Read Online Diary of a Blues Goddess by Erica Orloff - Free Book Online
Authors: Erica Orloff
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meant you could come and visit." He walked over to the far wall of my bedroom, standing and staring at the photos I had hung there, his back to me. His shoulders moved slightly to the music. If he had a few "pints" in him, he was an amazing dancer, raw and sexual. "Who's this bloke?"
"Who?" I came and stood behind him as he pointed. "Oh… that's my dad."
"Played the bass?"
"Yeah. That's him and his old quintet. He was good."
"And you never hear from him?"
"No."
"My father's dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a bit of a bastard, really, love."
I waited for him to share more, but that was all he said. We both retreated into our own worlds and listened to Mildred, separate but together. Every Sunday was some variation of the same, separate but somehow one. I looked at Tony, his eyes completely blank now, not twinkling, far away. In Ireland maybe. An ocean away from me.
About ten to eight, the doorbell rang. Tony and I went downstairs, greeted Jack as he descended the stairs, too, and found Nan letting Gary and Annie in. Kissing Nan and me, Annie is positively adorable. If Gary is five foot four in shoes, she can't be but five foot tall. Next to Dominique and her high heels, she's an elf. Or, as Tony teases her, a leprechaun. It never ceases to amaze me that Annie has popped out three babies from that tiny belly and those narrow hips of hers. Gary and Annie hold hands constantly, and somehow, she makes balding, slightly potbellied Gary seem like a sex symbol. They prove the adage that there's someone for everyone. Around her, Gary doesn't pace, let alone break out in a cold sweat. He's funny and charming. Sundays are a date night for them. Her mother watches the kids, and Gary and Annie come to supper and then go out in the city for cocktails—alone. Gary says he falls in love with her all over again each Sunday night. She even likes ABBA, too, scary as that is.
Mike was the last of the Saints to arrive. He plays the drums, and he drinks way too much. He shows up for our gigs sober, or sober enough to play, but he's still trying to get over his wife, Delilah, who deserted him two years ago for a guy who flew in for a convention. She was a dealer on a gambling riverboat and left Mike cold without even trying to work things out. Understandably, Mike is bitter. He says Gary and Annie make him gag.
Red arrived shortly after Mike. He brought Nan a perfect yellow single rose he picked from a neighbor's garden he passed on the way over. It was just beginning to open its petals. Red kissed Nan's hand, and she just smiled and looked into his eyes. She's had a couple of boyfriends since Grandpa died when I was five, but Red was the first "gentleman caller," as she put it, who made her blush.
And finally, in walked Maggie, in her black boots, black miniskirt and tight black T-shirt. She smiled at Jack and winked at me. I blinked hard. Her hair was now even, and I swear it was a slightly different shade of red than earlier in the afternoon. She has hair schizophrenia.
After a round of cocktails—Nan makes these fabulous champagne cocktails with sugar cubes and bitters—in the living room, we all went into the dining room. Sitting down, Nan asked Red to say grace.
"May the music move us, and the spirit guide us. And thank you for this fine New Orleans meal. Amen."
Mike never said amen. He let it be known ages ago that he was an atheist and an existentialist. I just think because Delilah had gone to church every Sunday morning, he wasn't having any of it. But Annie crossed herself, and Dominique bowed her head piously. She has a rosary bead collection, thinking of them as some sort of talisman against bad luck.
We all dug in. Then the waterworks started.
Two bites into the jambalaya, my eyes were tearing and my nose was running. Nan knows how to make it right. If tears aren't running down your face, it ain't New Orleans jambalaya. More likely it's jambalaya from some chain restaurant where the cooks don't know how
"Who?" I came and stood behind him as he pointed. "Oh… that's my dad."
"Played the bass?"
"Yeah. That's him and his old quintet. He was good."
"And you never hear from him?"
"No."
"My father's dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was a bit of a bastard, really, love."
I waited for him to share more, but that was all he said. We both retreated into our own worlds and listened to Mildred, separate but together. Every Sunday was some variation of the same, separate but somehow one. I looked at Tony, his eyes completely blank now, not twinkling, far away. In Ireland maybe. An ocean away from me.
About ten to eight, the doorbell rang. Tony and I went downstairs, greeted Jack as he descended the stairs, too, and found Nan letting Gary and Annie in. Kissing Nan and me, Annie is positively adorable. If Gary is five foot four in shoes, she can't be but five foot tall. Next to Dominique and her high heels, she's an elf. Or, as Tony teases her, a leprechaun. It never ceases to amaze me that Annie has popped out three babies from that tiny belly and those narrow hips of hers. Gary and Annie hold hands constantly, and somehow, she makes balding, slightly potbellied Gary seem like a sex symbol. They prove the adage that there's someone for everyone. Around her, Gary doesn't pace, let alone break out in a cold sweat. He's funny and charming. Sundays are a date night for them. Her mother watches the kids, and Gary and Annie come to supper and then go out in the city for cocktails—alone. Gary says he falls in love with her all over again each Sunday night. She even likes ABBA, too, scary as that is.
Mike was the last of the Saints to arrive. He plays the drums, and he drinks way too much. He shows up for our gigs sober, or sober enough to play, but he's still trying to get over his wife, Delilah, who deserted him two years ago for a guy who flew in for a convention. She was a dealer on a gambling riverboat and left Mike cold without even trying to work things out. Understandably, Mike is bitter. He says Gary and Annie make him gag.
Red arrived shortly after Mike. He brought Nan a perfect yellow single rose he picked from a neighbor's garden he passed on the way over. It was just beginning to open its petals. Red kissed Nan's hand, and she just smiled and looked into his eyes. She's had a couple of boyfriends since Grandpa died when I was five, but Red was the first "gentleman caller," as she put it, who made her blush.
And finally, in walked Maggie, in her black boots, black miniskirt and tight black T-shirt. She smiled at Jack and winked at me. I blinked hard. Her hair was now even, and I swear it was a slightly different shade of red than earlier in the afternoon. She has hair schizophrenia.
After a round of cocktails—Nan makes these fabulous champagne cocktails with sugar cubes and bitters—in the living room, we all went into the dining room. Sitting down, Nan asked Red to say grace.
"May the music move us, and the spirit guide us. And thank you for this fine New Orleans meal. Amen."
Mike never said amen. He let it be known ages ago that he was an atheist and an existentialist. I just think because Delilah had gone to church every Sunday morning, he wasn't having any of it. But Annie crossed herself, and Dominique bowed her head piously. She has a rosary bead collection, thinking of them as some sort of talisman against bad luck.
We all dug in. Then the waterworks started.
Two bites into the jambalaya, my eyes were tearing and my nose was running. Nan knows how to make it right. If tears aren't running down your face, it ain't New Orleans jambalaya. More likely it's jambalaya from some chain restaurant where the cooks don't know how
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