“You don’t say!” Minnie gasps, pushing away to regard me with awe – George augmenting the effect with another of his ever-ready quotes:
“’The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet.’ Emerson again,” he appends gleefully. “Can’t go wrong by the man. And a poet, too.”
“So, is poetry your art?” Minnie questions, askew in my arms, staring up at me like I’m a bronze to be admired.
“Poetry?” George erupting in laughter. “No, but I should like to review what Melvin might verse…the effort could be worth its entertainment!”
“Then, what is your medium?” Minnie persists. “Is it-“
“Watercolors, my dear,” George capitulates, “watercolors; and with an emphasis on Titanium White!” Minnie turning Ruby Red. “You should see him with a set of brushes. A one-man gallery, he is; and especially if he’s strokin’ to music.”
“To music?” her stare softening to an appreciative gaze.
“Yep! His favorite’s a gospel quartet called White Soul…ever hear of them?” Minnie realizing she’s been duped.
“Sure have; but I won’t buy an album because the bass is rumored to be gay,” she shoots back - George protesting:
“I was just having some fun…Melvin and I tease each other all the time. We don’t mean anything by it.”
“Nor do I,” she says, “and just as White Soul is fictitious, so is my bias for gays…since meeting you.”
“Yes,” I interrupt, and with a tinge of shame at her rebuke, “but we only tease privately. Never would we dishonor one another by allowing a stranger to think we…well…I guess what we’re really making fun of is the world at large…bigotry at large-“
“Which, in my opinion, is just another form of bigotry,” she counters, her eyes losing their approbatory glow. “If you’re going to address the world, fellows, spend your energy on its needs, not its-“
“Are you the same reverend Taylor I’ve heard on the radio?” George interjects mischievously. “The minister who consigns homosexuals to the darkest cellars of hell?”
“No, as a matter-of-fact,” Minnie punctuating her denial with another kiss, “I am not the same reverend Taylor, thanks to the two of you. I am Miss Minnie Ruth Taylor, late of ignorance and currently on the mend. And who knows? Perhaps soon to be late of the airways, too, if my reformation isn’t well received.”
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three.
(Lowell)
XXXV
Minnie has been gone for more than a month, and still her broadcasts make no reference to my restaurant; only the inclusion of my name on her radio ministry prayer list - a kind of long distance fondle, one even Marconi would sanction since Italians believe “love is in the air”. But I’m not Italian, and my Black-N-Blue B-B-Q needs something more substantial than fondling, my temporary salvation the busloads of southerners up to video the Green Mountain colors. “Leaf-peepers” the locals label them, Vermonters happily accepting their dollars, the annual pilgrimage of drive-by viewers a welcomed windfall, money growing on trees a fairy tale come true.
But somehow, a good New England stout and an Appalachian prayer list aren’t the party mixers my customers crave. Local patronage is falling off faster than the pork on my sizzling ribs. Miss Taylor’s taped sermons, repeating over my establishment’s sound system, are received less favorably than tepid beer, the evangelist’s lilting lectures on celestial tranquility eerily amiss amidst the smoke of mesquite and the aroma of bubbling cobblers. Such earthy enjoyments are more akin to B B King’s Lucille, or the wailing rasp of Muddy Waters. My last hope is my own one-man show behind the bar: my song and dance about Black-N-Blue being a lucrative retirement for some swaggering Texan, industrious Okie, or embarrassed Arkansan, producing sparks of interest most every night - said sparks the brighter, I’ve noticed, the stronger I make the drinks.
Long convinced the absence of something merely begs its introduction, I began my business on impulse, discovering too late that if anything is to go begging it will soon be me. But if my dream is false, my hope is not; a bold young man at my bar, several weeks back, proving to be the very solution my faith imagined.
Bunker’s his name. Bunker Hill. (Just his historical handle enough to provoke conversation.) Within minutes of swapping names, I discover the young man’s father is a Godhard alumnus. For this, I keep our discourse alive, the surname Tenklei coming round at last (Bunker only using it formally). I share with Bunker my saga of past lives, including tales of his father. Two days later, Bunker is checking into Godhard while I’m banking his check, both the son and his money finding a home.
