Page 49 of Cillian

Where she wanted to go was halfway across town. Not to mention the middle of nowhere. I’d be in the Black part of Boston, so I’d be out of my element. In a place foreign to me, I sure as hell didn't know who looked like trouble. If danger could find us in a mom and pop spot, I had to be wary of my surroundings, being the only white man in what looked like an old barrelhouse.

Outside people were gossiping, loud but controlled. The ones keeping guard at the door surely would be the first sign of how this night was going to be. “Hold up. We not letting the white boy in. Might be a fucking cop,” a man blocking my entry with his hands, said.

Queenie had already stepped inside, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to leave without her if I wouldn’t be let in. “I ain’t no fucking copper. You just let my wife in and I ain’t leaving without her. So, either you let me in, or we could go rounds. It’s up to you.”

Sensing my frustration, Queenie hadn’t gone further than the entrance, trying her best at convincing the bouncers I wasn’t trouble. “Please, I promise you my husband isn’t police. We’re just fixing for a night out, is all. We won’t be any trouble.”

This was my disadvantage. In a white neighborhood, everyone knew my father. Whether it was a good or a bad thing, it always explained my way in or out of things. In a Black joint, it was humbling to be known by no one. A man crept through the entrance, whispering something about Queenie and who her father was and my possible connection to them, but Queenie truly had the advantage in this moment. Because I’d only been out of prison a short time, I didn’t always experience what it was like being Queenie’s husband, as much as she experienced being Cillian’s wife.

“We don’t want no trouble now—Oh is that Queenie? Come here now, come give your cousin Skeeter a hug.” The man who recently materialized squealed, as Queenie softened the situation by greeting him.

“How are you doing? You’re getting so ladylike and big. Feel like I ain’t seen you since you was in pigtails.”

“I’m alright. I just came out to go dancing with my husband.” As she walked past him to reach for my hand to hold.

“This your husband?” Skeeter asked with heavy skepticism. She nodded, as the man got real familiar and leaned on my shoulder as if I’d known him a long time.

“Oowee, we thought something big was about to break out. You have to forgive us. We don’t get too many white folks out here.” He was colorful. Definitely not originally from Boston based on his drawl. But a lot nicer than I initially thought.

“And he a nice-looking white boy too. Can he dance?” he directed toward Queenie.

“We’ll find out if you let us in.” She smiled.

“Since you know Queenie, we might be able to squeeze you in. But we don’t want no trouble now. This place is to have a good time. You’re being invited, so keep it a safe space, you here?”

“I hear,” I nodded calmly, as Queenie pulled me by the wrist past the doorway and into the juke joint.

She hadn’t been joking that it was a spectacle of vitality and vibrancy. People danced like I’d never seen, and the music was lively. Bellamy would probably love this if he hadn’t already been.

“Should I get us some drinks?” As she nodded her response, before adding “That’d be nice.”

Trekking through the crowded barrelhouse, it came at great disappointment how limited their spirits collection was. “Got any Guinness?”

“I got what I got.” The man at the bar dismissed.

“Guess I’ll take what you got.” He poured two beers at my request and asked if I’d like to start a tab. I was reckless when I wasn’t sober, and because this wasn’t my space, I chose not to keep a tab. Just wanted something to relax me, was all.

No wonder Pa always tried to keep us away from Black people. From the looks of it, they actually had fun. Scanning the room, observing a culture that’d once seemed foreign to me, I was envious of the fact I’d never been exposed to it until Queenie.

Laughter, joy, mischief roared to life over music and dancing. Folks could really move out here. The dancing was like nothing I had ever seen. Admittingly, I had never been around this many Black people at once, but there were so many similarities with the Irish. We knew how to have a good time too, but the environment changed once you were surrounded by white people who weren’t Irish.

We were really missing out on each other. Probably could be doing so much more if both sides knew that.

One of the only things Pa had ever let us explore when it came to Black people, was the music. Mum was never much of a fan, but it was the closest thing to Black people he’d let us get to growing up, and the music sounded so different when it was live.

The raw emotion the singer’s voiced carried damn near illuminated the entire establishment. Nothing could compare to it, but it did remind me of talented barmaids back home.

“Well if it isn’t Queenie Stanton.” A tall, thin, light skinned Black woman approaching where Queenie had chosen to sit. Easiest thing to notice on her were the oversized glasses she wore that made her eyes look bigger than they were.

“Everybody's been worried about you. People keep asking around but your parents don't say nothing. Everyone thought you went up and got pregnant and went down south.”

Excusing myself to sit down, I took a swig of my mug, waiting to be introduced. A big uncomfortable smile stretched along Queenie’s face, suggesting she didn’t fancy our company too much. “Actually, I went and got married. This right here is my husband, Cillian. And it's actually Queenie Sullivan now.”

The skeptical look on her mate’s face said it all. She was either too surprised, or masking disappointment. I can never really tell with glasses. “No wonder your parents kept it private. You went and got you a white man. And one of them handsome ones, too.”

Suddenly she didn’t seem that bad to me. It was a contrast to how I was perceived to even other Irish folk. Gingers had it the worst. You could be Clark Gable, but if you were a redhead, there was always that hope it didn’t get passed down. Black people didn’t seem to have that prejudice toward red hair.

“Cillian, huh?” she said, licking the top row of her teeth. Since she had full, painted red lips, it brought a lot of attention to them, which I’m assuming was the point.

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