The Book of Eleanor

by Nat Burns

  I was held static by the tractor beam of her smile. It did exist—that legend of the all-American Beauty. With wisps of pale blond hair framing her face, sparkling blue eyes, and a huge smile filled with white teeth, Angie certainly fit the stereotype. On autopilot, I extended my hand even though my brain was strangely disconnected. I was totally distracted by her wholesome good looks.

  “My name is Grey,” I stuttered. “Grey Graham.”

  “That’s an interesting name,” she said, cocking her head to one side.

  I blinked, trying to regroup my senses so I could converse intelligently. “It’s an old family name on my mother’s side. I guess it could have been worse.”

  She watched me strangely. I suddenly worried that I’d said something totally different than what I’d meant to say. Just as I opened my mouth to try to salvage the situation, a shout carried to us. We turned together. I saw a short, dark-skinned Hispanic man with a thick graying mustache and a balding head rushing toward us across the sand.

  “Oh, no,” Angie said, cupping a hand above her eyes to shield out the sun. “That’s Father Sephria. I forgot all about him.” She turned back to me. “We were supposed to be on our way to meet him when Emilio waylaid you.”

  I nodded stupidly, only pretending to know what was going on. Angie moved to meet him, followed by the small swarm of young people. One young woman, her dark hair shielding most of her face, lingered behind, peering intently at me through her veil of hair. I smiled at her and she tucked her head shyly and moved after them, her loose shorts flapping in the wind.

  I faced a real dilemma. Should I move on, or wait? Angie hadn’t said goodbye, but certainly she had more important things to do than talk with me. I cast one more glance her way, lingering on her sturdy, upright form. She was laughing with the priest as the youths milled about them. She was the picture of the perfect woman.

  I dropped my gaze and moved on, carefully skirting the surf rolled jellyfish. I tried to plan, to map out my future, but thoughts of Angie’s bright blue eyes kept interfering. I smiled to myself. I was attracted to her. It felt nice, but frightening. I wasn’t ready. Guilt nagged at me. What right did I have to be attracted to such a vibrant, alive creature when my Mary was...I stopped and hot tears formed. I turned toward the ocean and allowed the wind to snatch them away.

  “Do you like beer?”

  I whirled around. Angie stood next to me, her approach masked by the roar of the breakers. She too faced the water, studying it with unusual intensity.

  “Where are the kids?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

  “I turned them over to the padre. He’s taking the van back to the center.”

  “The center?”

  “Walk with me and I’ll tell you all about it. Do you like shrimp?”

  I laughed at her popcorn approach to conversation. “Yes, I like shrimp and beer. Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” she began as she gently steered me along the beach. “I’m hungry and my bud Couscous has some of the best beer battered shrimp you’ll ever eat. And his beer is just the way you want it here on the island—frigid.” She laughed.

  The sound comforted me like a warm bubble bath. I wanted to hesitate, wanted to run from this new involvement when I simply wanted to be alone in my grief, but I couldn’t. Angie was enchanting and irresistible, like some force of nature. Saying no to her would be like trying to prevent the burgeoning of spring.

  Angie

  I felt Grey’s uncertainty. My memory recalled the vivid image of her sadness. Shaking her hand and opening myself allowed me to know how much she loved being here on South Padre. I also saw confusion and guilt, emotions that perplexed me. She was certainly a complicated woman.

  I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I helped Father Sephria load the kids into the van. Delicia handed me a picture she had drawn of a knight on a horse, part of our Middle Ages unit. It was a very good picture.

  I snagged a pen from the padre’s shirt pocket when he passed by and turned the paper over. I pressed it against the side of the van so I could write on it: Delicia was a remarkable student today, Mrs. Gonzales. I drew a few sloppy stars around my note and handed it back to the twelve-year-old. She read it and smiled at me. I winked at her and slid the van door closed.

  “Y’all have a safe trip, Father,” I said after I walked around to the passenger window and handed him the pen. “I’ll be in tomorrow afternoon for English.”

  “See you then,” he said as he put the van into gear. I waved to each of the children as they passed by me, laughing at the comical face Tommy offered.

