Chapter 4

Paul’s turn:

Things rocked along as normal as could be expected over the next couple of weeks.

Barb’s birthday was on the near horizon. I talked with her grandma and we decided that a MacBook Air might suit her well. “She can piggyback off my wi-fi, if you want her to have access.”

So her birthday was a jackpot. New iPhone. New laptop. I missed her the day they drove to the big town and bought her some new clothes to go with the event.

“I wish we could’ve had a party,” I told her.

“We did. Me, you, Gramma, Grampa. I can’t think of anyone else I’d invite.”

“Just looking out for your happiness, Barb baby.”

“Keep thinking I’m your baby and I’ll stay happy. Life is really good now. I don’t have all the stuff from school staring at me every day. I’m learning, like I’m supposed to do. I have everything I need.”

“As long as you think so.”

Enigmatic smile, demure turn of the head. I guess that’s for me.

The next day was the first time we ever went anywhere together. I guess it might qualify as ‘together’. Or it could qualify as ‘hitching a ride to somewhere Gramma and Grampa don’t feel like going’.

Either way, she came over at mid-morning, called up her grandmother, passed me her phone.

“Hello, Mizz Beck,” I said.

“Dammit, Paul, cut that ‘Mizz Beck’ stuff. Barb’s phone. What’s she want us to talk about?”

“She knows I was going into town, wanted to ride along and coerce me into going to the library.”

“And you want to assure me that you’re not going to drive to Houston and leave her body in a dumpster.”

“I think that’s what she intended. Assurance, I mean. Not that ‘body in a Houston dumpster’ thing.”

Beck laughed. “I think we’ll trust you. Library, indeed!”

In the car I asked Barb, “You have a card for THAT library? You live here. Wrong parish.” (Auth. Note: Louisiana is divided into parishes instead of counties like other states)

“Yeah. They’re actually not that picky. And they have more books than the local one.”

“Okay. If you’ll put up with grocery shopping afterward.”

“You’re driving.”

“Very observant. So, did I steer you wrong with Pratchett?”

“No. He’s great! Puns, unlikely characters and explanations of why they make perfect sense in his universe. Why don’t you do something like that?”

“Because I wasn’t in that room when they handed out talent.”

“You’re pretty good. I mean, it sells on Amazon.”

“Yeah. I’m, like, a thousandaire.”

“It’s not about money, is it?”

“No. Really, I like telling stories.”

“I could do that.”

“What?”

“Tell stories. By myself. Or maybe me and you together.”

“You and I,” I corrected. Got an elbow in the arm for my efforts.

“Don’t be an ass. Informal conversation.”

“Okay. Cheap shot. Not easy with you. You generally...”

“I’m starting to relax around you. Friends.”

“What about that ‘tell me you love me’ thing the other day in the water?”

“You remember?”

“Of course I do.”

“You love me a little bit.”

“That’s what I said. You’re a little bit of an important thing in my life.”

“Only a little bit?”

“What do you want me to say? I don’t have anyone else to love above that sister I never see. I like a lot of people. You’re the only one who’s a candidate for being loved and I love you the little bit that lifts our relationship out of the ooze.”

“Our relationship was in the ooze?” she snickered.

“Just a phrase.”

“But you and me, we’re out of it?” Smirk. “And if you say ‘you and I’ I’m gonna smack you.”

“A level of physical contact that is only slightly inappropriate.”

“Yeah, I knowwww...”

“I get nervous.”

“I figured. You wouldn’t go swimming with me. You wouldn’t take me with you today. Not until you talked with Gramma and Grampa.”

“I don’t want them thinking we’re sneaking off together.”

“I don’t think they do. I think they see you as part of the socialization that I need for personal growth.”

“Sounds serious.”

“That’s what the therapist said.”

“You see a therapist?”

“Yeah. You know I’m bent. All us bent people need therapists.”

“I know you’re bent. Never bothered me.”

“Me neither. It’s just, you know, sometimes...”

“I try not to put you there.”

“You don’t. You let me do what I can do around you.”

“Nice to hear a real voice.”

“Sometimes I don’t talk much. I’m reading.”

“But I can look over, and there you are, bulwark against solitude.”

Giggle. “Bull-something.”

“I’m here trying to sound all nurturing and supportive and you say ‘bull-something’?”

“Only because I know you get me.

“I know your nom de plume is Roger Amson. I think mine’s going to be Elspeth Fetwillow.”

“Huh?”

“Elspeth. You know, like Elizabeth, except haughtier and more sophisticated. And Fetwillow. Sounds terribly English.”

“Going Pratchett on me?”

