The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do (53 page)

Tip smiled. “I couldn’t see me livin’ on vegetables alone.”

“Some say cows are sacred. Did you know that, Tip? That cows are sacred?”

“Smothered in Pio’s sauce, they’re even better’n
that
,” Tip said, smiling, laughing, tapping his fingers on the table.

Gretel made a happy face.

“You’re funny.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Come again?”

Tip planted both elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“I haven’t kissed you, but you’re so
beaut
iful, Gretel.”

“I feel good inside. I try to have up vibes, and not down vibes.”

“No,” Tip said. His big hands went to his hair and messed it up. Long slick strands flopped over his face. “What I mean is, I want you to stay after your baby is born.”

“That’ll be soon,” Gretel said. “It’s s’posed to be another month—but I don’t think so.”

“I want you to stay with me.”

“Sure.” Gretel raised a napkin and wiped her mouth. “I could likely use a place to crash by then—I won’t be welcome at Mrs. Carter’s no more.”

“God,” Tip said. He looked around the restaurant, not really seeing anything. “I don’t mean to crash—I want you to marry me, Gretel.”

Her fork dropped. “That’s too far out.”

“I can’t imagine living without you.”

Tip’s face showed doubt, and fear, and nervous hope. He was smiling too much and knew it, and rather forcefully asserted control over his features, composing his face to meet possible disaster.

Gretel said, “Marriage is ownership, Tip. Domination. There’s a pretty flower in the forest, let’s say, and what is marriage but the pluckin’ of that flower so’s it can be worn in a buttonhole. Like a decoration. A plucked flower in a buttonhole can only wilt, man, and it won’t never bloom again.”

“I guess I don’t follow,” Tip said sullenly.

“It’s murder by ownership,” Gretel said.

The clock was pushing toward ten, and the Italian Garden was fairly quiet. Near the front window from which a red neon pizza beamed onto Fifth Street, a silver-haired gent in a tasteful linen suit split a meatball grinder with a golden-haired boy in street leather. The organizers of a just-ended Knights of Columbus fund-raiser were relaxing at a big table in the center of the room, and Monsignor Escalera was pouring the beer. At the back of the room, in their regular booth next to the pay phone, a couple of Frogtown boys loitered over plates of mussels and glasses of rosé, studying tomorrow’s nags in the Racing Form.

“I make decent money,” Tip said. He picked up his fork and rolled
the manicotti on his plate. “I’ve got a comfy set of wheels.” He forced his fork down on the pasta tubes and chopped them. “My house ain’t much, but I own it
outright
.”

One of the K of C crowd dropped some quarters in the juke and punched in Ol’ Blue Eyes. The first song was “Summer Wind,” and the wistful lyrics got to Tip. With nervous fingers he wrecked his hairdo altogther, then sighed.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” he said.

“Tip, marriage and all that—it ain’t the way I was raised.”

“You’d be taken care of good.”

“Freedom is what we value. It comes from
within.
Society, and rules, and all that is what takes it away.” Gretel leaned forward. Her face had an earnest expression. “I can’t get into marriage, Tip, but I’ve been wantin’ to live with you. I’ve had it in mind for a while now.”

Tip’s pocked face raised. He looked into her eyes.

“You have?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well that’d be alright,” he said eagerly. “Give it a try, anyhow.”

“I do dig you,” Gretel said. “We’ve never got naked together, but I’ve thought about it some, and I think we’d fit.”

“When
I
think about it we sure do,” Tip said. He stretched his huge arms and sighed with relief. His face relaxed. “And I’ve thought about it plenty, though we ain’t even kissed before.”

“We will,” Gretel said. One of the many Tonys was now singing “Jeepers Creepers,” raising the spirits all around. “But there’s a few things I want in my future. In the place I live, I mean.”

“Name them, Gretel. I want what you want.”

She took a sip of her soda, and lowered her eyes.

“This is embarrassing,” she said, “but at home we don’t have flush toilets. Delirium always says the simpler life is the better, but I think I’ll have flush toilets from now on.”

“Well, hell—I’ve got
flush
toilets.”

“You do? That’s primo to me. I’ve got used to ’em at Mrs. Carter’s.”

Tip waved his hand in the air and leaned back in his chair.

“Electric lights, gas stove. I’ve got all that. My fridge ain’t too good, though.”

