corner turned and swept passed an eye fixed stare from Sarina. The ‘don’t you dare dad’ stare. Over the last four years of my sobriety, I had seen the look often.

  “Aren’t you the prettiest little thing. You must be the sweetest barkeep in all of Colorado. In all places across the pond.” Billy’s words danced. The young woman smiled with the old man’s flirting. She reached across the bar and gently patted Billy’s cheek.

  “Thank you!” She glowed at him. “That is so sweet.” She was working it. Billy was loving it.

  “So me sweetest pourer of lavations, your mum and dad surely blessed you with a name. Would you like to gift ole Billy with such. Such surely, that must be one fitting only a lovely as yourself.” Her face lit a smile only created by the warmest of feelings. Her high cheekbones flushed amber. She was surprised that Billy’s words had wormed her so.

  In a voice that was textured with that with which Billy had softened, her ruby lips gave Billy what he wanted. “Jenny, Jennifer Elizabeth, my mum and dad named me Jennifer Elizabeth Nortin.” Slap! The sound of Billy’s hand smacking the polished Red Mahogany bar-top grabbed a lot of attention.

  “Jenny! A great Irish name.” Any name in Billy’s ears, or out of Billy’s mouth, William Keefe thought green. Looking into what he no doubt saw as emerald eyes, he continued in the moment. “Jennifer. On me long missed isle, Jennifer means Fair One.” Jennifer, for the first time, suspected that Billy might be spreading a wee bit of fertilizer.

  “In America to,” said Jenny. Whether this dung was placed on the fields of his long missed isle, or not, I did not know. But as you know dear reader, a Playhouse filled of well-chosen words, will always louden my applause.

  I may have been front row center, but in the eyes of the Fair One, I was not one of the staged actors. In a soft throaty voice, illegal in forty-six states, Jenny asked; “Billy, what can I do for you?” Jenny’s attention to Billy, surely tip tempting, slapped me light with jealousy. If I was now Billy’s Wingman, was I to stay to the code and now leave?

  Queued from the left wing, Billy’s right hand patted my shoulder. “My friend here, Danny boy and I would love a few fingers of The Blue. Neat! Two doubles please Miss Jenny.” Instantly Jenny’s glowing smile tempered. Her appeasing flow hesitated.

  “Two?” Jenny asked. With words that were uncomfortably legal, she establishment dictated; “They will be eighty-five dollars.” She watched for a reaction, waited for an acknowledgement of the cost. None from me, I wasn’t buying. Billy looked at her easily as he was conjuring. He placed his hand on hers and gently patted it.

  “My Dear Jennifer, are you offering to buy an old Mick a drink?” I do not think she noticed that she had, or did intentionally, but she had taken a single step backward.

  She had an instant of muddle before she replied. “I… I think you are more than capable of purchasing your own drink Billy.” She said this still flirting. However, she still wanted the acknowledgment. The bar-stool rocked back as Billy tossed himself into it. His laugh was deep loud and brief.

  “Jenny please take old Mister Walker down, dust him off, and poor us a couple of that liquid ambrosia.”

  William Keefe once told me; ‘The only time you should be without words, is when you are without time.’ Billy believed this to be the eleventh commandment.

  This time, as we waited for our whiskey, was not an exception. I did not intentionally yield to my senior. Billy brushed the time into his pile and swept it toward me. It was very smooth and a bit rambling. It was of Gary Owen. He told of how this ballad came about in 1867, and how General George Armstrong Custer soon adopted it. Thus, it became the fight song of the 7th cavalry. Custer kept a small band with him and played it before battles. The story has it, as Billy told it, was that the Indians where instilled with fear when it would be heard. My feeling is that the Lakotas and the Cheyenne were not too afraid. Custer’s traveling band played Gary Owen on the morning of June 25 1876. Shortly before the battle of Little Big Horn. Granted, the rushed effort was played without inspired rhythm, but still, we know how that battle turned out. Gary Owen then became the dirge of the 7th Cavalry.

  Sitting Bull, who loved to sing and was reportedly gifted in song, probably enjoyed the hurried rendition.

  Billy told his story hurriedly with a spattering of facts and adoration for the Irish Gary Owen. I enjoyed his enthusiasm, and marveled at the ease at which he jumped into the topic without any verbal transition. Also, I would have been fine without his recollection that Custer was found with a bullet wound below the heart, another to his temple, and an arrow inserted into his penis. “Custer purists debate this report; I believe it to be true,” Billy added.