  I turned my attention back to the beach and saw that Grey was walking away. The feeling of her retreating from me was brutal, like a punch dead center into my solar plexus. I took a moment to ponder my extreme sureness that we would be together. This was a first for me, although I’d been in several relationships before. Her aura, even though it was—as are all auras—wispy and undefined, still drew me to her.

  I envisioned a five pointed star in my mind, representing the five elements of life, and touched on each point. Earth was the physical plane and certainly our proximity had finally come together as it should. Air, a mystery as yet undefined. I remembered her wit in the restaurant. She seemed intelligent, but only spending time with her would answer that aspect fully. Fire. Oh, yes, her body appealed to me and had already awakened mine. Her spirit was fiery as well, evidenced by her earlier encounter with Emilio. Would this translate into the bedroom? Another mystery. Water. The emotion was there. Her sadness was the first thing I had gleaned from her and I knew her well of emotion ran very deeply. Akasha. The fire spirit of humanity. Would our value systems mesh properly?

  I studied her as she turned her face to the water. If they did, then yes, I could cherish this woman forever. But the first steps needed to be taken. I ambled toward her through the sand.

  Grey

  Within moments, we approached two large hotels separated by a wide alley. I followed Angie into this alley. We fetched up on a low thatched building dwarfed by the towering hotels on the right and left. A sign hanging crookedly across the front of the thatching proclaimed it as Spunky’s Puddle.

  A half-dozen worn plastic tables and chairs dotted a large square of wooden decking in front of the business, and a similar handful of chairs butted up against a two-tiered bar toward the back. Several of the bar chairs were occupied, but the other tables rested in solitude. Angie took my hand and helped me navigate the tricky sand-obscured steps and step up onto the decking.

  The bartender, a large bearded bear of a man, obviously knew Angie and greeted her with genuine enthusiasm.

  “Donny, this is my new bud, Grey. Grey, this is Donny, the law and order at the Puddle,” Angie explained as she made the introduction.

  “An easier job these days,” said Donny, taking my hand and clasping it warmly. “Winter Texan season is over for a few months. Now I just need to survive spring break.”

  He studied me so I felt compelled to provide some information of my own. “I moved here last week from Dallas. This is such a beautiful area, I can’t believe I didn’t visit it more often.”

  “Dallas! I knew it,” Angie said, slapping a palm on the bar.

  “Life sure ties us up, doesn’t it?” Donny responded to me, eyeing Angie with a lifted brow. “That’s why one day I says to myself, ‘Don, my friend, it’s about time.’ So here I am, lots poorer, but lots happier.”

  I nodded. Donny was living my old dream, the one I’d harbored just about every working day. Now the dream was mine to hold, but at the ultimate cost of losing Mary.

  “Is he here?” Angie asked quietly.

  “Yeah, got in about noon.” Donny carefully scrubbed his fingers with the bar towel.

  “Cool.” She tentatively reached for my hand. I clasped hers without thought, thrilling at the warmth and strength of her touch.

  She paused and studied me intently for a matter of seconds before pulling me along one side of the bar
and into an odd little vestibule set into one side of the building. I saw now that the structure was long and low with the same basic footprint as some of the larger surrounding hotels. We passed along a walkway decorated with large wind chimes crafted from oddly shaped, plate-sized pieces of metal attached to thick cord. The sound of the clashing metal surrounded us before being snatched away by the heavy sea wind that buffeted the space where we walked.

  Angie paused before an ornate door made of rusted metal, obviously a salvaged piece. She opened the door, setting into motion another group of metal and glass wind chimes that hung just inside the door. She stepped through and drew me into a dim cavern, all the while murmuring cautions about watching my step.

  I thought it was a museum at first. Indeed, it could have been if not for the uneven wooden planked floor and the rustic cinderblock and stucco walls. The pieces tastefully arranged around the large room were exquisite. My eyes lingered curiously. I pulled back, trying to slow Angie’s headlong rush so I could enjoy the work. She seemed to sense my purpose for she released my hand and joined me in studying a large, double life-sized statue of a mother and child sculpted from a beautiful pink and white marbled stone. The stylized mother, curved protectively around her toddler, had been polished to a satiny finish.

