Re: The Light of Love
FLO’S STORY CONTINUES…
Later, Dee Dee learned that she was pregnant.
She drank her way through the pregnancy.
It was a long pregnancy. She conceived in January, but 14 months later, she still had not gone into labor. However ridiculous that may sound, it is necessary for this to happen, so that Dee Dee can give birth on St. Patrick’s Day.
On that day, she found herself back where she started, at Gus’s Bar and Grill, the same chipped and faded gilt sign in the window, though perhaps worn down a bit more now by the elements and the passage of time. A mixture of rain and snow pelted down as she approached, with a tottering gate, the front door. With one hand she pushed open the door, and the bell above it tinkled. The other hand was curled around the bottom of her swollen belly.
As soon as the door opened, she saw that the bar was filled with people, so much so that one could barely move. The competing hubbub of voices sounded deafening to her, and gave her an immediate tension headache. She was confronted by a murky blur of green: green hats, green jackets, green trousers. She was dressed in black.
She threaded her way through the carousing mob, wrinkling her nose at the sour stench of beer. Irish ballads blazed out of the jukebox at maximum volume. Thunderous peals of laughter erupted above the clinking of glasses. Amid this celebratory madness, she moved with the mournful gait of a ghoul. She finally found a little space to squeeze into at the bar counter, between a burly man with an Irish brogue who was telling vulgar jokes, and a younger man to her right who made her do a double take, because with his wan, pale face, skewed hair and malicious little eyes, he reminded her eerily of Dennis. The young man, hunched over a pint of beer the color of honey, was obviously drunk, and seemed to be having difficultly holding his head up. His head kept rising and falling like that of a bird pecking at the ground, and he wore a frozen grin akin to a sneer.
“Buy me a drink,” she said to the man.
His head rounded precariously in her direction, as if it was in danger of falling off his neck. He closed one eye and scrutinized her with the other. It was bloodshot. His head listed to one side as he tried to fix her with his one-eyed stare. The weird leer or sneer remained plastered to his face. He leaned his elbow on the bar top as if to support himself, and said, “Why?”
“Because I need it. I need a drink, and I have no money.” Her voice could barely be heard above the shouts and laughter.
The man’s one open eye wandered down to her belly.
“My goodness,” he said, slurring his words. “No money, and a bun in the oven.”
“Please. My God. My life has been a living hell for … for fourteen months.”
“What’s in it for me? You’re kind of pretty, in a ghoulish sort of way. Skinny and fat at the same time. You’ve got arms like sticks but a belly like a bowling ball. I bet you used to be real purty at one time. Yeah, real purty.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
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