I did not feel that I could say no to the request, silly though it seemed to me.
I was never close with my brother, Eduardo, two years my senior. A relative detente in our 30s was shut down when he married a woman, Deirdre, for whom I did not care. I would eventually meet Deirdre's mother, Helen, on several occasions. She was a scowler with little tolerance for anyone beyond her chatty, amiable husband and would soon withdraw from any gathering claiming a migraine. Deirdre tried to effect a sunny demeanor like her father. But, scratch the surface, she was her mother underneath and all the way through.
Shortly after they wed, it became apparent that Deirdre believed that, by marrying my brother, she had gained dominion over me, divorced and single as I was at the time. On my rare visits to their home, she proved fond of snapping orders at me - say, to help an elderly relative or to fetch something from the basement. The distance became a verifiable rift when Deirdre issued one of her directives before dinner one Christmas Eve. That night, we were gathered not at Deirdre's home, but that of my cousin. I do not remember exactly what Deirdre demanded, but the fiat began with a haughty, "Oh, T-". I will never forget her look when I replied, "Oh, Deirdre, this isn't your house. Get off your ass and do it yourself."
The one flat note for me over the exchange is that, when I finally put Deirdre in her place, I was already a couple of sheets to the wind. In those days, I often was. It was my drinking getting even further out of hand that put me back in tentative contact with Ed. When I hit bottom, he was there for me. He took me to rehab, picked me up, and squared things with my employer while I was away. I owed him.
And, it seemed a simple enough ask. Deirdre had a daughter, Catriona, from her previous marriage. I knew Catriona as a plump, manipulative child, who seemed to be following in the unpleasant footsteps of her mother and grandmother. As Ed explained when he called, Trina had been a handful in high school, having some brushes with the law and experimenting with drugs. When Deirdre's mother passed away, Trina flatly refused to accompany her parents to the out-of-state funeral. Although Trina was then in college and almost 20, Deirdre and Ed did not trust her at home alone. Deirdre's edict was that someone responsible should check in on Trina nightly to make sure she was eating right and did not burn down the house. When Deirdre and Ed were unable to find anyone who met her criteria, I was given the task.
Accordingly, one Thursday night, I pulled up in front of my brother's house in the dying autumnal light. He had had a key messengered over to my office, but having not visited their home in ages, I did not feel comfortable barging in. I rang the bell and waited. If my relationship with Ed was such that I might casually stop by unannounced, I would have left on the assumption that no one was home. But, I had been told that Trina was to be present for my dinner-time visits. More than that, though, there was some unnameable energy that told me that the house was not unoccupied.
Almost the instant I rang the bell a second time, she pulled the door open and fixed a bored look at me. She was about 5' 8" and, in her high-heeled, leather ankle boots, would have stood almost eye-to-eye with me, if she could be troubled to stand up straight. The plump girl had become a lithe young woman, just a pound or two short of being troublingly thin. But there was some shape to her legs and hips, hugged loosely by a checkered, wool skirt. She wore a leather biker jacket over a plain, white top. Her make-up was heavier than it needed to be; she was clearly pretty. Similarly, she wore a lot of rings and bracelets and earrings shaped like Claymores ready to pierce her shoulders should they slip free. As I recalled, her hair was naturally dark brown. She had it dyed pitch black and teased out in odd eruptions. When I was her age, we probably would have called her a cross between a goth chick and a punk rocker.
"Trina?" I asked.
"It's 'Cat,'" she replied.
"Hi. I'm you're Uncle Buck."
I thought I detected a brief exhalation of genuine amusement, before she said flatly, "Funny. Want to come in?"
As soon as the door closed, I detected an aroma that, while not unpleasant, I could not quite place. The source became obvious when I followed Cat into the living room. She sat down heavily on the center cushion of the leather sofa, nearly upending the ashtray that sat on an adjacent cushion with a freshly-lit, 120-millimeter cigarette smoldering in it.
Cat stared blankly at the television as I sat down in a wing chair at a 90-degree angle to both her and the screen.
"This is so stupid," Cat said.
"I know," I said. "But, if it makes your mother happy, it makes your father's life a little easier."
She looked over at me, "I meant the movie."
"Ah," I quipped.
"But that, too," she relented, turning her attention back to the television.
"I agree," I said. "Although, Deirdre is going to murder us both, or at least me, if she smells smoke in the house, when she gets home."
"Don't worry," Cat said, picking up the cigarette and taking a drag. She pursed her lips to exhale a delicate stream of white smoke into the room. She waved her hand dismissively. "I know how to air the place out. I'll light one of her eighteen million candles and tell her I couldn't resist. She'll think we bonded."
I laughed. But I could not help but stare as Cat's delicate fingers picked a bit of tobacco off her blood-red lips, then ground the brown bit into nothing. I almost jumped when she turned her blue eyes my way again.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Do you want one?"
"You know, I really do."
She picked up the pack and lighter from the cushion and slid them across the coffee table. I fumbled out and lit a cigarette. Like many, I smoked quite a bit in rehab. But, I had not had a cigarette for months since then. I was never a heavy smoker. But, in a bar, or just outside one, that beautiful, orange glow could sometimes feel like your best friend in the world. When you were trying to talk yourself out of one more scotch, there was always the call to stumble home with a smoke lighting the way, knowing that, unlike the whiskey, the smoke would not hurt you, at least not that night.
"Have you eaten?" I asked. "I'm supposed to make sure you eat."
"I'm fine," she said, leaning forward. Off the floor in front of the sofa, she picked up a Ballantine tall boy. "I'm getting my calories," she said before tipping the can back to her lips.
"You're killing me," I said. "Your father probably catalogued every drop in the house down to the rubbing alcohol."
"Relax. This is mine."
"Oh," I nodded in relief. Trying to be amiable, I asked, "Fake ID or friend?"
Cat's face screwed up in an expression of distaste, "Not a friend. You know Happy's by the rotary? My old algebra teacher owns it. If I flirt with the old pedo, he'll sell me a six-pack or two on the weekends, or sometimes just give me something. He'll probably lose interest by the time I'm 21."
A couple of more drags while she spoke left the ash on my cigarette tipping precariously. I looked around for someplace innocuous to deposit it. When nothing presented itself, I just cupped my free hand and knocked the ash into it.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Cat asked.
I shrugged and shook my head. It really had not felt like much of anything. But, the question made me think of my ex, who would sometimes burn me with cigarettes while we were making love. In fact, for a while, Lis had had me trained so that I could come only at her signal - which was usually grinding a butt out on my back.
"You're funny," Cat said, sliding the ashtray across the coffee table in my direction. She tipped her beer nearly vertical, stood up, and left the room, while I brushed the soot from my hand into the ashtray.
She came back holding two green, pint cans. I had to keep from licking my lips. With her attention back on the television, she handed me one of the cans. The wet coolness on my fingertips felt nostalgic. It had been almost two years since I had had a drink. I debated with myself. How much harm could one, practically light beer do? Had I not read that there was a growing movement in the treatment field preaching moderation as more realistic than abstinence? If I had a beer and went home, maybe it would be a sign that I could try moderation. On the other hand, if I found the pull for a second one too strong, I would know to stay the course.
I popped the top and took a long sip, relaxing my throat to let the beer flow easily down. That cheap, almost insipid beer was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.