  “Do you even realize how much it costs to have something like this shipped in from Europe?” Angie whispered.

  I turned to her and saw glee sparkling in her blue eyes. I shook my head. “I have no idea,” I whispered. “But I bet it’s not cheap.”

  She nodded dramatically. We moved on to an abstract sculpture that appeared to be a swimmer on the crest of a wave. This one was brass with a suggestion of cobalt blue rubbed into the creases of the figure. We walked on, past a social network of women, men, and children, some athletes, others in pensive mode. As we progressed, I noticed that one of the back corners of the room was filled with a huge, broad piece arranged in a massive easy chair. The drone of a television penetrated. When he moved, I suddenly realized that the enormous man was real.

  I’d seen large people before, but this man was colossal. I tried not to stare.

  He immediately winked at me and extended his left hand. “It’s all right, look all you want, lil’ bit. Everyone does.”

  Caught off guard, I laughed nervously as I took the extended hand and shook it awkwardly.

  Angie leaned over to kiss the big man on his pouting, Alfred Hitchcock lips. “Couscous, this is my new friend, Grey. Isn’t she pretty?”

  The two put their heads together and studied me appreciatively.

  “That she is, Angie. How the hell you find all the pretty ones, I’ll never know.” Couscous absently ran sausage-like fingers across his short red hair as I blushed.

  “Oh, yeah, like you have a problem with that,” she retorted.

  Couscous smiled widely, showing a perfect set of white false teeth. “I do all right,” he said smugly.

  Angie indicated the many invoices spread across the desk to Couscous’s right. “Working on the books?”

  “Curse of my life,” Couscous responded sharply.

  With amazing ease, he gained his feet, straightened his billowing shorts and cotton shirt, then swept his large form across the back of the room. Angie wrapped an arm companionably around my shoulders and smiled at me with unconstrained joy. Bewildered, I allowed myself to be moved along behind the big man.

  “I don’t know why you don’t hire someone to do it,” Angie muttered to his retreating back.

  “Oh, yeah. I am so gonna trust someone else with my money,” he replied sarcastically.

  Couscous moved sideways through a wide doorway. We followed him into the largest, most spacious kitchen I’d ever seen. And the most elaborately equipped. Obviously, this really was a restaurant and he worked here.

  An elderly, wizened woman of Hispanic descent turned from the sink and smiled at us, her dark eyes twinkling. She had an untidy mop of salt-and-pepper hair piled on her head, and she wore a white apron tied tightly around her body.

  “C’lina, mas papas, por favor,” Couscous barked, but not unkindly.

  The woman nodded and returned Angie’s wave. She moved busily and soon the delicious smell of frying potatoes filled the air.

  “That’s Carolina,” Angie said. “She’s amazing.”

  “Large or small ones today?” Couscous asked as he donned an apron the size of a small bedsheet.

  Angie studied me briefly before ordering for both of us. “Small, I think, and can you make some of those little hush puppy thingies I like? They are so good.”

  An older teenager entered the kitchen and spoke to Carolina in rapid Spanish. She nodded and leapt into even more frenzied activity. The young man saw us and moved to a large family-sized table along the back wall of the kitchen. I noted his handsomeness, his jet-black hair, and smooth olive skin.

  “Aquí, chicas.” He moved chairs around making an inviting niche for the two of us. Angie indicated that I should be seated. The teen darted over to a coffin-sized, chest-type galvanized cooler and returned with two bottled beers. The opener lay ready on the table. He swooped it up, and soon I enjoyed beer cold enough to contain ice crystals. It was the most delicious thing I think I’d ever tasted.

  “Thank you, Stevie,” Angie said, slapping hands with him.

  Stevie smiled. I liked the way his even white teeth flashed in the bright kitchen. “De nada. Disfrute su comida.” He hurried off.

