Fishing the Sloe-Black River (11 page)

Juanita, unfortunately, wouldn't look good in any of them. She has always been the one for great style, something a little modest but show-offy all the same. When she went to the fights it was always a magenta dress. In the cabarets it was often that glittery sequined number, grassy green. On the boats, back and forth across oceans, it was always something the color of the sea. He shuffles his feet. Juanita. My Juanita. Love of my heart and oh, would you look at that!

Fancypants is lifting up a white shirt with lacy see-through sleeves. Blue frills on the collar. A gorgeous piece of work. She frowns, perhaps considering whether she should get it dry-cleaned or not. It's the perfect size. A fan whirls above his head. He sweats and watches Fancypants. She fidgets for a moment, then puts the white blouse in machine number five. His heart skips a tune. He watches Fancypants take out a bottle of expensive detergent. The way she pours, you can tell she's rich. She probably won't even notice that the damn thing's gone. And on her way out the door she doesn't even smile at him.

He looks around. Rubs his hands together. Smacks his lips. Now's my chance. The other two still have their heads in their magazines. The place smells like a hospital. Too clean altogether. Not a bit of graffiti on the walls. No soul whatsoever. He starts to hum:
Ol' buttermilk sky, I'm a telling you why, now you know, keep it in mind tonight, are you going to be mellow tonight?
As Fancypants's car moves away, he walks toward machine number five. He lifts the lid quickly. Fingers shaking. Rummages. Finds it. Water spurting down onto his thick hands. He takes the white blouse and tucks it under his overcoat.
Can't you see my little donkey and me, we're as happy as a Christmas tree, heading for the one I love, the one I love.
Whistles softly to himself. It will be a little wet, a small spot of blue detergent on the sleeve, but who cares? Juanita will love it.
Gonna poppa the question, that question, do you darling, do you do? It'll be easy so easy if I can only bank on you.
He feels the wetness of the blouse beginning to seep against his own shirt. He lets a little smile fly from his lips and shuffles out the laundromat door. Christ, he thinks, but it sure is a hot one today.

*   *   *

He sits in the leather chair that the good folks down at Saint Vincent de Paul's gave him for a dollar. The room is small and cluttered and full of silence. On the mantelpiece there is a picture of him as a young man in red gloves. His skin is drawn tightly over muscles. Those were the days. A cowlick hanging happily over green eyes. A pair of silk shorts hangs beside the photo. A couple of trophies nearby. Sheets on the bed are crumpled. Above the bed is a picture of Juanita, her hair threaded down her back, like the girl in the song with her hair hung over her shoulder. Beautiful. My Juanita. Books of poetry talk to one another on the floor. A TV spits gray. A kettle boils. The cupboard at the end of the room is full of women's clothes. Blouses. Dresses. Skirts. Scarves. It's getting choc-a-bloc in there. He must get busy with the doorknobs. He smiles to himself.

Right in front of him, on a coat hanger dangling from the lampshade, is the white blouse with the blue frills. He gets up slowly from the leather chair, wheezes, reaches out, and touches the sleeves that dangle in the air. Runs his arms along the collar. Then presses his face against the blouse, holding it, breathing in deeply, smiling.

“Juanita,” he says softly. “Juanita, my love, you look absolutely gorgeous.”

*   *   *

On down past the graffiti again, hurrying this time. He has remembered that he left his tweed cap on one of the plastic chairs back in the laundromat. Hope to Christ that Fancypants isn't still there. It's been an hour and a half, and surely the tumble dryer has finished now and she's off and away, oblivious. Get a move on now, Flaherty. Step we quickly on we go. No gaiety now. And sure isn't gaiety something altogether unfashionable these days, unless you live in the French Quarter? There's some graffiti on the walls about homosexuals, but nothing as good as the cocking out of muscles, alive-alive-o. Hup two.

Juanita will be hopping mad if he isn't home in time for the tea that she has boiling on the stove. And even madder if she finds out that he's lost his hat. She bought it for him in Clery's in Dublin back in the fifties, when money was round and made to roll. They walked out onto O'Connell Street in the drizzling rain, and she pulled it delicately over his black curls. Said it made him look like a leprechaun. Leprecorny perhaps. She laughed. People stared as they walked. A tall brick of a man and a tiny Mexican girl, fitting together like a hand in a glove. Sauntering down the quays, stopping in bookshops. The Liffey tossing down to the sea, barges bound from the brewery, pigeons quarelling over bread, motor cars beeping at tinkers in horse carts. Kissing Juanita under the blue awning of an antique store.
Ah, she looked so sweet from her two bare feet to the sheen of her lush brown hair.
Hup two. On you go, with a song in your heart. Gotta get the damn hat back.