“Can’t hurt. I’m not going to start writing right now. Gonna read some more. But there’s a seed growing.” Her finger brushed my arm. “You’re not the only one subject to the acquisition of a muse.”

Library first. I didn’t rush her. She picked out four books, making sure that I’d make myself available to bring her back to return them before two weeks were up.

After the library, the grocery store. Aside from the normal groceries, I added edamame (“What’s THAT?”), the components of my souped-up salsa cruda, and a couple dozen good tamales made by a local business.

“I see learning in my future.”

I smiled. “Learn to do a few simple things in the kitchen and then things get interesting. And tasty.”

Due to the presence of refrigerated and frozen goods the trip home was without stops. The two of us made short work of offloading groceries to the lift basket. That saves me the hazard of climbing stairs with loads of grocery bags. Barb’s right behind me as I ascend the steps.

“You’re bringing your books here?”

“Yeah. Why not? I’m over here reading a lot.” Putting the books down beside her customary spot on the sofa she turned. “So, let’s see what you do with red beans.”

I’d put a small pot of beans on to soak overnight. That I liked combining a good Louisiana dish – red beans and rice – with Tex-Mex – home-made salsa cruda, that’s in my wheelhouse. I started chopping onions for the beans while some good smoked sausage rendered in the pot. Once the sausage had given up some hot grease, the onions went in, got sweated down a bit, then it was bean time.

It never ceases to amaze me how excited foodies get over a simple dish used by a couple of centuries worth of poor folk who had no time for twenty-three ingredients and eighteen preparation steps.

Moving on to the salsa cruda, starting with the supermarket version, all I had to do was chop up some jalapenos and serranos, add to the concoction of tomatoes, onions and cilantro, drizzle the resultant mess with lime juice, then put it in the fridge while the beans do their thing for a couple of hours.

I cautioned Barb about hand-washing after chopping peppers. Afterward, she hit the sofa with a book, I hit the keyboard with ideas about moving a passage forward in the novel I was working up.

I was concentrating – zoned out – in the middle of what I thought was a great passage when a hand reached around to set a glass of ice and ginger ale down.

“Thought you might appreciate this,” she said.

“I certainly do. Thank you.”

“And just so you know, it’s ginger BEER, not ginger ale. I did some research.”

“Okay. I got the recipe from somebody who called it ginger ale. I don’t really care what it is. I like it. You like it. And if people hear I’m giving a teenaged girl something named beer, I could find myself doing a lot of unpleasant conversation.”

Giggle. “Yeah ... plying me with alcohol and mind-altering foodstuffs. And I’m just gullible enough for you to get away with it.”

“I never looked at you and came up with ‘gullible’.”

“Maybe I’m good at it. Maybe it’s the alcohol,” she laughed, raising her glass. “I’m back to reading. You go to work.”

“After I check the beans and put some rice in the cooker.”

“Okay.”

Eventually the bell chimed on the rice cooker. I got up to check the progress of the simmering beans, pronounced them good, and set out a couple of quick lettuce salads to augment the heavy carbs of beans and rice.

Barb and I sat at the little table and ate. Yes, she liked the meal.

“This salsa stuff’s right on the edge of my heat tolerance,” she announced.

“Good to know. Next time I’ll back off on the serranos.”

“No, don’t do that. I’m enjoying the burn. Just the right amount of heat. And FRESH heat, at that. Love it.”

“Well I’m set up for leftovers tomorrow.”

“Enough for both of us? I can save Gramma from feeling like she has to cook for me. She and Grampa will do something that doesn’t require cooking, at least not MUCH cooking. Sometimes she thinks that I require full menu home-cooked meals.”

“Next time I can stretch it and feed them, too.”

“I dunno about that. You come up with the dish and I’ll ask. Grampa’s kinda picky about other peoples’ cooking.”

“I’ll still offer.”

After dinner, back to our corners for a short while, then, “Movie?” she queried.

“See if you can find something.”

“I have one in mind. Romantic comedy, if you don’t mind. Next time we get to watch a military mayhem flick.”

“We’re good like that,” I said. I can stand a chick flick. Any movie, really. It all goes into the hopper that is my mind and gets mixed up and chopped and shoved back together into story material. Not plagiarism, no, not at all. There are only a few stories out there, so everything’s a rehash. I just make sure I’m not obvious.

“Lemme call Gramma and let her know my plans.”

We watched the movie. We both laughed. Was indeed romantic, although both characters were a bit loose in the morals before and during the path to finally deciding they belong together. “For the next three months, probably,” Barb observed as the final credits started rolling.