Because no house is a home absent romance, Bunker is soon playing the knight to Pamela, spanning the moat to her attention - a simple endeavor, indeed, given her attention span. But brief or no, the jump is made (or the “step taken”, to avoid that connotation). And tonight, I’m sitting with Dorothy and my mother at my former bar, celebrating Bunker’s timely investment (and his skill at making time). Bunker’s engagement to Pamela is a cause célèbre, not a few of the locals either a-gag or agog over yet another romance in black and white.
From the leisure side of the bar, I ogle the new barkeep, her liquid eyes hinting reptilian, her rainbow cosmetics chameleon. I haven’t the faintest interest in the bumbling girl – my mind on an angel writing sermons in Appalachia – but my mother is intrigued by the red-haired trainee.
“The brash young lady could well be Thelma’s daughter, had the old firebrand ever claimed one. Her flip asides,” Mother observes quietly, “her curses if crossed, her torrent of adjectives for most anything catching her eye, all attributes of Thelma Peabody.”
I whisper to Mother that the barkeep’s birth date most likely postdates Thelma’s death; a supposition with disturbing potential, if Mother will accept reincarnation. But a sudden disturbance prevents developing the theme:
“It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood!” my sister cries from the entryway, Pamela announcing her own bumbling presence - her cleavage announcing a pendant, heart-shaped diamond.
“Look what Mom gave me!” she boasts, her auditors aghast at Mother’s overt generosity, my sister’s trio of gifts in provocative display as she swishes by, thrusting between the bar and the barkeep to preen before the back bar mirror. “Bunker’s daddy gave it to Momma before I was even born, and-and now she’s giving it to me! Isn’t it grand!” the diamond’s history, and Pamela’s bumptious telling of it, piquing Dot.Com. to go live and viral.
“Grand!” Dorothy shrills, a whirl on her stool punctuated with breaking glass - with my groan, as I grab my gin-doused crotch. “Grand, indeed!” she rants, unaware of peripheral casualties. “I always wondered who had the family jewels. You can take my word for it: Melvin doesn’t!”
Little George appearing magically at the door, as if summoned by Dorothy’s screams – that I’m blotting down the front of my trousers, completing the illusion.
“I could hear you yelling from the parking lot,” George grumbles, “but this time I knew better.”
“You knew Better?” I echo, extracting a twist of lime from my fly.
“I knew if trouble were brewing, Dorothy would be the instigator, not the victim,” Little George selecting a stool at the safe end of the bar. “Dad’s right behind me, if you need to straighten up a bit. You know, get tempers under control…pretend you’re happy to be here tonight.”
“I am,” I protest, wiping my stool, “I’m happy to be on this side of the bar. I’m happy for Dorothy, too. Drinks aren’t free anymore.“
“Oh yeah,“Pamela breaks in, employing the mirror to flash a supercilious glance, “I’m not supposed to tell, but Mom and Dad had a call from Miss Taylor this afternoon; something about a secret….”
“Well?” the redhead prods, the rest of us having reasons to pretend disinterest.
“W-e-l-l?�
� Pamela mimics with a contemptuous smirk, “…that’s it. Like I told you: it’s secret.”
“Meaning you don’t know,” Little George quips. “As far as you’re concerned the call was cryptic, mystifying; its purpose-“
“Yeah…that’s it,” Pamela chimes. “You guessed it. I heard Momma say something about crib ticks - or was it bed bugs? No…cradles. Yeah…cradles and thieves.”
“I know your cradle was robbed, missy,” Dorothy steams, pounding her fist on the bar for a drink. “In fact, your entire family’s been robbed. All of you: what with you missing your sense, Little George sensing a miss, and Melvin not having the sense to miss anything.”
“Am not!” Pamela objects, coming round to take a stool by Little George. “Well…all right, if you must know, I have missed once since Booker’s been-” Little George clamping his hand over Pamela’s mouth as the youngster behind the bar lets go a cry:
“Mr. O’Mal-leeee!” A beatific George Senior standing in the doorway’s aura of light like an immortal just down to share joy.