He almost falls on the steps near his favorite piece of graffiti, grazing his hand as he uses it to prevent a fall. Rise up out of the bed of your oppressors, he mutters to himself. Quickly now. Hup two three four.

He negotiates the steps, wheezes out onto Carrollton Avenue, and looks up the street. Damnblast and bugger it. There's Clarence LeBlanc leaning his skinny legs up against the wall, chatting with Miss Jackson. Maybe he's the one who got her up the Swannee.
Howiloveya, howiloveya, my dear ol' Swannee.
He hopes not. LeBlanc couldn't squire anything but a long lanky drink of bogwater. Perhaps, however, when Juanita decides that she's worn the white blouse with the blue frills long enough, he'll give it to the pregnant girl, though it might be a little tight around her belly. He moves to tip his hat to them, then remembers that it isn't there. A man without his hat is like a pig with a gold ring in its nose. Down the road, alongside the clutter and clang of cars. LeBlanc is shouting something behind him, but he pretends he doesn't hear. Quickly now, Flaherty. On your toes. No time for graffiti.

Down past the flower shop, the little green man flashing, cars beeping, the clammy roar of a hot New Orleans afternoon. Thirty damn years of living in this town and never once was I able to cross the damn road in time. Past the chicken shop, past the bank. The neon sign flickers. 4:31
P.M
. 94 degrees. Jalapeño time. Upwards, Flaherty. Away. May your ways be merry and your paths be few. Hup two. Christ. Still rhyming. Hot. Hot. Hot. He takes off his overcoat as he shuffles and tucks it under his arm when he gets to the parking lot of the laundromat. Negotiates a couple of potholes. Give me a ring with ropes and I still could dance. And, sweet Jesus, there in all her glory, a little bit bemused, by washing machine number six, is Fancypants.

He stalls in the parking lot, wondering. But Fancypants couldn't have a clue. Probably hasn't even noticed the missing shirt. Have to get the cap back anyway. A man's gotta do. Juanita will be hopping mad if I lose it. She adores that hat. He shuffles toward the door, keeping his eyes down. Hup two. On the seat nearest the door, he catches a glimpse of his gray tweed. Hallelujah and hail to the king. Grand job, Nora, as the saying goes. Nora being the girl that the bold Sean O'Casey left behind. He chuckles to himself. Here comes the Playboy of the Western World. Or was that Mr. Synge? Onward. Away. On yer bike. Quickly.

He looks up and notices that Fancypants is watching him. Uh-oh. He smiles at her as he picks up the hat. “Fierce hot today isn't it?” he says to her.

“What?” She moves out from around the back of the machines. “Yes. Well. Excuse me, sir, did you happen, by any chance, to, like, see somebody in here?”

“Not a soul. I just forgot my hat.”

“I misplaced a blouse.”

“Sorry to hear that. Well, I must be on my way. Juanita expects me home. She has the tea on.”

“Excuse me?” says Fancypants.

“My wife. She'll be angry as all get-out if I lose my cap. I left my cap here.”

“Oh,” says Fancypants.

“Had to run all the way here. Still have it in my lungs, all the same. Used to run six miles a day. Way back when.”

“I see. But you didn't happen to see anyone in…”

“Devil a soul. There were two women when I left. Now that you mention it.”

“Did they go to that washing machine?” Fancypants points over toward number five.

“Not that I know of.” With his back to the door he hears someone enter the laundromat. He doesn't turn around, just stands, watching Fancypants. “I hear there's been some thievery going on all the same,” he says. “It's a terrible thing. Can't trust a soul these days. All the young ones are into drugs. No wonder they call it the junior high.”

“Sorry?”

“The school and the drugs. No wonder they call it the junior high.”

“My boyfriend gave it to me,” says Fancypants, scratching her head. “It's no big deal really, I suppose. Just sentimental value.”

A finger of guilt doing circles in his stomach. He touches his hat, pulls the flap down over his eyes. “Well, dear,” he says, “I must be on me way. Awful sorry about the blouse. But I must get on home. My wife'll be fussing and fuming.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Sorry for delaying you.” Oh, but she's awful nice, this Fancypants with her twirly blond hair and her lipstick. Maybe he should run on home and retrieve it for her. Juanita wasn't mad keen about it anyway. Didn't like the blue frills.

A thick gravelly voice comes from behind his shoulder. “Whose wife might that be, Mr. Flaherty?”

He turns. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the hell is Clarence LeBlanc doing in here? Standing by the door, the lanky drink-of-water has a vicious sneer on his face. “Flaherty, you don't have a wife.”