  Jenny placed a Short in front of each of us. They were nearly half filled with the dark brown liquid. She smiled at Billy and gave a brief glance toward me. “Here you are gentlemen. Enjoy!” She left to tend to others that wanted more flirting and beverages.

  Billy raised his glass eye high and I returned the salute. “To Greg Tillman. That poor bastard.” Not that I was going to partake, but hearing the namesake of his toast, I emphasized this non-action with a prolonged hold and a slow place atop the polished bar.

  This was classic William Keefe. He placed something to me that I did not know. Something he wanted me to know. Something that would be a means to his end. Whatever that end might be. Billy watched me watching his eyes. He could see that the placing had my intrigue. With respect for his Blue, he tried not to bruise it as he took it down in one smooth pallet-tation.

  (Two things here: First, yes I can create words. Second; ladies, how badly do men play the verbal chess that follows?)

  Downing, then downing the empty Short to the bar, his eyes were still within mine. With anticipating eyes, mine were within his. “Oh that’s right Danny, you know Mister Tillman do you not.” Billy, flipping me thoughts that were now rehearsed words, continued his constructing. “Danny you don’t know. You have not heard.” Body bouncing up and arms waiving, he had overacted his delivered line. It made no matter. Knowing that he had tickled my interest, he sat back mellow. He left it untouched. He let it ferment.

  When I was ready, he was ready. Billy was firm with the chisel as he punc
hed punctuation. “Earlier, today, the Colorado Bureau of Investigation suspended Mister Tillman. Indefinitely!’ Billy chuckled. “Without pay!” My stare at him was because now my mind was very much swirling. “Pending an investigation of course,” he added. I chuckled. He continued; “It seems that they are less than pleased with his performance at Monticello. His unauthorized performance. He’s gonna get his dumb ass fired Danny.” With slight pain, my eyes grew wide. Self-evil wanted out.

  “Hah! Fifteen minutes. He is gonna get his fifteen minutes.” Billy did not understand my true meaning, but my exploding sent him into a perfect Billy laugh. Deep, loud, and fully enjoyed. Enjoyed by all that witnessed it.

  Even though I knew that it meant still one more day in purgatory, my own laugh rang loud through the restaurant. Pami’s eyes turned to my ringing. I was sure they did. Billy patted pleasure down on my shoulder. “I thought you might like that Danny boy.” William Keefe’s thoughts are usually right.

  Reader, I will tell you this and deny it in the same sentence; I twanged slight with sympathy for Greg Tillman. It was the briefest moment of emotionally unauthorized weakness.

  (I Digress. ‘Twanged’. I used the word twanged. Do you like it? I don’t know if I do. I am not sure I have even spoken twanged before. However, I cannot come up with a reason to change it. It fell from my mind to my fingertips.)

  Sorry! I did not need that third cup of coffee.

  Where were we? Oh yes. From me, my pretend glass of Johnny slid away. Billy eased it to his lips. With reverence, William Keefe sipped and swirled. His adoration was visible and audible as he delicately set it back down. I wondered if it all was a deliberate display of what Billy wanted his personality to be understood as. Perhaps decades ago it all was. Now, sitting next to me, telling me anything that he wanted to, it was all William Keefe. He was not out of time.

  “As much as I enjoyed telling you that Danny boy, my reason for being here is not the decline and soon to be fall of Greg Tillman.” Unknowingly leaning forward, I pulled back to be easier in my place. Abruptly the sort he was went. “Daniel I’ve got a proposition for you.” Normally, the word proposition tensely alerts me. However, I with great ease trusted this man explicitly. Jenny slid past, leaving me a water glass. It was chilled and full, it was good, she was good. “Danny I want to write your story.” His words so simple caught me.

  “My story! I have a story!”

  “You know you do Danny.” A sip of my water paused him. Or he paused me.

  “Look Danny… I know what happened at Monticello.” He paused. My mind was searching. “I want you to help me tell it. Tell it to the world Danny.” I awkwardly chuckled. He could not know. Not everything. Not even William Keefe could know everything, not everything about everything. My stomach tightened. He must know a little, or more, why else would he want to write it? What did he know?

  “I thought you were retired Billy.”

  “Yeah, they gave me a cheap gold watch and pushed my ass out the door. But I’m not retired Danny. Never be. What would I do with nothing to do. No.”

  “Look Billy… there just is not much there.”

  Billy dropped his head and lifted his eyes to scold mine. “Danny I know there is and I am pretty sure you want to tell it.” ‘Proposition’ was beginning to chafe my ease. I re-found and grasped tight the truth that Billy could not know. Billy simply could not understand the experience that was Monticello, the Incident at Monticello. The Incident… hell I did not know, not really.