“Your powers of observation are inscrutable!” teases Little George - and with real relief, too, Dorothy a hungry tigress in pursuit of a kill.
“Shall we stay at the bar until Booker arrives?” our father asks, towering behind Little George, “or find our table? Has Melvin said anything to-?” he inquires in soto voce, bending for my brother’s ear. “You know what I mean. The restaurant ambiance might be more congenial.”
“He hasn’t, Dad,” Little George assures under his breath, “I think he’s waiting for Dorothy to tell him what she knows he should be telling her – not that it matters. Melvin and Minnie are the talk of the village; and Dorothy’s usually the first to know most anything round here. You can bet she’s just waiting for that special moment, one pregnant with-“
“Shush!” George warns, bending closer, “the word frightens me, son. Your brother could be so easily trapped….“
“Now there’s an advantage I have over Melvin!” Little George mumbles - our father stepping over to stand behind Dorothy, his big arm weighting my shoulder like the problem vibrating beside me.
“Drop your drink, son?” he asks, feeling the glass crunch under his feet.
“He’s dropped everything, Mr. O’Malley,” Dorothy interjects, giving me a fiendish wink, “…even me!” Dad turning to Mother, avoiding the challenge, leaving me to play the victim - or fight:
“Going in, or staying here?” he asks as nonchalantly as any happily married man might do.
“Here, I suppose,” my saintly mother decides. “The night is young…no need to hurry; and Booker has yet to join us. Probably still working on his speech, his presentation.”
“Oh yes, I forgot,” Dad claiming the stool at Mother’s side, leaving me alone with my plight. “And isn’t she going to be surprised, too? Both stones from the same-“
“George!” Mother’s index finger at his lips, “…you’re going to spoil the moment! The moment a girl dreams of, darling; the moment-”
“Aw, go on Dad,” Pamela butts in, presuming she’s the dreamer in question, “because if it’s about that moment, well…what can I say? ‘He that is without sin cast the first stone’?”
“Or better yet,” contributes Dorothy, giving a kick to my shin, “for our present little drama we could say, ‘He that is without sin stone the cast first.’”
“But that’s not fair, Dot.Com,” Pamela pouts, “you’re always the first to get stoned.”
“No doubt about that!” I crack, returning the shin kick under the bar.
“’If a man will begin with certainties he shall end in doubts,’” Little George philosophies, my grimace bringing him up short; though I’m grateful for his ready aid.
“Thanks, brother,” I retort, “but we need something stronger than the old Sage of Concord to season this barroom drivel. We need younger spirits, like an eighteen-year-old single malt; or a three-fingered whiskey with a-”
“Ah! Mr. Emerson, you thought, eh?” Little George counters. “Fooled you this time, Melvin. Francis Bacon, it was; and a quote for the occasion if ever I conjured one.”
“You mean for Bunker, I presume…for Bunker’s occasion.”
“With certainty!” Little George puns, “but one could draw other allusions, as well…that is, if one began something with certainty once upon a time, only to end up in-“
“Say no more,” I interrupt; words to finish the line flashing before my eyes, “divorce court”, “insane asylum”, “funeral home”, the mental montage frightening me into a martini - into two martini’s: one each for Dorothy and Minnie.
“Another twist?” the redhead asks; the annoyance of Dorothy’s empty glass, twirling on the hardwood bar, begging intervention as a muffled cry is heard from behind the entryway coatrack:
“Chubby Checker, eat your heart out!”
Booker appearing out of nowhere, a monstrous grin announcing his pleasure: one hand, raised aloft, waving a solitaire of disturbing size.
“The only twist allowed in here tonight,” he declares, rushing proudly to Pamela’s side, “is the one that will put this on my sweet love’s finger…and her love forever in my care!”
So saying, he reaches for her hand, bestowing on her ring finger the pendant’s twin: a three-carat, heart-shaped diamond.
“And what do you say, dear?” Mother coos, the rest of us in stunned silence.
“Th-thank you?” Pamela stammers, ogling the mirror in frantic awe.