“Air-conditioning?”

“Huh?”

“I like air-conditioning, though I know it just enriches the greed heads.”

“A window job,” Tip said. “It does pretty good. I could get another one.”

“I’ll buy it,” Gretel said. She patted her belly. “I should clear right at fifty-two hundred dollars the lawyer says.”

Tip shook his head, long slick hairs flying.

“That’s none of my business,” he said.

“I won’t be afraid to spend it, neither.”

Her hands were on the table, and Tip reached his own across and grabbed them. He held tight.

“This is great,” he said.

After a few more minutes of silent happiness, Tip and Gretel left Pio’s, Tip leaving a ten-dollar bill for their waitress. They walked together out to the parking lot. A light mist was falling and the moonlight was diffused by the clouds. They held hands, ignoring the fine drops, shuffling slowly to his car.

“What about showin’ me that house,” Gretel said. “You’ve never took me there before.”

Tip pulled his keys out and jangled them.

“Comin’ right up,” he said. Then he threw his arms around her, pulling her to him sideways to avoid her belly. She turned her face up to his and they kissed, standing in the rain. The first kiss was so swell it immediately led to another. Tongue met tongue, and Gretel put a hand on his ass, then slid it around, squeezing. “Oooh, Gretel,” he said, “let’s go.”

He started to open the car door, but she said, “Wait.” She raised her left hand, spread her fingers, and crooked her pinkie. “Tip, give me your finger.” He raised his hand, and they entwined pinkies.

Gretel squeezed and said, “That means as much to me as any piece of paper.”

12

T
HE HOUSE
was dark, though no one was asleep. Etta lay on her cot in the kitchen, Tip’s transistor radio near her ear, tuned to a rock station, listening to George Michael sing “I Want Your Sex,” while John X. lay on the couch in the front room,
his
radio playing “Apple Blossom Time” by the Andrews Sisters.

To keep his mind off of the many possible or certain disasters in his future, John X. was fantasizing, conjuring up an earlier version of himself poised over a regulation Brunswick table, running racks of balls, sinking table-length cut shots, three-ball combos, sophisticated bank shots, constantly drawing the bright white cue ball into perfect shape for the next stroke. This remembered self was having a great time back there in the past, dazzling a crowd of faceless sports and dames, these memories thick with smoke and musk and derring-do. Glorious runs of sixty to ninety balls were routine but fully imagined.

In the midst of a fantastic run, with his former self drawing the Balabushka back from the cue ball, the tip raised to apply top, one of the faceless sports in the crowd stepped forward, into John X.’s line of sight, and suddenly had a face.

John X. jerked up on the couch. His ribs ached from Stew’s punches, and now his gut ached with anxiety.

“Criminentlies,” he said. “Lunch.”

He reached to the side table and turned on a lamp. He could see the kid in the kitchen, curled on the cot, her back to him. He lit a Chesterfield, then walked across the room to the telephone. He sat on a
straight-backed chair and dialed information, got the number he needed, then punched it in.

After four rings his call was answered.

“Chapman residence. Mr. Chapman speaking.”

“Rodney? It’s me—John X. Can you talk?”

“Okay. Yes.” Rodney’s voice was strained, uncomfortable. “I don’t know where you might be, John, and
please, please
don’t tell me, but you better be hidden well.”

“He’s after me, is he?”

“Yes. He was here. He basically
raped
Dolly, looking for you.”

“Aw, shit, Rodney—I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

“We’ve begun to see a counselor. The whole thing was awful. It wasn’t really your fault, John, but I can’t help blaming you.”

“I’m sorry, believe me.” John X. sucked on his cigarette. “I guess he was brutal, huh? Did you tell him anything?”

“He might’ve killed us, John. It wouldn’t have bothered him to do it, not at all.”

“Oh, I know that. Lunch is a killer. But did you tell him anything?”

There was a pause, a telling silence.

“I don’t know where you are, John, and I don’t want to, but if you and Randi and that girl of yours should happen to be in a town called St. Bruno, well, I think I’d be moving along very promptly.”

“Shit!” John X. shouted. He slapped the phone down, slamming the receiver into the cradle. He bowed his head, groaned, and rubbed his temples.

When he raised his eyes, Etta stood before him. She wore boxer shorts and a white tank top, her right hand twirling the black crucifix that hung from her ear.