  Couscous stood at the eight-burner stove, magically juggling several large pots and skillets. Stevie paused to firmly slap the man’s wide rump as he left the kitchen. Couscous bellowed good-naturedly after him.

  “Stevie?” I studied Angie’s face as she took a long swig of the frosty beer.

  She laughed and shrugged. “One of Couscous’s dozen.”

  “Dozen? What do you mean?”

  Angie laughed. “Kids. He has like, four wives and a dozen kids at last count.”

  “Are you serious?” I examined him, wondering at the attraction.

  “Yep. Go figure. They adore him, wives and kids both.”

  “Isn’t that, like…illegal?”

  She grinned as she extended her hand palm down and wiggled it. “Legal shmegal.”

  I nodded my understanding as a short, but very curvy Hispanic woman entered the kitchen and hailed Couscous, pausing to lay a kiss on him. She wore large hoop earrings and her glossy black hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She wore skintight jeans and pale green heels, and her green knit shirt clung tightly to her body.

  “Sanchez!” Angie called, rising and beckoning. “Come have a beer with us.”

  The woman named Sanchez smiled and hurried over. She pulled up a chair next to Angie and her snapping black eyes studied me curiously.

  “¡Hola, amiga, que son de una belleza hoy, si!” she said dramatically.

  Angie blushed and made the introductions. “Sanchez, this is my friend, Grey Graham. She just moved here from Dallas. Grey, this is Anna Sanchez, one of my oldest and dearest friends.”

  We shook hands. Sanchez started telling me about how much she loved Dallas and how she, her sisters, and mother went to Dallas three times a year to shop for clothing because they had the best selection. Angie rose and fetched a beer for Sanchez as Sanchez grilled me on where I had lived and what I had done while living near Dallas.

  “What are you doing so dressed up?” Angie asked when there was a small lull in our intense conversation. “And on your day off.”

  “I went and saw mi corazon,” she said with a coy smile. “He is so guapo, makes my teeth hurt.”

  “Anna has taken up with a much older businessman,” Angie explained. “Who just so happens to have a yacht down at Spencer’s Marina and they spend a lot of time there.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding in understanding.

  Sanchez looked at me again and leaned toward Angie. “Una muchacha muy bonita. ¿Te amaba todavía?”

  “That’s none of your damned business,
” Angie replied, nudging Sanchez away.

  We quieted when a young couple entered the room. The man, in his twenties, bore familiar red hair and possessed a stocky body much like his father’s. The tall woman with him was full-figured as well and carried an infant.

  “Hey, Papa!” the man called out as he clasped hands and bumped bellies with his father. They exchanged pleasantries. The young man snatched an apron off the wall. After a quick stop to fetch a bowl from the huge two-door industrial refrigerator, he moved to help Carolina at the deep fryer. The woman and child spied us and moved close as Angie rose and rushed to meet them. She took the baby from the woman’s arms and they embraced.

  “Grey, this is Yvette, Brian’s wife.” She nuzzled the baby, making her giggle. “And mother to this little imp, Georgie girl.”

  I nodded to Yvette, noting how pretty she was with thick, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and large brown eyes. “Hello, Yvette.”

  “Hey, Anna, Hey, Grey. Most just call me Vetty,” she told me.

  She pulled a chair from a line of them resting against a nearby wall and took a seat next to me at the table. Angie pulled over a high chair, but sat and stood the baby on her thighs, still cooing and making funny faces at the child. Sanchez leaned to coo to the baby in Spanish.

  “Ah, New York?” I asked Vetty. Her accent was distinctive.

  She laughed. “Brooklyn. You know the area?”

  “Not really. Just went to school with a gal from up that way.” I watched Angie interact with the baby. She was a natural with kids, I could tell.

  “It’s real different from here,” she offered.

  “I think South Texas is like no place else anyway,” I added. “How did you end up here?”

  “Dad’s an oil rigger, and he didn’t like the schools in Corpus, so he moved me, my mom, and my brother down here so we could go to better schools.”

  “And that’s how she met Brian,” Sanchez explained, all the while making ridiculous expressions to make the baby laugh.