angel kissed you."
Bright McKay had been hanging back, but now he pushed himself between them, opening his hands, ta-da! "Well, look what them angels done to me!"
The woman's face froze, and Terry did not need to wonder why. He took McKay by the arm and waved at her while pulling him away. "You're the angel, sweetheart. See you later." Then, when they were several desks away, he said to McKay, "And they call you Bright?"
McKay took his arm back and stopped, halting Doyle too. He channeled his reaction into an arch pompousness. "My name is not a comment on my mental acuity, Terence. As an alternative to Neville, I accept it." He smiled impishly. "Neville McKay. How 'bout that flag? I'll take Bright any day. In our part of town it means light-skinned, as in mulatto."
"But that's ridiculous. You're so ..."
"Black? You can say it" He was speaking a little loudly, as if he wanted the biddies to hear him. "It's a joke, Terence, a joke of opposites, like calling Fats Waller Sprat. My skin was always this black. One huge freckle from Ghana. A less ironic people would have called me Shine."
"Shit, Bright, I'm sorry if she—"
"Some brogue, that lady. A voice like that is a colored man's warning bell."
"Relax. My mother has a voice like that Take it from me, she'd hate the British a lot sooner than she'd hate you."
"Then I'm in double trouble. She probably sensed it that my father still sings 'God Save the Queen.'"
"What?"
"My guv is British," McKay said with a sharp new accent.
Doyle stared at him.
McKay burst out laughing, slapped Doyle's shoulder. "Yowsah, Mis-tah Da'll. Camptown races, do-da-day!" McKay did one quick hoedown dance step, then shifted completely to draw himself up like a butler, snapping his words off. "And, my good sir, you are of the conventional conviction that all British subjects are of the Caucasian persuasion."
"No, no. I'm not."
"I can read your mind," McKay said simply.
And once again it seemed to Doyle that he had. Could he read feelings too? This confusion? This distress at having said something wrong? But what? Some insult? Why was McKay angry?
"My father comes from Barbados." McKay smiled with sudden warmth. "My mom is from cotton country, but they met here. I'm Boston through and through, Terence. Same as you."
"You think you've got yourself a thick mick here, don't you? Puncturing his neat assumptions." Doyle was aware that he could have said this bitterly, but bitterness was not remotely what he felt.
McKay shrugged. The bustling room around them had fallen away. "I hadn't expected that this would necessarily happen. But it had to if we were going to be friends."
"What do you mean 'going to be,' asshole?" Terry deflected the uncool impulse to express affection. "You've got some neat assumptions of your own."
"Like what?"
Doyle tossed his head toward the blue-haired lady and the other busy middle-aged Irish volunteers. "That they were all Joe McCarthy's people. Since Nixon was too, that they should be with him. That they're only here because Kennedy is Irish Catholic."
McKay showed those teeth of his again. "But that's true, isn't it?"
They laughed. Hell, maybe it was true. But Terry wanted to repeat himself. These are good people, he wanted to say. They don't know you, that's all. I love these people.
McKay put his arm around Doyle's shoulder. Terry was aware of Blight's hand falling across his sweater as they started across the floor again. He was aware of the volunteers watching them now.
"And I've got other surprises for you," McKay said.
"No you don't. Your father's a Brit? Nothing could surprise me more than that."
McKay said, "He's a priest."
Doyle stopped, sliding out from under his friend's arm. McKay continued for another step and a half, then froze with his leg in midair, a bit of slapstick.
"What?"
McKay swiveled around. "An Anglican priest, man. Ever hear of St Cyprian's?"
Terry shook his head. There was a lot he'd never heard of.
"On this same street,
Bright McKay had been hanging back, but now he pushed himself between them, opening his hands, ta-da! "Well, look what them angels done to me!"
The woman's face froze, and Terry did not need to wonder why. He took McKay by the arm and waved at her while pulling him away. "You're the angel, sweetheart. See you later." Then, when they were several desks away, he said to McKay, "And they call you Bright?"
McKay took his arm back and stopped, halting Doyle too. He channeled his reaction into an arch pompousness. "My name is not a comment on my mental acuity, Terence. As an alternative to Neville, I accept it." He smiled impishly. "Neville McKay. How 'bout that flag? I'll take Bright any day. In our part of town it means light-skinned, as in mulatto."
"But that's ridiculous. You're so ..."
"Black? You can say it" He was speaking a little loudly, as if he wanted the biddies to hear him. "It's a joke, Terence, a joke of opposites, like calling Fats Waller Sprat. My skin was always this black. One huge freckle from Ghana. A less ironic people would have called me Shine."
"Shit, Bright, I'm sorry if she—"
"Some brogue, that lady. A voice like that is a colored man's warning bell."
"Relax. My mother has a voice like that Take it from me, she'd hate the British a lot sooner than she'd hate you."
"Then I'm in double trouble. She probably sensed it that my father still sings 'God Save the Queen.'"
"What?"
"My guv is British," McKay said with a sharp new accent.
Doyle stared at him.
McKay burst out laughing, slapped Doyle's shoulder. "Yowsah, Mis-tah Da'll. Camptown races, do-da-day!" McKay did one quick hoedown dance step, then shifted completely to draw himself up like a butler, snapping his words off. "And, my good sir, you are of the conventional conviction that all British subjects are of the Caucasian persuasion."
"No, no. I'm not."
"I can read your mind," McKay said simply.
And once again it seemed to Doyle that he had. Could he read feelings too? This confusion? This distress at having said something wrong? But what? Some insult? Why was McKay angry?
"My father comes from Barbados." McKay smiled with sudden warmth. "My mom is from cotton country, but they met here. I'm Boston through and through, Terence. Same as you."
"You think you've got yourself a thick mick here, don't you? Puncturing his neat assumptions." Doyle was aware that he could have said this bitterly, but bitterness was not remotely what he felt.
McKay shrugged. The bustling room around them had fallen away. "I hadn't expected that this would necessarily happen. But it had to if we were going to be friends."
"What do you mean 'going to be,' asshole?" Terry deflected the uncool impulse to express affection. "You've got some neat assumptions of your own."
"Like what?"
Doyle tossed his head toward the blue-haired lady and the other busy middle-aged Irish volunteers. "That they were all Joe McCarthy's people. Since Nixon was too, that they should be with him. That they're only here because Kennedy is Irish Catholic."
McKay showed those teeth of his again. "But that's true, isn't it?"
They laughed. Hell, maybe it was true. But Terry wanted to repeat himself. These are good people, he wanted to say. They don't know you, that's all. I love these people.
McKay put his arm around Doyle's shoulder. Terry was aware of Blight's hand falling across his sweater as they started across the floor again. He was aware of the volunteers watching them now.
"And I've got other surprises for you," McKay said.
"No you don't. Your father's a Brit? Nothing could surprise me more than that."
McKay said, "He's a priest."
Doyle stopped, sliding out from under his friend's arm. McKay continued for another step and a half, then froze with his leg in midair, a bit of slapstick.
"What?"
McKay swiveled around. "An Anglican priest, man. Ever hear of St Cyprian's?"
Terry shook his head. There was a lot he'd never heard of.
"On this same street,
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