Blessing looked around the house. They had just come down the long hallway with a dining room set off to one side and a den of some kind off to the other. It was not a large house. It was really much smaller than any of the houses that his mother cleaned. It was not all that much bigger than the house he and his mother lived in. A crucifix hung by the doorway. That was different. There were so many in his home. Just the one here.
He had been told to sit in the den while his mother met with the owner of the house - her employer. He had not expected Ms. Wetta to live in a place like this. He had expected more. Grandeur and decadence was what he expected - even if his 13 year old vocabulary never had those words for it. The closest it came to excess was the butler who answered the door. A tall black man with red hair curled tightly and cut short to his head. His eyes pushed down at him. Those eyes, that stare, had made Blessing look down. His own eyes fixed upon the shiny black shoes. He stared at them and tilted his head just a bit. Yep. The vague image in the toe of the shoe shifted just the same. This butler had style.
The butler had led his mother to the stairs to the basement. Blessing had never known of a house in Crosby to have a basement and wanted to follow them - it was part of the reason he had left the den and was halfway down the hallway after them. Years later, at the most awkward of moments, he would remember the door of the basement opening. The black man held the door with his right hand while his left found the center of his mother's back. And his mother's right hand had reached up and settled in the middle of the black man's chest. He had seen this. But he had not noticed it. A part of him locked the memory away.
He looked up at one of the pictures on the wall and saw a man. His sandy blonde hair was going to grey around the edges. The man was in a plaid shirt and was holding the reins of a horse. The horse's head was draped over his shoulder in a way that Blessing, who knew nothing about horses, could tell was friendly. There was a boy on the other side of the horse. He had the same hair and eyes and nose and bearing of the older man. But his smile was... friendlier.
"That was taken, what? Three years ago now. I must have been about your age from the looks of you. Dad took Jericho and me to Kentucky for the Derby."
Blessing turned and saw the boy from the picture. Only older. Taller. Shoulders broader and the arms and legs looking like they belonged. But it was the boy from the picture.
The boy never really stopped talking. He had paused until he saw recognition and then rambled on, "Dad had promised that we would all go to Kentucky. Of course that was before Jericho turned up lame. Freak thing. Not even in a race. Working with the trainer. That trainer..." The boy didn't spit but the pause had. Even at thirteen Blessing was impressed by that. The other boy had said the words just so and Blessing, in his mind, had spit at the mention of the trainer. He tilted his head to the left in appreciation.
The other boy continued, "That bastard wanted to put Jericho down. The first vet did too. But Dad found one willing to do the work. And bend the rules. In that picture? Jericho is out of his mind on morphine." The blond boy smiled from ear to ear.
Blessing found his voice even in the face of that smile. "How could he race with..."
"Race? Oh hell, he didn't run at the Derby. No. Hell no. Dad had just promised that we would all go to the derby. And by God, we did. Dad drank mint juleps until he was fall down drunk and I found his bottle of bourbon until Ginger took it away from me. And ole Jericho was out of his mind on illegal narcotics. My dad was freaking insane. But ya gotta love that kind of crazy don't cha?"
Blessing found himself in the glare of that smile again. And he smiled back. "Oh. Sorry. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Sebastion Bradshaw. But my friends call me Bash."
"I'm Ben." He reached out to take the hand that the blond boy offered. They shook. Blessing looked up at him. He wrinkled his brow. "Do your friends really call you 'Bash'?"
The blond boy looked him up and down. Something about him changed just a bit. Blessing felt it change. When the blond boy continued his tone was different. His voice was softer and somehow older. Ben felt.. something. He didn't know how or why, but he was now... more... in this boy's eyes.
The blond boy looked at him in silence for a beat and then smiled. "Maybe its what I wish they would call me."
"What DO they call you?"
"They call me 'Bashful". Especially the girls. The name started with the girls actually."
Blessing felt awkward on the boy's behalf. He knew how an embarrassing name could haunt and torment. The blond boy must have seen the pity rolling across his face. Bashful laughed. "No. Not like that. God no. That would be horrible."
"No. I'm not at all bashful. That's what makes the name. That's why it stuck. I've never really had a problem talking to girls. Any girl. All the girls. Some of whom can apparently get fairly jealous. There was a bit of a scandal when two young ladies got in an actual fight over me. The odds against such a fight were astronomical. A truly historic bit of fisticuffs." Bashful paused a beat, "One was my history teacher and the other taught physics."
Blessing laughed out loud. Bashful smiled.
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