“No, no, no,” Mother blushing for this dense child of hers. “I mean, do you say ‘I will’, or ‘Yes, darling’, or-?”
“Oh, I say that every night, Mamma!” Pamela gushes, flashing the ring and the pendant under Dorothy’s envious eyes. “Booker has this sweet way of asking…a look in his eyes…a pitiful ‘Please help me’ look, like a little boy caught with his pants down-“
“Pamela!” the two Georges object in chorus, her theme a counterpoint to propriety – Dorothy striking up a variation:
“At least Booker has a peg to hang ‘em on,” she snipes, “a reason to take off his pants.”
“Another remark like that and Melvin might surprise you,” Little George contends, warming to her fiery tongue.
“Another gin, and I can guarantee it,” the redhead shaking the bloom off a Tangueray in her zeal to make it happen.
“One would do better to have reasons to keep them on,” my ever-proper mother responds, “even more so in winter weather.”
“Thank you,” I chime, reaching past Dorothy to give Mother’s hand a pat – simultaneously realizing my own conception may have required a dropped pair of pants. “Dot.Com was just having her usual.”
“Another gin?” Dorothy asks, brightening to my darkening scowl.
“No,” I grouse, withdrawing my arm before she can mistake my reach for a hug. “By ‘usual’ I mean your fun at my expense.”
The rrrrring of the back bar phone is almost lost in the rousing refrain of Whiskey River take my Mind, the redhead feeding the jukebox in hopes a dance might reveal what the gin has not. Stumbling round the end of the bar for the phone, I answer:
“Bunker’s…may I book you?”
“Only if you promise me a sequel,” a melodious voice murmurs – my commanding view of the room in the mirror as nothing compared to my heart’s unfolding vision:
“How - did - you - know - it - was - me?” I pant, motioning the redhead to muzzle Willie Nelson. “How-“
“The same way you recognized me, my darling: by the joy apparent in your voice.”
“No…I mean, yes…of course…but no, how did you know I’d be here?”
“I spoke with your parents this afternoon. They told me the exciting news…Pamela’s engagement-“
“Of course; and it is exciting-“
“And the sale of your business?”
“Yes…I’ve been trying to call-“
“But Dorothy prevented you?�
�
“Yes…no…me. It’s me.”
I yell: Turn off Willie, please!
The redhead calls back: I don’t know how…don’t think I can turn a man off!
“You?”
“Yes…me. I’ve been doing battle with myself…struggling to find my way, my path-“
“Alone, we can barely see our feet, much less the path they should take.”
“Meaning?”
I call out a second time: Would somebody please turn down the jukebox…or play another song!
“Meaning, ‘Where two or three are gathered together in His name’-”
“Oh…I was hoping for another-”
“Wedding?”
“No…yes…no, I mean-”
“Then, what?”
“Another visit. Another trip up here to help me find my way.”
“But you don’t need me for that. You know already, sweetheart. Listen to your heart…the heart for which I yearn to belong.”
“And you do…I mean, I do…I mean-“
“I know, darling…but-“
We’re interrupted by a new jukebox selection: I’ll tell the man to turn the jukebox way down low…And you can tell your friend there with you, he’ll have to go-
“Minnie, I’ll insure it. I’ll take Dot.Com home right now…then call you back.”
“OK…then you can say the words I want to hear….”
This world clean fails me: still I yearn… (Melville)
XXXVI
It all begins the day of my funeral, my service looming as the aegis of all my regrets; for it’s during my funeral that Dorothy appears, as petulant as ever. Dorothy crossed over before me - her death as instantaneous as our sudden impact with a roadside tree. A heated argument had driven us from Pamela’s party, and straight into a stubborn birch - our impromptu reunion occasioned by my death the following day.
But it’s onerously apparent Dorothy has kept up with the goings-on, her postmortem antics in step with the latest events, Reverend Minnie Ruth Taylor - her sweet soprano trilling like a coloratura in the anguish of my eulogy - hardly more surprised than I am as Dorothy begins demonstrating her savvy.
Twice Melvin Page 29