She said, “What now?”

“Aw, kid—Jesus—do you know what fate is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You
do?
”

“Yeah,” she said. “Like if your mom is chubby and crosseyed, probly you’ll be chubby and crosseyed, too.”

“That’s something else,” John X. said. “Fate, see, is a black fuckin’ cloud that’s always pissin’ and moanin’
exactly
over your head. You can’t shake it and it won’t butt out. That’s what fate is, kid, a Nosey Parker that meddles with you from the cradle to the grave.”

The kid backed to the couch and slumped down.

“You know something about that guy Lunch,” she said. “Don’t you, Dad?”

He raised his eyes, looked at her, and nodded.

“You’re a smart kid, Etta. I must’ve been sober when I made you.”

“Huh. Not likely.”

“Watch your lip, angel, I got quite a bit of Sluggo in me tonight.” John X. stood and began to pace. “Tonight, you don’t want to goad me.” He took a few steps toward the door, stopped, clenched his fists and shook them overhead, then turned to his daughter. “We gotta run again, kid.”

“Oh, Dad, no!”

“Yeah, kid. I hear the call of the open road again.”

“I
like
it here!”

“We better heed the call, kid.”

“But Dad,” Etta said stridently, “there’s family here! We’ve got family here!”

The old man lit another weed, then sat beside the girl. His hands weren’t too steady, and his aching ribs required him to sit hunched forward. His breaths all finished in muted sighs.

“Now kid,” he said, “for people like us
the family
is only just a resting place between adventures. You’ll need to adjust yourself to that. That’s how it is. That’s the way us types live.”

“But, Dad,” Etta said, “Tip is tough. Rene is tough, too, so why do we got to run from Lunch?”

“Aw, kid—Lunch is a ferocious fella. He’s a gunman.”

“Dad, that guy’s only about this much taller’n
me
. You already knocked him out once, all by yourself.”

“I got lucky.”

“Now you got Tip and Rene to help.”

“My trouble ain’t their trouble.”

“They’ll help.”

John X. searched for the ashtray, then stubbed the Chesterfield out.

“We’re gonna be broke soon, anyhow,” he said. “This poker game ain’t gonna bring in the bacon I’d hoped for.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We can’t get by on it.”

“I hear you, Dad.”

Both radios had continued to play, and John X. and Etta sat together on the couch, sagging, sighing as two very different kinds of music fugued badly, grating on the nerves, Dick Haymes singing “Little White Lies,” while Van Halen threw “Jump” into the musical mix.

John X. said, “I need to think—go turn that crap off.”

“It’s not crap.”

“Turn it off anyway.”

Etta sat there, hugging her knees, twisting the black crucifix absently, staring at the floor.

“Turn it off, kid—it’s janglin’ my thoughts.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, then lurched forward and walked across the room, slapping her bare feet to the floor. She turned the radio off, then got on all fours and pulled the Joan Jett suitcase from underneath the cot. She flipped the lid, carefully ran her hands past Grampa Enoch’s bass lures, past her few clothes, to the money hidden in the bottom of the box. She looked at John X. on the couch, then quickly grabbed a handful of cash.

“Dad,” she said as she returned to the front room, “I didn’t tell you a lie.”

“Did I say you did? About what?”

The kid leaned against the wall, poised on one leg, rhythmically swinging the other foot lightly over the floor.

“What I mean is, you never asked, so I never lied.”

“That covers an awful lot of ground,” John X. said. “Questions I never asked you.”

She slowly walked toward him, hands behind her back, her pale girl
legs seeming preposterously long beneath the white boxer shorts. When she reached him she brought her hands from behind her back.

“This is from Mom,” she said. “It’s my college money. You have to pay after the twelfth grade.”

John X. snatched the money from her hand. He reared back on the couch, his eyes narrowed.

“A conspiracy, huh?” he said. “You and Randi cooked up a deal. A deal that cut
me
out.”

“I just now cut you in, Dad,” Etta said.

She stood there, waiting for some sort of punishment, not knowing what form this punishment might take, or even what was possible, since he’d never spanked or smacked or yelled at her much. “You never asked.”

The night was warm, quiet, the eternal murmur of the big river and the radio announcer’s voice were the only sounds. The voice was going on and on about world events, reciting the latest news at the top of the hour.