  “Billy there just isn’t-”

  “Danny I have spoken with the Editor of the Trib. He is an old friend. He’s kind of a jerk, but he wants to do it. He has offered me a twelve week Sunday run.” Being a brilliant writer I of course understood all of his words, but I only heard one. It was number nine on my Bucket List.

  “The Trib?” I asked. Instant adrenaline. His no-answer meant yes. “Do what Billy?” His no-answer was an annoy. “Yeah… I don’t think so Keefe.” Keefe’s head jerked. Using Keefe was a swaying attempt. Sway toward what I did not know.

  My words were nervous confusion flirting with scared. Billy stood, reached for leather, unfolded, placed Benjamins on the bar, dropped from his stool, and fled toward Pamila.

  Watching him depart was my only option. Sitting and thinking about the moment, an ill dampness chilled my temples. Clearly, this conversation had just begun. Damn Keefe!

  Without me yet there, there was this; “Pamila, the Jewel in me eyes, your husband soon will be back with you.” William Keefe was in full charm mode. The Jewel in his eyes, was not wondering of me. Pami took his words with pleasure. I would have taken them for a flirting foundation laid toward a constructive proposition.

  Our room was a party razz upon returning. “Billy!” I shouted. I did not know what I was going to do after the shout; it just came out. Billy looked toward my now inclusion. His face was an apologetic mischievousness. His face was biblical. Please forgive me Danny. I know not what I do.

  Purposefully, and obviously slow, Sarina half-circled me. Her inspection was close and with a sniff. My eyes glanced at hers. Both of our peeks were family. I tried, but I could not remember exactly when she became the parent. Some children’s parents!

  All humans do it. Some are better at it than others are. It is a mannerism that they morph into when they want to direct conversation to a different place. Perhaps because I felt it curdling in me, Billy’s was sour. “Miss Pamila!” His inflection was firm and loud. It forecast his end. All ears and eyes went to Billy’s declaration moment. “I have so tastelessly taken enough of your time.” He gave himself for a hug. Pami smiled to an embrace. Billy tight on her, his head tuned to me. Most secure in her arms, he was secure that our conversation had just begun. “My lovely Pamila Bell, I would be tickled to tear if I might share a meal with the beauty that is you.” Rebecca sighed a gasp. I nauseated a gasp.

  I cannot skill the word to life, nor could I ever melt it into the same crystal tone. The purism, the delicate subtleness, the charmed envelopment, and the warmness that Billy laced the word ‘you’ with, stole Pamila away. It placed her into an enchanted Dell. A Hollow lit by light of every world. The Glade where scores of butterflies swirled every color in the always gently warm air. A wonder where all was all if it ever was. That Bastard!

  Pami pushed Billy from her bosom and grasped his eyes. “William, how about tomorrow evening?” Billy quickly glared at me. It was darkest evil. It was perfect. “William please join us for dinner tomorrow.”

  “William?” I mumbled. I think it was aloud. I know I meant it.

  “Oh Miss Pamila, I do not want to impose me upon you.” This was not delivered mystically. However, there was subtle sarcasm meant for yours truly.

  “See Pami Billy doesn’t-”

  “Please say you will Billy,” begged she as she shut me off.

  I knew I was not to speak again. Also, I knew that tomorrow evening I surely would. My role as it stood was to stand there and look cute. Standing, sitting, dancing or twirling, my cute was not on display. Pissed, played, disgusted, you pick the display. None would be wrong. What I wanted to show was for Billy. I wanted him to know that I knew of his deviance. His Irish Gentleman bullshit.

  Even though the deal was done, Pami and Billy bargained back and forth still more. Pami pleading, Billy acting the wishful non-imposer. I stood there looking cute.

  Billy, recognizing that his work here was done, turned to me and extended a hand. I was scared that if touched it I would forever cast into the Abys of Indifference. ‘To the victor go the spoils.’ I grasped his hand hard. He mine harder. His eyes sought and held mine. They were victoriously apologizing. They said; ‘Sorry old boy but it had to be done.’ There was no other way to go but to smile and tell him how much I looked forward to tomorrow evening.

  “See you tomorrow night Danny boy
.” Not releasing my hand, his eyes sought for where we were.

  “See you tomorrow Billy.” My tone was of two Buds being okay.

  With a wave to all, with a hum as he walked away, William Keefe left me to Pamila’s evening.