A buckle of knees, a heart thump. Where the hell did LeBlanc appear from?

“Whose wife are we talking about?” LeBlanc says again.

“I have to go home, dear,” he says to Fancypants. “Excuse me, now. The tea's boiling. I hope you find the blouse.”

“Whose wife, Mr. Flaherty?” LeBlanc stands with his arms stretched out, blocking the doorway. “You don't have no wife.”

“If you'll kindly excuse me,” he says to LeBlanc. Behind him he can hear Fancypants stuttering something. “Are you missing something, ma'am?” says LeBlanc to Fancypants.

“Just a blouse. I misplaced a blouse. It's no big deal.”

“You don't happen to know anything about the young lady's blouse, do you, Mr. Flaherty?”

“Not a thing. Could you excuse me?” He puts his hand on LeBlanc's shoulder to get beyond him. Christ, but it's hot. LeBlanc pushes him in the chest. He stumbles backward.

“Pervert,” hisses LeBlanc. “You a pervert, Flaherty. Stealing women's clothes. I been knowing it all along.”

*   *   *

The day she left he stood in front of the door, just like this, except he was the one blocking. So many years ago. Another steaming New Orleans day. Her hair was ashy and ferocious that afternoon, her skin wallpapered with grief. I'll sing to you, Juanita. You've sung enough, and I've heard them all before. I'll make it anew. Get out of my way please, Danny. I'll try harder. No. I'll go with you. I'm going where you can't find me. Why? I've had enough. Of what? Of everything. I don't understand. And you never will. He tried to touch her hair. She pulled back. There were lines on her face now. They were both so much older than the moon they had sung to. When will you be back, Juanita? When the sun comes up in the west, Danny, and maybe even a few days after that. Then him leaning against the door, watching her go.

That was July 9, 1967. Twenty-five years ago to the day. The summer of love they called it. A bad name, and not true at all. The cabarets, the bells, the canvas, the movies, the sheer theater of it all, the wonder—gone. He had fallen to Caffola. She had fallen, not unlike a silver goddess. Their voices had fallen too. Down somewhere deep in the belly of memory. And the hope as well. The courtyard complex was gray as granite that day when she left. She slipped out the door and he thought of home, far away, far away. The garden of rock. The limestone that lets the water seep through. The turloughs with their disappearing water. The strangely colored flowers. She would be back. He would wait. Granite was impermeable. That he had learned. Granite doesn't let water through.

*   *   *

It's a slow punch, an old man's roundhouse, and LeBlanc should have seen it coming. But it lands crisply on his jaw, sweetly, no fear, like old times. A good healthy crunch through his fingers. If only he could have hit Caffola like that before the bastard smeared mustard oil on his gloves. September 9, 1938. Falling sideways with a thud. Referee calling the count. Juanita up on the ropes. Shouting in Spanish. Danny get up. Get up. Looking like she had four eyes. Everything swirling. Stumbling on the ropes. Finished. Gone.
A Chusla Mo Chroí,
and it's all over now, Danny boy.

LeBlanc falls the same way, splayed across the plastic chairs, a pack of cigarettes tumbling from his shirt pocket. Fancypants lets out a little yelp. And it's out the door, running.

Over a pothole and far away. Far away, far away. And a glance behind. Though your steps be heavy, you'll trot lightly along the way. Hup two, Flaherty. On home to Juanita. Tea's ready. A dab of milk and a spoonful of sugar, dearest. He looks over his shoulder, breathing heavily. LeBlanc is behind him now, one hundred yards to the rear, blood streaming from his mouth. Oh, a great punch that one. Hit him good-oh. Yessir. Put me in the Hall of Fame. Hang my gloves beside those of the Brown Bomber. A fabulous punch indeed.

LeBlanc is roaring something obscene behind him. Is nothing sacred at all? But he's gaining awful fast. Past the bank. Alongside the chicken shop. If I can make the flashing green man, he thinks, I'll be home free. Myself and Juanita can watch Tyrone on the TV, flinging his lovely fists at the sky. Then I'll steal out tonight and leave Miss Jackson a blouse. White with blue frills. Awful nice that blouse, but Juanita just didn't like it. Women. They're so shagging finicky. Run, Flaherty, run. Run. Look at the trouble they get you into. He looks over his shoulder again. LeBlanc is only forty yards away. Christ, the boy is fast. Into the traffic he darts. Hup two three. LeBlanc is screaming awful loud. Well, fuck you too, my bonnie boy. A screech of tires. Thank jaysus that green man isn't red. Onwards. Upwards. Away. Quick, quick, quick. He'll never catch me. Along the sidewalk.